Atri greeted his wife with affection and introduced her to his guests. “This is the renowned Anasūyā, who is surely known to you for her high-minded deeds. By the power of her meditations, she ended a ten-year drought, causing the skies to open and the rains to fall. She inspired the River Jāhnavī to flow once more, thus replenishing precious herbs and restoring the withered roots of trees.”
Then Atri said to Rāma, “It would be a blessing to the pure-hearted Sītā to wait on that lady of brilliant light.”
Sītā humbly stood before the enlightened Anasūyā. She folded her hands in reverence and said, “I am Jānakī, the daughter of King Janaka, named Sītā by my parents.”
Delighted to see the lovely Jānakī before her, who was known the world over for her devotion to Rāma, the aged one praised her. “Great are the rewards for a wife such as you, who abandons family, home and comforts to follow her husband. Even without his riches, you serve him as God. Such a wife, who loves her husband no matter the circumstances, gains the highest heaven. For a woman, there is no greater friend than the husband.”
Her heart light with happiness, Sītā thanked the esteemed Anasūyā. “These precious words remind me of the advice my mother gave me beside my wedding fire. And they are reminiscent of the parting words of my dear mother-in-law, who also loves Dharma. I have always sought to follow these precepts, instilled in me at a young age. But for me it has been easy to love my husband with all my heart. For he has faithfully loved me, has never swerved from Dharma, and has sought always to make me happy. Such a husband is dear, and following him to the forest was like following water down a slope to the sea.”
Sītā smiled and said further, “Of a woman, no austerities are expected except to love her husband with all her heart. That is how Sāvitrī reached the higher realm. And you too have attained glory through service to your husband. The goddess Rohinī, ever devoted to her spouse, the moon, never wanders far. Many other devoted women, by serving their husbands, have been exalted by the gods for their good deeds.”
Charmed by these words, the radiant Anasūyā drew Sītā to her and kissed the top of her head. “It would give me joy to grant you any wish. Name what you desire and it will be done.”
“You have already fulfilled my heart,” said Sītā.
These humble words pleased Anasūyā even more. “Here, then. I wish you to wear this heavenly garland of jasmine, these shining jewels, this golden sārī, and these rare oils and cosmetics. You are worthy of these celestial gifts, which will never fade nor grow dim from dust. They will always look as fresh as today. Anoint your body with this oil, and you will glow with the luster of Lakshmī and delight your husband as she delights Vishnu.”
Sītā gratefully accepted these gifts of Anasūyā, and stood quietly, her hands folded.
“I have heard that your husband won you in a svayamvara,” said Anasūyā. “Please, I would like to hear your story, told from your heart.”
Happily Sītā told how she had been born of the earth and adopted by her mother and father, King Janaka; how her father despaired of ever finding her a worthy spouse; how he had offered her hand in marriage to anyone who could string the great bow of Shiva; how none could move it even an inch until Rāma lifted it as easily as a stick, snapping it in two when he strung it.
“How wondrous are these events,” said Anasūyā. “How charming and how sweetly told. But now the night has laid its cloak over the forest. See how the sacred fires waft streams of gray smoke. See how the stars sprinkle the skies and the birds cease their entertaining, overtaken by sleep. Go now to rest with Rāma. You have delighted me with your joyful words. But before you go, let me see you wear these ornaments. Allow me that pleasure.”
Then the beautiful Sītā, like the daughter of the gods, adorned herself with the celestial ornaments, given with affection by the saintly Anasūyā.
Later, when Rāma saw Sītā looking so radiant, his heart overflowed with happiness that she had been so honored by Anasūyā. They spent the night resting peacefully in that happy abode.
The next morning the three travelers said their farewells. Advising them on the best path to take into the dense Dandaka Forest, the sages warned, “Stay clear of the rākshasas. For if anyone who loves Dharma walks in the forest alone, he becomes their prey. You must stop these demons, O Rāma.”
Bowing to the saints with their hands folded, Rāma, Lakshmana, and Sītā received their blessings and disappeared into the forest as the sun disappears behind clouds.
