Pierced by this sudden revelation, Rāma fainted. Sītā and his three weeping brothers knelt beside him, sprinkling water on his face to revive him.
“What good am I now that my father has died of grief over me?” cried out Rāma in agony. “O Bharata, you and Shatrughna are the fortunate ones, for at least you were able to fulfill your duty to your father and perform his last rites. How could I return to Ayodhyā now, without him to guide me and lift me up with graceful words?”
Then Rāma placed a cake, made from the fruit of the ingudī tree, in a coconut shell bowl. He turned to Sītā, whose soft eyes brimmed with tears. “O Sītā, will you and Lakshmana follow me to the River Mandākinī to perform water libations and offer food to the earth in my father’s name?”
Standing in the river, Rāma cupped water in his hands and performed the traditional offering. Then he placed the ingudī cake on the grassy bank, saying, “This humble cake, which we eat, is to honor you, O Father. For it is said that you should offer to the gods what you partake in yourself.”
Then the three sadly returned to their hermitage, where Bharata and Shatrughna waited. Having performed his duties to his father, Rāma could at last give in to his heartbreak. He fell into Bharata’s arms, crying out again and again for his dead father. The other brothers and Sītā joined in grieving, and a wail as loud as the trumpeting of elephants filled the forest.
The army of Ayodhyā, camped nearby, heard the sound of the four brothers lamenting for their father. They knew immediately what it meant.
“Bharata has found Rāma, and now Rāma has heard the news of his father’s death!” As if with one mind, they mounted their horses, elephants, and chariots. Others followed on foot, trampling the tender grasses and vines in their haste to reach their cherished Rāma. The noise reverberated through the forest like thunder, frightening the wild elephants, boars, and deer, which fled in every direction. Flocks of birds wheeled across the skies, while below the army blanketed the earth.
At the first sight of their revered prince, sitting in his hut, the people’s eyes filled with tears. Sobbing, they surrounded Rāma, eager to draw near. He embraced his friends and greeted others as a father his children, graciously welcoming them all. Overcome with emotion, they wailed and moaned, and the tumult echoed through mountain caves like the beating of drums.
Meanwhile, the three queens and the holy Vasishtha, who were following Bharata at their own pace, slowly made their way to the hermitage. They stopped by the banks of the Mandākinī.
“See here,” said the softhearted Kausalyā. “Sumitrā, this is the place where your son bends to draw water for my son. Even though he acts as a servant now, there is no dishonor in serving his brother, who abounds in every virtue. Once Rāma and Lakshmana return to Ayodhyā, may your royal-born son forever be freed from performing servile tasks!”
They walked a little farther and came to a cake lying on the grass. “This must be the food offered by Rāma in his father’s name,” said Kausalyā, her eyes filling with tears. “My heart breaks into a thousand pieces, for I know that it is this coarse cake on which our dear sons now subsist.”
Finally they came to the hermitage, and seeing Rāma sitting in his coarse bark-cloth garments like an immortal driven from paradise, his mothers again wept. As Rāma bowed to touch his mother’s feet in honor, Kausalyā brushed the dust from his back with her hands.
After greeting Lakshmana with equal tenderness, Queen Kausalyā embraced Sītā as she would her own daughter. “Oh Sītā, how have you, treasured wife of Rāma and lovely daughter of King Janaka, come to live in such a wretched and lonely place? My heart is swollen with grief, to see your brightness diminished like gold covered in dust.”
Rāma and Lakshmana touched the feet of their guru, Vasishtha, and invited all to be seated. Bharata, ever conscious of his duty to honor his brother, seated himself at a lower level than Rāma. Amidst his friends and family, Rāma sat like an ancient Rishi, resplendent in purity. The four brothers, shining like four fires surrounded by priests, conversed with their friends and family long into the night.
The next morning, Rāma, Bharata, Lakshmana, and all their family and friends sat resting on the sun-dappled banks of the Mandākinī. In that peaceful place, Bharata suddenly stood up, crossed the grass to where Rāma sat and prostrated himself, touching his brother’s feet.
