He almost wished he could make it go slower, to savour the moment, the luxury of being with Sita again, of looking upon her heart-shaped face, that slender throat, those eyes he could lose himself in for hours. He looked down at the endless forests blurring past underneath and wished that they could return to that simple cottage in Panchvati, could play in the high grass and rub turmeric on one another’s faces and laugh and kiss and spend all day in the dappled sunlight falling through the leaves, and perhaps later, when they were done with affection, they could go down to the river and slake their thirst and then dive into the cool, perfect water, and enter that beautiful, silent world. And afterwards, as the forest dimmed and the sunlight faded, and the birds filled the sky with their deafening cacophony, they could sit by a fireplace and eat a simple meal before retiring for the night to straw pallets on a mud floor swept by Sita herself with a thrash-broom and sterilised by Lakshman with cow urine, and then made fragrant by rose blossoms strewn in the corners.
But he knew wistfully that such a thing could never come to pass. Tonight he would sleep on velvet cushions and silken sheets would cover his body. So be it. As long as he had Sita by his side, nothing else would matter. And Lakshman would have Urmila again. For Rama had not forgotten that these past fourteen years, his brother had been separated from his bride. Fourteen years. And now it seemed to have flowed past like the river rushing by below the Pushpak. Had it really been that long?
Then he realised that the river was the Sarayu, and that the wooden arch speeding by below was Mithila Bridge. And that they were on Kosala land now. There was the raj-marg winding its way steadily alongside the river, bordered on the south by the pressing darkness of the forest. Except that there was no Bhayanakvan any longer, no dreaded Southwoods, no asuras lurking in those dark wildernesses. And that was his doing, he had rid the world of all demons, including his own.
And then he saw the lights, and heard the faint chanting.
Ayodhya was glowing. She had put on her best face for him once more, as she had done on the night he had returned from Mithila with his new bride, he and his three brothers, and his father and mother, and the other queens. But this time there were people on the raj-marg as well, holding up oil lanterns blazing in endless perfect rows. On the riverbanks. On the walls. On the city streets, which he could glimpse now. On the rooftops. And at the balconies of a thousand homes.
Ayodhya was burning with happiness. For him. For her long-lost liege, returning home at last.
He could see the palace now, so familiar it brought an ache to his heart, and a tear to his eye. He could see the troops lined up on the avenue, their weapons gleaming in the light of the mashaals, their uniforms immaculate, and he could hear their voices now, raised in perfect harmony, singing the raag Deepavali. It filled his heart and his ears and enveloped him with warmth and love and affection. He looked down at Sita and saw her face lit up with the glow of the lights below as well as from an inner flame that he knew was the first sign of thawing of the icy terror that had imprisoned her all this while. She would be well now. She would return to life. And he would care for her better than he cared for himself. For she was Ayodhya, and he loved her. And he was with her now, he was home, and he would stay for ever. Nothing would ever separate them again.
He looked down with her, their hands clasped, their throats choked with emotion, Lakshman and Hanuman behind them, all four of them silenced by the grandeur of the scene, the rich tableau laid out before them, an entire city—nay, an entire nation—turned out to greet and welcome them back. And the Pushpak dipped, slowing at last, coming to a perfect halt, then descending smoothly, silently, to bring them to the level of the ground before the palace entrance. And Rama saw his mother, ageing and white-haired, and Brahmarishi Vashishta, looking much the same as ever but with perhaps a few more lines on his ancient face, and Bharat, and Shatrugana … and was that Nakhudi? And that stately old man in a general’s uniform, could it be Bejoo? So many faces, so many memories, so many loved ones and sights and sounds and things, all swirling together in a miasma of light and song and beauty.
He gave Sita his hand to hold for support and helped her out of the Pushpak. Together they stepped out onto the soil of his native land. At last, finally, they were home.
AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD TO INDIAN PAPERBACK EDITION 2006
My Ramayana ends here. The page you just turned is the last page of my retelling.
I know. I know. Valmiki’s Ramayana goes on beyond this point, in the section titled Uttara-kaand, to narrate what happens to Rama and Sita and the rest of this epic cast of characters.
But I’ve chosen to end the story here.
As promised, the tale that began in Prince of Ayodhya ends here with King of Ayodhya. An epic journey completed, an exile fulfilled, a prince returned home to claim his crown at last, a kingdom restored to its rightful master, a world set right once more.
Lovers united at journey’s end.
Of course, there’s more to come in their lives. There always is. Life goes on past the endings of storybooks. But books, alas, must end someplace.
This one ends here, by my choice. Why?