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.
—Ayodhyā Kānda 112.29
End of the Ayodhyā Kānda
THREE
Āranya Kānda
The Forest
CHAPTER 18
The Sages Beg Rāma for Protection
When Rāma and Lakshmana,
with Sītā of dazzling beauty,
entered the dark Dandaka Forest,
they came upon a circle of huts
spread with sacred kusha grass,
inhabited by holy sages
radiating light from within.
Flowers carpeted the forest floor.
Celestial nymphs gamboled in
lotus pools that cooled the air.
Flocks of birds and families of deer
settled peacefully there.
Vedic hymns of old echoed through the trees,
and a rare light of heaven
suffused the grounds.
“We beg protection from you,”
said the sages.
“Shelter us in the practice of virtue
as a mother shelters a child.”
This is how the holy sages
who had subdued the senses
and mastered the Self
honored the hero Rāma
and his lionhearted brother Lakshmana.
Not long after entering the dark Dandaka Forest, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana came to a place where all the trees, shrubs, and vines stuck out at strange angles, cracked and broken. They noticed that no birds sang here, and the hum of crickets foretold something ominous.
Suddenly, a mountain rose in front of them. It was a hideous titan, his eyes sunk in an oversized head, with a bulging stomach and enormous mouth, jaws open and snapping. On his giant spear hung three lions, four tigers, two leopards, four deer, and an elephant—all food for his dinner.
He rushed at them like a mighty storm and snatched Sītā, who trembled like a palm leaf in the wind. “I will kill you and make this lovely lady my wife!” roared the giant.
Rāma’s bright complexion drained of blood. “This is the worst tragedy of all,” he said to Lakshmana. “To see my gentle wife touched by him is worse than my father’s death and my exile.”
Lakshmana too felt his eyes sting with tears, but said, “With me as your servant, why do you lament? I will direct all my bitterness for your exile to this beast and send his head rolling on the earth.”
As Lakshmana reached for his bow, the giant roared, “Who are you and why are you here?”
“We are warriors of the Ikshvāku race,” answered the two brothers. “And who are you?”
“I am the rākshasa Varādha. Run along now. Do not bother trying to kill me, for a boon from Brahmā makes it impossible for anyone to vanquish me with weapons.”
To answer his arrogant words, the brothers let loose a volley of arrows. Agitated, the giant set down Sītā and charged at Rāma and Lakshmana with his spear, which Rāma broke with his swift arrows. Roaring with laughter, the giant again rushed at them. Rāma and Lakshmana threw down their weapons, which the giant’s boon had rendered useless, and fought him with their bare hands. Suddenly, the monster grabbed Rāma in his right hand and Lakshmana in his left, p
laced one on each shoulder, and stomped down the forest path.
“Let him take us a ways, after all it’s in the direction we want to go,” said Rāma calmly.
But then they heard Sītā crying out, “Take me instead of those two Ikshvāku warriors, for I will perish in this forest all alone!” They had no choice but to destroy the hideous monster immediately. Rāma twisted the right arm and Lakshmana the left. His arms hanging limp, the giant slumped to the ground, like a mountain in a landslide.
“Dig a pit, Lakshmana,” said Rāma. “Since his boon prevents us from killing him with weapons, we will bury him.”
Hearing Lakshmana’s name, the giant said humbly, “O hero, whose blows equal Indra’s, until this moment I did not recognize you. Now that I am dying, I see that you are Rāma, that lion among men. I was cursed to live in this monstrous body by Kubera, the god of wealth, but inside I am, in reality, a Gandharva. I was told that only Rāma could end this curse by ending my life. I die willingly at your hand. I honor the one who frees me.”
Before Rāma and Lakshmana buried him in a pit big enough for several elephants, he told them where to find Sharabhanga, a sage as radiant as seven suns. Then he breathed his last breath and ascended to heaven, liberated from his horrible fate by Rāma.