Then, after taking his seat before his brother, like the petals of a lotus opening one by one, Bharata haltingly made his heart known to Rāma, his voice weak from the strain of the past weeks. “I do not desire the kingdom my mother won for me. I give it to you, as it was given to me. Only you can repair the rent in the fabric of the kingdom; only you can rebuild the bridge washed away by flood. Only then will our father Dasharatha’s death be vindicated, for surely he died of grief when you were banished. I cannot fill your shoes, any more than a mule can keep pace with a racehorse. Without you, the kingdom is like a mango tree that flowers but does not bear fruit, and in my misery I am like a garden that has withered from lack of water.
“All the people of Ayodhyā have come this long distance to beg you to reign over the land as the noonday sun reigns over the sky, so my father can at last rest, happy and fulfilled in the heavens,” he concluded.
“Wonderful!” cried the people of Ayodhyā. “These words are tipped with honey!”
Rāma smiled compassionately at his brother. “Assuredly, it is not wise to spend too much time in regret over our father’s untimely passing or my loss of the kingdom, for man cannot escape change. It is our fate on earth. Wealth that is accumulated gets dispersed, that which is built up tumbles down, meetings end in parting, and life ends in death. Even if a man goes on a journey to avoid death at home, it will find him.
“Just as pieces of wood join together in the ocean and eventually drift apart, so do sons, fathers, mothers, brothers, wives, and wealth join us for a while and then, in time, leave us. No one on earth can keep those he loves forever. There is no reason to pity the dead or loss of kingdom, for eventually all will follow the same road. Why shed tears over the inevitable?
“Life is like a river flowing to the ocean; it never returns. That is why the wise spend their days pursuing knowledge and performing right action, and from this they derive true happiness. Our father spent his days in good works, supporting his dependents, ruling with compassion and justice, and performing many yagyas. For this he is enjoying a divine reward in the afterlife. It is not for a wise and learned man like you to mourn one who, having cast off his worn-out body, enjoys the grace of heaven. The wise should not give in to endless lamentation and tears. Therefore, end your grieving and return to Ayodhyā.
“What you can do is take up the throne as our father requested. I will fulfill my promise to him by living here in the forest. I must respect his wishes and the wishes of my mother Kaikeyī, and so must you. You too have been raised by Dasharatha, so these actions come naturally to you. Be true to your own nature and follow the example of our father, who lived a life of perfection.”
All was silent for a moment and the people heard only the sound of the river rushing and birds calling.
Then Bharata exclaimed, “There is no one in this world equal to you! Neither misfortune nor joy affects you. You know the cause and effect of all; you are divine, you are as wise as a great sage. Constant in pleasure and pain, nothing can harm you, not even the most fearful calamity.
“Whereas I am inferior to you in knowledge, intelligence, and birth,” Bharata went on. “How could I rule in your place? What good is it for you to abandon your throne and forsake your Dharma as protector of the people, for the sake of this ill-fated design of my mother’s? Have compassion on us all. Save us—our mother Kaikeyī, our father, our friends, our relatives, and me—from carrying out this unlawful act. Be crowned today in the forest and reign in triumph in Ayodhyā,” Bharata begged Rāma with his words, his eyes, and his heart.
The people cried out, “Yes, well said!” at the words of Bharata, the devoted brother. Yet they could also plainly see that Rāma would never forsake his father’s vow. It was satisfying for them to witness his steadfast devotion to Dharma, and at the same time painful, for they grieved that Rāma would not return with them.
Rāma again spoke smilingly to his brother. “Such an eloquent speech is worthy of your devoted heart. But you must remember, dear brother, that when our father married your mother Kaikeyī, he offered an unparalleled dowry. He promised to give her the kingdom. And then in the war between the Devas and asuras, he offered her two boons in love and gratitude. She had every right to claim these boons, and bound by his vow, he promised to fulfill them. So I must spend my exile in the forest, and you must rule from the throne.
“You will be sheltered from the sun’s rays beneath the royal umbrella, O Bharata, and I too will be sheltered in comfort beneath a canopy of forest trees. Shatrughna with his brilliant mind will be your advisor and friend, and Lakshmana will be my faithful companion through every challenge. In this way, we four brothers will uphold the reputation of our illustrious father as a knower of truth.”