Well, for one thing, as you know by now, I’ve chosen to retell this story from the outset as an imaginative retelling, closer to the kind of beautiful monster attempted by Kamban or K. M. Munshi, rather than a strict translation—after all, there were any number of excellent translations available long before I began. And in attempting a retelling, one is guided first and last by one’s own vision or interpretation of the tale rather than by any rote recitation.
And so, in the Uttara-kaand I finally came upon an episode that I was unable to integrate into my perspective of this great epic. The banishment of Sita by Rama, after they are back in Ayodhya.
My sense of interpretation has difficulty accepting this decision of Rama to banish the woman he loves so deeply and for whom he fought such a long and terrible war. For whom he, in fact, crossed an ocean and invaded a foreign dominion—a unique event in the history of our nation. Whether viewed on a personal or political level, this decision was hard to accept, for me, Rama’s self-styled biographer.
To put it bluntly, the Rama I felt I came so close to understanding through this long journey of three thousand pages and several years, could not, would not, cannot ever have agreed to banish his beloved wife.
Yes, I know the arguments about dharma and allegiance to the people. Setting a royal example, etc.
They’re all good and valid. And to those who adhere strictly by that interpretation, I say, well and good. You have every right to insist that that is the only truth.
I have no argument with you.
This is precisely why I am not attempting to put forth my version of what might have, ought to have, or should have happened. After all, who am I to argue with the great minds of past masters?
Despite all my flights of imagination, despite all the small liberties and creative poetic license I have taken within the framework of the story or in individual episodes and characterisation, I have always tried to adhere strictly to the bare bones of this tale—far more closely than you might imagine. The brilliant translation by Arshia Sattar of Valmiki’s Ramayana— abridged, but nonetheless masterful and complete in itself— remains to my mind, the single best version of this epic poem. It has been my lodestone and guiding star through every working day of my long journey with Rama and his companions. I cannot credit it highly enough except to say that if I have achieved even a tenth of its greatness, then I shall feel hugely rewarded.
And because I respect that source material so much, I could not twist and alter the facts of the story to such an extent to suit my own purpose.
And so, I chose to simply end the story here. In doing so, I’m supported by a legion of scholars who believe, to this day, that the first and last kaands of Valmiki’s retelling of the Ramayana (for it was also a retelling of actual events, whether wholly real or partly, let’s not forget—not his own fictional creati
on!) were added later by other hands. This may also account for my disagreement with the events described in the seventh, and last, kaand, perhaps. It’s quite likely that my disagreement is not with Valmiki at all, but with those who might have added these later portions for their own unfathomable reasons.
I also know that I’ve left several questions unanswered, or only partly answered, at the end of this, the sixth and final book of my Ramayana. That, too, is deliberate.
The purpose of my retelling was never to answer all questions, or offer an explanation of all the mysteries of the universe! It was to show you, dear reader, that this is truly a great tale, perhaps one of the greatest tales of all time, and that even today, the Ramayana can be read and enjoyed by one and all.
I believe that to some small extent, I’ve succeeded in doing that. Today, by any estimate, there are several lakh readers of my Ramayana books worldwide, the majority of them Indians or of Indian origin. And a surprising percentage of these readers claim that this is the first and only Ramayana they have ever read in their lives!
I hope to encourage you to correct that lacuna now. To drive you to find answers to the unanswered questions of my retelling by reading other, better versions of this epic. You may like to start with the excellent Arshia Sattar abridged edition, in print and easily available. After that, go ahead and try out any of the numerous other versions in various languages. There is a rich tradition of Ramayana retellings—as well as commentaries on the Ramayana, such as the famous Ramcharitramanas by Sant Tulsidas—in various Indian languages. In particular, I have high regard for the versions available in several south Indian languages, including Thamizh. They reveal a rich heritage of questioning and debate that has helped keep this tale alive and made the tradition of the Ramayana a living one to this day.
Armed with the knowledge of the story gained through my humble, flawed attempt, you will perhaps be able to discover new insights and answers with each new version you read. Who knows…you may learn things that I failed to discover. After all, they say that the Ramayana is read differently by different readers.
I wish you happy reading.
And I shall take my leave now.
For I have another epic to work on, and another great historical age to visit and view through my own imaginative point of view.
If you wish, you may like to accompany me on that long journey as well.
It promises to be a far longer one, though. Already looming as eighteen large volumes, about six times the length of my Ramayana series!
Come with me, if you will, to another place and time … to a great city, ruled by an ancient family … where a blood feud threatens to rip asunder the very fabric of family and history …
In Hastinapura where the blind king ruled …
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 92