Valmiki Rāmāyaṇa
1.6: The King’s Heartbreak
Daśaratha, having seen that all the arrangements for the installation were underway, made his way toward Kaikeyi’s rooms for his evening rendezvous. The glorious monarch entered Kaikeyi’s excellent apartment as the moon might enter the sky at night, spreading its beautiful rays. Peacocks, parrots and other species of colorful birds crowded the palace, their cries augmenting the sounds of various musical instruments. Hundreds of well-dressed maids moved about in the great halls and rooms, in which were hung flowing silk drapes and numerous fine paintings. Along the outer walls grew trees filled with blossoms and fruits. Tall seats of ivory burnished with gold stood everywhere, along with expansive couches covered with soft cushions. Costly handwoven carpets covered the floors. First-class food and drink of every variety were provided in gold and crystal dishes laid out on golden tables.
Daśaratha swept through the palace, which rivaled paradise itself. The armed guards at the outer doors bowed low as he passed, while at the inner doors the female servants folded their palms in respect. Coming at last to Kaikeyi’s personal quarters, the king did not see her lying on her bed as expected. Daśaratha was surprised to find that his beloved spouse had failed to meet him at the usual time. He called out for her. When there was no reply the king was dismayed. What had happened? He searched about and, finding Kaikeyi’s doorkeeper, inquired of his wife’s whereabouts. With a dejected expression the portress told the king that Kaikeyi had entered the sulking chamber in an angry mood.
Even further dismayed upon hearing this strange report, the king quickly made his way towards his wife. He entered the sulking room and saw her there fallen on the floor in a sorry and unseemly state. Daśaratha looked sadly upon his youngest queen, who was dearer to him than his life, but who now held in her heart a wicked and sinful desire. Lying on the ground she looked like a rose creeper violently torn from its tree, or like an Apsarā dropped from heaven, or a doe caught in a hunter’s snare. Daśaratha looked upon her as the lord of elephants might look upon his mate lying pierced by a poisoned arrow. Fondly stroking her tear-streaked face, the agitated emperor spoke to her softly.
“Your anger is surely not meant for me, who only wishes for your unending happiness. Tell me, O gentle lady, by whom you have been insulted or rebuked so that you now lie here rolling in the dust? Who deserves punishment today at my hands? Or do you wish me to release someone who deserves to be punished? By whom have you been offended or whom would you seek to oblige?”
Kaikeyi said nothing and did not even look at the king. Daśaratha felt tormented as he sought at length to appease her. “If you are ailing, then I shall call here the royal physicians, who will quickly heal your pain. Speak out whatever is amiss and allow me to make amends. I can by no means tolerate your distress and will quickly perform any work which pleases you. This earth with all its wealth belongs to me. What shall I bestow upon you today? What can you gain by torturing yourself in this way, my beloved queen? Please rise up and tell me the source of your sorrow.”
Kaikeyi was comforted and encouraged by her husband’s entreaty. He was ready to do anything to please her. She prepared to put forward her terrible proposal. Seeing Daśaratha deeply moved by love for her, Kaikeyi spoke in strained tones. “I have not been insulted or offended by anyone, O king. There is, however, something I wish you to accomplish. Make me a solemn vow that you will fulfill my desire and then I shall tell you what it is.”
Daśaratha placed her head upon his lap and straightened her disheveled hair. He smiled at her and said, “Save for my son Rāma, there is none in this world more dear to me than you. I swear then by that invincible high-souled Rāma, dearer to me than life, that I shall satisfy your cherished desire. By that very Rāma, from whom separation would surely end my life, I swear to carry out your order. Indeed, by Rāma, whom I would have in exchange even for my own self, my other sons and the entire earth, I promise to do your bidding. Please, therefore, reveal your mind to me, O good lady.”
Kaikeyi saw that her husband had bound himself completely by this thrice-spoken vow. She inwardly rejoiced and felt that her ends were practically achieved. She then said to him what would have been difficult to say even for an enemy, and which was like death arrived at Daśaratha’s door. “Let all the gods headed by Indra witness your promise. Let the sun, the moon, the sky, fire, day and night, the four quarters with their presiding deities, the universe itself and the indwelling Lord in everyone’s heart take heed of your great vow. The highly glorious emperor, who is always true to his word and who knows what is right, has given me his promise.”