Bharata was consoled by Rāma’s words and fell silent.
Ever thinking of the needs of the kingdom, Vasishtha spoke next. He too tried to persuade Rāma to give up his life in the forest. He recited the long lineage of Rāma’s royal family since the time of Manu, the father of the first king of the glorious solar dynasty. “You see that it is always the eldest son who takes the throne,” he pointed out. “You are the eldest son of King Dasharatha; while you live, a younger son may not be anointed. This is the tradition of your line, so take up the throne and rule the earth. While the father gives life, the guru gives wisdom, and therefore the guru is considered superior. By obeying me and your virtuous mother Kausalyā, you will not stray from the path of virtue.”
Rāma, always respectful of his revered guru, said, “A child can never repay his mother and father for all that they do to raise him. His parents shower him with gifts, food, clothing, and infinite amounts of tender guidance and loving advice. In the face of this debt, how can I refuse to obey my father?”
Hearing this, Bharata cried out, “I will lie at your feet, facing you, until you agree to relinquish your vow!” Glaring impatiently at Sumantra, who was absorbed in gazing at Rāma and did not get up to help him, Bharata himself spread kusha grass on the ground and lay down at Rāma’s feet.
Rāma felt that his heart would break. “Rise up, I cannot bear to see you like this. What have I done that my dear brother should prostrate before me like a beggar?”
Bharata glanced around at the crowds, imploring them, “Why do you remain silent? Will you not say something to persuade Rāma?”
The people gazed at Bharata lovingly, but no one spoke. Then one of the elders spoke up, “Having heard Rāma’s words, we do not believe he will ever relinquish his vow.”
Finally Bharata stood to ask his brother’s forgiveness. He said to all assembled, “I never desired to be king. I will take Rāma’s place in exile, and then the vows of our father will be fulfilled.”
“I will never break my father’s word and bring shame to him or to myself,” Rāma answered. “Let Bharata be crowned king today!”
It is said that as they watched this glorious debate between the two luminous brothers, the people’s hair stood on end.
Also watching were the celestial Rishis, the Devas, and the Gandharvas. Floating in the air, invisible, they felt mounting concern. What if Rāma, out of compassion for his people, was persuaded to return to Ayodhyā? For the good of the world, they knew that Rāma must remain in the forest in order to destroy the demon Rāvana and fulfill the purpose of his birth.
You will be shaded from the sun’s rays beneath the royal umbrella, O Bharata,
and I too will be sheltered in comfort beneath a wide canopy of forest trees.
—Ayodhyā Kānda 107.18
CHAPTER 17
Rāma Leaves Chitrakūta
THE AIR FILLED with celestial chimes and a soft breeze as the shining ones made themselves visible, floating just above the ground. Their robes and bodies emanated a bright effulgence not seen on earth. All the people gazed in wonder at the sight of these auspicious visitors, their faces radiant with divine light.
The celestial Rishis, Devas, and Gandharvas addressed Bharata, “O hero of wisdom, virtue and knowledge, you must accept Rāma’s resolve to fulfill his father’s wishes. This is necessary for his happiness and yours. Indeed, it is precisely because Rāma has been steadfast in his vow that your father has ascended to heaven.” Then the divine Rishis disappeared, and only the sounds of the forest remained.
Rāma, his heart filled with joy at these words, smiled with delight. Bharata stood humbly before him. In a faltering voice, he begged Rāma one last time, falling at his feet. “I am not fit to rule this kingdom. Everyone looks to you for guidance. Will you not return to Ayodhyā and save us from ruin?”
Rāma drew his brother to him now, embracing him tenderly. “You have been trained since birth to rule, dear brother, and are blessed with native intelligence and virtue. Know this: even though the moon may withdraw its splendor, the Himālayas may lose their snow, and the ocean may exceed its boundaries, I will never abandon my father’s vow. And you must obey your mother Kaikeyī, even if you do not agree with her actions.”