The danger over, Rāma rushed to Sītā and embraced her, murmuring consoling words. “Let us go to Sharabhanga’s āshram right now,” he said to Lakshmana. “This forest is too dangerous.”
When they drew near to Sharabhanga’s hermitage, they saw an amazing sight. There before them was a celestial being, his feet floating above the ground and his robes sparkling, free of dust. Radiating light like the sun, he boarded his golden chariot, driven by celestial bay horses. Two divine women held a canopy of luscious garlands over his head and fanned him with yaks’ tails mounted on rods of gold. The chariot also floated above the ground, surrounded by Rishis, gods, and other celestials, who sang divine chants to him as he took leave of the sage Sharabhanga.
“O Lakshmana,” said Rāma, “surely this is Indra, the king of the gods, who attends every yagya performed on earth. Do you see hundreds of youthful warriors surrounding him? Each one looks to be twenty-five years old, the perpetual age of the Devas. Wait here, and I will find out for certain who this hero is.”
But Indra saw Rāma approaching and said to Sharabhanga, “I must leave before Rāma reaches me. I will greet him later, when he returns victorious, having achieved his purpose on earth, having accomplished a deed no other could.” Then Indra respectfully took leave of the great sage and rose to heaven.
Later, when Rāma, Lakshmana, and Sītā had been welcomed by Sharabhanga and were seated at his holy feet, Rāma asked the highly regarded sage about Indra’s visit.
“O Rāma, Indra came to take me to Brahma Loka, that highest of heavens, the abode of the gods. I have earned a place in that realm of unsurpassed beauty through my tapas, my long meditations, and through the performance of yagyas. But I did not want to go just yet, because I wanted to see you first.”
Rāma placed his palms together and bowed to the humble sage in respect. “O revered Rishi, can you tell me of a safe place to dwell here?” he asked. “A place where Sītā will be safe.”
Sharabhanga replied, “Follow the River Mandākinī to the āshram of Sutīkshna, who can suggest where to find a peaceful forest home. But first, stay with me until I cast off this body.”
Then Sītā, Rāma, and Lakshmana watched, amazed, as the sage built a fire and entered it. He emerged with a youthful and shining body and ascended to Brahma Loka, having achieved all of his desires on earth.
After the glorious departure of Sharabhanga, the other sages in the āshram greeted the three illustrious travelers. Among the sages there were those who were born of the nails and hair of Brahmā, those who lived on moonbeams, those who lived on uncooked husked grains, those who lived on water, those who slept on the bare ground, and those who never slept at all. Their bodies shone with a rare light born of their deep austerities.
These holy men surrounded Rāma and Lakshmana, standing humbly with their hands folded in respect. They seemed shy to speak. Finally, the eldest stepped forward. “We honor you, who are the upholders of Dharma,” said the luminous Rishi. “Know that we say the next words in desperation, so please forgive us. These woods are filled with vicious rākshasas who harass and kill any holy man. We tremble in fear. Will you save us from the night-rovers, O Rāma? There is no greater savior on earth than you.”
Rāma folded his hands respectfully and said, “Most exalted ones, you did not need to phrase this as a question; it is for the sage to command the warrior. It is my good fortune to have come here, where I can protect those who know the Self. My brother and I will kill these evil rākshasas in the Dandaka Forest. In this way, our time spent in the forest will become a blessing.”
The saints were so relieved by this assurance from Rāma that they themselves decided to lead him through the dense and silent Dandaka Forest to Sutīkshna’s āshram.
Rāma first saw the hermitage at a distance on a high mountain, where it seemed to float like a cloud. A little later, walking through a thick grove of trees heavy with fruit, Rāma and the sages came to a clearing. There they saw the sage Sutīkshna sitting in the center of his āshram, performing his duties by the sacred fire. Rāma respectfully approached the saint, who was smeared with ashes and sat with his eyes closed, absorbed in meditation.
“O revered sage, I am Rāma, who has come to visit you,” said Rāma.