Looking intently at her bemused husband, Kaikeyi said, “Remember now, O king, how in former times you fought with the gods against the demons and how I saved your life. Surely you recall your offer to me then of two boons. Having kept those with you all this time, I now wish to take them. Grant me those boons, O lord, or see me give up my life this very day.”
Held under the powerful sway of passion and bound by his infallible promise, the king, like a deer stepping into a snare, made ready to accord the two boons to his queen. Kaikeyi continued, “For my first boon, let my son Bharata be installed as the Prince Regent in Rāma’s place. For the second, let Rāma be exiled to the forest and remain there for fourteen years. Be true to your promise, O king of kings, and cover both yourself and your race with everlasting glory.”
For some time Daśaratha gazed at his wife in utter disbelief. He was seized by an agonizing anxiety when he heard her cruel utterance. Surely this could not be happening. Was he really hearing this or was it a dream? Had something experienced in a former life suddenly returned as a vivid hallucination? Maybe he was simply losing his sanity. How could Kaikeyi have made such a request? She had always shown a deep affection for Rāma.
As he considered her words again and again, Daśaratha became overpowered by grief and fainted away. Upon regaining consciousness he saw before him his wife, sitting with a stern expression, and he remembered again her terrible request. As distressed as a deer at the sight of a lion, the king sat upon the bare floor. He sighed like a poisonous serpent transfixed by the mystic spells of a charmer. Crying out, “Alas, what a calamity!” he swooned once more.
As he again came back to consciousness the king began to feel furious. This was entirely unexpected from Kaikeyi. She was revealing a side of her nature he had never seen before. He thundered at his queen as if about to consume her with his blazing wrath. “O cruel and wicked woman, it seems you are set upon the destruction of my race. What harm have Rāma or I ever done you? Why then are you bent on bringing ruin to me and mine at such a time? By harboring you all this while I have held to my bosom a venomous snake. When practically the whole of humanity extols Rāma’s virtues, how shall I forsake Him? I might give up my wives, my kingdom and indeed my life, but I can never part with Rāma.”
Daśaratha broke off, too shocked to continue. Had he not always shown kindness to Kaikeyi? How could she hurt him in this way? Surely she realized that her request would kill him. Deeply impassioned, he spoke with tears in his eyes. “The world may exist without the sun, crops may grow without water, but in no event can life remain in my body without my seeing Rāma. Therefore give up your sinful desire, O beautiful lady! Placing my head upon your feet, I beseech you to be gracious to me.”
Daśaratha held his wife’s feet and gazed into her face, but Kaikeyi sat looking at him impassively, without saying a word. In plaintive tones the king continued. “If you feel I have slighted your son Bharata, then let Him indeed be installed in place of Rāma. But what need is there to send away the lotus-eyed and gentle Rāma? I cannot believe that you have alone developed a dislike for Rāma. On so many previous occasions you have told me of your love for my beloved son. Surely you are now possessed of an evil spirit.”
Daśaratha could not imagine how else his wife could behave in this way. She had never been harsh towards him before. He remembered the astrological omens. Surely his wife’s strange request was the work of some malevolent influence. He spoke more gently. “I have seen myself how Rāma serves you even more than does your own son Bharata. Have you not always told me so yourself? How then have you come to desire Rāma’s exile to the dreadful forest for a full fourteen years? Let Him remain here and let Bharata be king. What objection could you have to that?”
Kaikeyi did not waver. She had lost her trust in Daśaratha and she seethed with anger. He was simply trying to win her over with empty words. But she was not going to be fooled any more. She remembered Manthara’s warning. The king and his beloved Kaushalya were not going to cheat her this time. She would get her boons no matter what Daśaratha said. She sat in silence.
Daśaratha could not think clearly. He was torn by his love for Rāma and his promise to his wife, who had now seized him violently by the heart. Realizing that he could never order his son to enter the forest, Daśaratha feared he would bring infamy to his royal line. No king in his line had ever been known to break his word at any time.