Bharata bowed his head silently for a long moment. Finally, he said, “O Rāma, hero among men, then give me your sandals. They will bring peace and harmony to our kingdom.”
Rāma slipped his feet out of the wooden sandals he wore in the forest.
Bowing low before Rāma’s shoes, Bharata said, “For the next fourteen years, I will dwell outside the city in bark-cloth robes and matted locks. I will eat only the roots and fruits of the forest and will lie on the ground at night. As your servant, I will offer the kingdom to your sandals. And if in fourteen years you do not return, I will offer myself to the flames!”
“So be it,” said Rāma. “I will return.” Then he clasped Bharata to his breast tenderly once again. After embracing Shatrughna with equal feeling, he said to his brothers, “Do not be angry with your mother Kaikeyī. Cherish her always, on Sītā’s behalf and mine.” His eyes spilling over with tears, he bade goodbye to his preceptor, mothers, ministers, and beloved friends from Ayodhyā.
Receiving with reverence the pair of bright wooden sandals, the celebrated Bharata, who knew Dharma, reverently circled Rāma and placed the sandals on his head. As he walked slowly into the forest, carrying the sandals on his head like a crown, the people of Ayodhyā followed him. Rāma retired to his hut, quietly weeping as his brother and mothers disappeared from view.
—
BHARATA AND THE entire procession made their way back to Ayodhyā. Seeing the city in the same desolate state of mourning, he immediately called a meeting with Vasishtha and his other advisors.
“I seek your permission to rule the kingdom from Nandigrāma, a village to the east of Ayodhyā,” said Bharata. “From there I will endure Rāma’s exile. From there I will await his return, for he alone is lord of Ayodhyā.”
“Your devotion to your brother is beyond all praise,” said Vasishtha, giving his blessings with the other ministers.
In Nandigrāma Bharata and Shatrughna built a hut. Addressing the crowd that had followed him there, he said, “Bring the royal canopy and install the throne. The sandals will rest here, as a symbol of Rāma’s authority. I will bow to his exalted feet in all affairs of the kingdom, and in this way the kingdom will be ruled by him. In fourteen years, I will restore the throne to him and wash away the stain of dishonor brought on me by my mother.”
Placing Rāma’s sandals reverently on the throne, Bharata humbly took up residence in the hut as a servant of Rāma, wearing forest clothes and eating forest foods like his brother. Surround
ed by his ministers, as well as Vasishtha and other holy men, he offered all affairs of the kingdom first to Rāma’s sandals. In that way, the kingdom truly was ruled in the spirit of Rāma. Bharata announced, “I administer, but Rāma rules.”
—
AFTER BHARATA AND his army left Chitrakūta, Rāma and Sītā tried to settle into their peaceful lives again. Only now the garlanded woods had been trampled by elephants and men. Worse, Rāma saw the sages whispering about him behind their hands.
He decided to pay a special visit to Vālmīki in his āshram. “Have I done anything to displease you?” Rāma asked Vālmīki. “Has Sītā been remiss in performing her duties to you?”
Vālmīki shook his head. “The pure-minded lady Sītā, always so happy, could never veer from the path of Dharma. What you perceive is the sages’ concern about the rākshasas who dwell in this forest. One of them, Khara, is the evil brother of Rāvana, the king of the rākshasas. He is angry that you are here and has started attacking the sages and spoiling their yagyas. Thus I and the other ascetics are moving to a pleasant woods nearby.”
Rāma returned to his hut, troubled that he was causing the sages to leave their peaceful abode on Chitrakūta Mountain. He also felt restless. “Now that Bharata and Shatrughna and my mothers have visited me in these woods, it is impossible for me to forget their sorrow,” he said to Sītā.
Thus Rāma decided to leave the lovely Chitrakūta. The very next day the three wanderers set out, carrying their weapons, Sītā’s clothing, and a basket and shovel for digging roots.
At the end of the day they came upon the peaceful āshram of Atri. Treated to the customary hospitality offered the weary traveler, the three soon felt revived. As they sat talking with the venerable sage, his wife entered the room. Her hair was white and her limbs bent with age, but her face radiated happiness and peace.
The Ramayana Page 14