Sutīkshna opened his eyes and smiled broadly. He rose and embraced Rāma, who was surprised to hear him say, “I have been waiting for you ever since I heard that you had left your kingdom. Indra, chief of the gods, came to tell me I have achieved Brahma Loka, but I put him off, because I wanted to see you first. All that I have gained through austerity, all the enjoyment of the three worlds, I now offer to you, your wife and your brother.”
The radiant Rishi then invited Rāma to stay in his hermitage. “This pleasant place is frequented by sages, for it is easy to gather roots and fruits in all seasons. The only problem is the multitude of enchanting deer, which sometimes trample the garden.”
Before Rāma could answer, Lakshmana impulsively held up his bow and arrow and said, “If I stayed here, I could not refrain from hunting those herds of deer, and that would make you unhappy, O gentle sage. For this reason I do not wish to stay here long.”
Rāma did not object, and so it was decided that they should only spend the night. After their evening devotions, the sage himself served them hulled grain. The next morning, rising as usual at dawn, Rāma and Sītā bathed in the pure waters of the River Mandākinī, fragrant with the scent of lotus flowers.
Bidding goodbye to Sutīkshna, Rāma bowed before him. “Thank you for showing us every honor, but we must travel early before the sun becomes too hot. We wish to visit all the holy men of the Dandaka Forest, and we ask your blessings for our journey.”
The generous sage embraced the two brothers affectionately. “Go safely, Rāma, with Lakshmana and Sītā, who follow you like your own shadow. Enjoy the silent beauties of the Dandaka Forest, with its hidden sylvan retreats, clear lakes filled with swans, and blossoming groves that echo the cry of the peacock. Go, and when you have seen all, come back to this āshram.”
After the three travelers circled the sage in reverence, Sītā handed the brothers their celestial arrows, thundering bows, and swords glittering with gold. The two brothers and the princess of unsurpassable beauty then set out briskly on their pilgrimage.
As they walked, Sītā sweetly said to Rāma, “You who are most noble, even you could suffer from a small defect that could grow slowly into something greater. Yet it is always possible to avoid the three failings of man, each rooted in desire. The first failing is to tell a lie, the second is to associate with another’s wife, and the third is to commit a violent act without just
provocation.
“You have never told a lie and you never will; you are known for speaking the truth. As for the second failing, your heart has always been true to me and you have never been possessed by the passion that destroys Dharma. You are devoted to me and faithful to your vows.
“It is for the third failing, that of committing a violent act without just provocation, that I am concerned. You have promised the sages to kill the rākshasas. When I see you walking through the forest, armed with your bow and arrow, my mind is in tumult and I wonder how I can help you in this world and the next. Entering the Dandaka Forest with arms does not find favor with me, and I will tell you why.
“The simple act of carrying a bow and arrows increases the probability of using them. There is a story of a devout and gentle ascetic who was so pure that Indra was afraid of his powers. Indra disguised himself as a warrior, and while visiting the holy man, asked him to keep watch over his sword. The conscientious sage took Indra’s sword with him everywhere he went—to gather roots and fruits, to collect water. By carrying that sword, the hermit began to crave violence, and eventually lost his self-control and fell from the path of virtue. As contact with fire alters a piece of wood, so contact with arms alters the minds of men.
“I speak of this only because of my unbounded love and affection for you. I do not intend to instruct you,” continued Sītā in her quiet and pleasing voice. “But I beg you to give up the thought of striking the rākshasas in the Dandaka Forest without provocation, for the world detests such an act. Even a warrior should resort to arms only to defend souls in peril.
“Oceans separate the world of the warrior from the world of the ascetic; they are opposed to each other. Here in this quiet forest, the abode of ascetics, it is best to be an ascetic. When you are back in Ayodhyā, you can be a warrior and follow the kshatriya code again.
“From Dharma flows wealth, from Dharma flows happiness. Adhering to Dharma, one obtains everything. The heart of this world is Dharma. With a pure heart, devote yourself to Dharma in these holy woods, my beloved.”
The Ramayana Page 15