Daśaratha implored his wife. “What will you gain by banishing Rāma? He will always render you every service and remain entirely devoted to your welfare. I have never received a single complaint against Rāma even from his subordinates, let alone elders like you. Truthfulness, charity, asceticism, self-control, kindness, non-duplicity, learning and service to his elders—all these are ever-present in Rāma. How could you wish harm to that guileless prince?”
Daśaratha could see that Kaikeyi was unmoved. It was obvious her feelings towards Rāma had changed. The king decided to try a different approach and he invoked his own love for her. “O Kaikeyi, you should show mercy to me in this, my great misery. An old and worn man, I am fast approaching the end of my days. I have now been subjected to an unbearable grief in the shape of your harsh words. What do you wish to possess? I can offer you anything that may be had in all of this world. Only ask for your desire and consider it done. Joining my palms I fall at your feet. Do not banish Rāma. Accept my piteous plea and save my life.”
Kaikeyi looked coldly upon her husband. He had fallen weeping to the floor and was tossing about, gripped by an overwhelming agony. He prayed again and again for deliverance, but Kaikeyi felt no pity. With her heart hardened by Manthara and her intelligence confused by the gods, she was fixed in her evil determination. Looking contemptuously at Daśaratha, she spoke fiercely. “After granting boons and failing to fulfill them, how will you again proclaim your piety in the world, O noble king? When in an assembly of sages you are asked about your promise, how will you reply? Will you admit that you proved untruthful to your own dear wife, to whom you owe your very life? Having once granted boons, and having again sworn three times to fulfill those boons, will you now falsify your word?”
Kaikeyi was standing, her face flushed with anger. She felt cheated by her husband. He had promised her anything. Now he was trying to back out. This simply confirmed her doubts about his sincerity. He had no intention of giving her what she wanted. Her voice became cold. “What honor will you bring to your line by this action, O king of kings? Do you not recall the many occasions when your forebears were prepared to sacrifice everything, including their own lives, in order to protect the honor of your race? O foolish king! It seems that at the expense of anything you wish to install Rāma as your successor and enjoy life with Kaushalya eternally!”
Kaikeyi was furious. The king was prepared to sacrifice anything for the sake of Kaushalya’s son, but he cared so little for Kaikeyi that he would deny her rights even if it meant bringing infamy upon himself. She went on, her voice rising to a shout. “Whether your promise was righteous or otherwise and whether you made it sincerely or not, it cannot now be withdrawn. If Rāma is installed as Prince Regent I shall swallow poison and give up my life before your eyes! I would prefer death to seeing Kaushalya become the mother of the king. I swear by Bharata and by my own self that I shall not be appeased by anything less than Rāma’s exile.”
The king’s body trembled. Consumed by grief, he gazed with unwinking eyes upon the face of his beautiful wife. He was stunned by her words, which struck him with the force of a thunderbolt. He suddenly dropped to the ground like a felled tree, calling out Rāma’s name. Like one insane, he lost his mental balance and lay motionless on the cold floor for a considerable time. Gradually gathering his senses about him, the king stood up and spoke in a choked and anguished voice. “I cannot believe you are now speaking your own mind. Who has perverted you towards this evil course? As if possessed by some demon you speak shamelessly that which should never be spoken. What has inspired in you this great yet groundless fear? Why are you suddenly seeing Rāma as your enemy, uttering such cruel words? What do you expect to gain by Bharata’s becoming my successor instead of Rāma? I expect that Bharata, whose virtues compare with those of Rāma, will not even reside in Ayodhya without Rāma, far less accept the throne.”
The king had so many times seen Bharata serving Rāma with love. There was no question that Bharata would accept the kingdom, leaving Rāma aside. What had made Kaikeyi imagine this to be possible? Could it be the hand of the gods? But what purpose of theirs would be achieved by denying Rāma the rulership of the world? And even if Bharata should be king, why should Rāma be exiled for fourteen years? It was unthinkable. Daśaratha spoke aloud his thoughts. “Having said to Rāma, ‘Go to the forest,’ how shall I look upon his crestfallen face, which will exactly resemble the eclipsed moon? Surely the kings assembled from every quarter will say, ‘How has this foolish man ruled the world all this while?’ When asked by wise and learned men about Rāma, how shall I say that I sent Him away to the forest, being pressed by Kaikeyi? If I say I was supporting the cause of truth, then what about my declaration that Rāma would be installed as my successor?”
Daśaratha fell back onto a couch. His arms were outstretched towards Kaikeyi, who had again fallen to the floor on hearing her husband’s arguments. The king wailed in agony. “What reply can I make to Kaushalya when she asks why I rendered her such an unkind act? I have always neglected that godly lady in favor of you. Remembering my acts now gives me great pain.”
Daśaratha’s mention of Kaushalya only made Kaikeyi more furious. What a blatant untruth! How did he expect her to believe that she was more favored than Kaushalya? In his desperation the king was ready to say anything. Kaikeyi stared at her husband, her eyes red with anger.
The king continued to speak, his passionate words lost on his implacable queen. “Seeing Rāma departed for the forest and Sītā weeping, I shall soon lose my life. You may then carry on all the affairs of state along with your son as the undisputed ruler. I have always seen you as my devoted and chaste wife. That was my mistake! Inveigled by your empty inducements, I have long held you close. Now you have finally killed me, even as a hunter kills a deer after enticing it with melodious music.”
Daśaratha saw that Kaikeyi was not to be swayed from her purpose. His anxiety intensified. In his anger and confusion he began to blame himself. Surely the whole world would condemn him for sacrificing his sinless son for the sake of a sinful woman. This terrible turn of events could only be the result of his own wicked acts in some previous life. He sat with his head in his hands, crying softly as he spoke.
“I lament only for the sake of those who will suffer for my sake when I perform the evil act of exiling Rāma. For having deprived a son like Rāma of fatherly affection, all honest men will rightly revile me in the following words: ‘Alas, this old and foolish king, being bound by lust for his favorite queen, could even reject his dearest son!’”
Unable to contain his grief, Daśaratha lamented loudly for a long time. Censuring Kaikeyi and calling upon her to have compassion on her fellow queens, on Sītā and on the citizens of Ayodhya, he tried in many ways to change her mind. Kaikeyi remained adamant. The king then began to realize the inevitability of Rāma’s departure. He spoke to his queen in complete dismay.
“The very moment I ask Rāma to depart He will leave, being fully obedient to my order. I shall then be left, cast into the deepest despair with my life’s breath quickly expiring. Upon reaching heaven I shall be censured even by the gods for my vicious behavior. You too will earn unending infamy, O lady of wicked resolve. None shall praise you for causing the virtuous and highly popular Rāma to be sent into the wilderness.”
Daśaratha practically writhed in pain as he thought of Rāma leaving for the forest. That gentle prince was accustomed to ride upon the finest chariots and elephants. How would He roam the forest on foot? Every day Rāma was served by numerous royal cooks, competing to offer Him every fine dish. How could he subsist on wild fruits and roots? How could his son put on the coarse garments of the forest dwellers, having always been clad in the costliest of robes? The emperor, devastated, shook with grief. He felt his life slipping away.
Gazing at Kaikeyi, who he now saw as his mortal enemy, Daśaratha said, “O wicked woman, it is a wonder that on speaking such cruel and vicious words your teeth do not shatter into a thousand pieces and fall from your mouth. When Rāma goes to the forest, Death will surely take me. I will be condemned by all men. Kaushalya and Sumitra will then be cast into abject sorrow and will likely follow me to Death’s abode. Having inflicted such miseries upon us, and being left alone with your son to rule over this world, what other indescribable pains will you give to the remaining people, who are all so loved by me?”
Although Daśaratha had no intentions of asking Rāma to leave, he knew his devoted son would depart immediately upon realizing his father’s predicament. The king tried one last desperate plea to Kaikeyi. “Even if, upon my failing to exile my son, you are ready to swallow poison, throw yourself into fire or hang yourself, I shall by no means banish Rāma. You have disgraced your family and are intent upon destroying mine. I shall never accede to your ruthless request. O malicious queen, abandon now your evil desire! I fall helpless at your feet. Come to your senses and be gracious to me, who has always been your well-wishing protector.”
Exhausted by grief, Daśaratha sank to the floor like a man gripped by an illness, his hands stretched out to the feet of his queen.
The unflinching Kaikeyi, who had given up all affection for her husband, saw that her ends were still not achieved. Convinced by Manthara of the king’s ill intentions towards her, with her intelligence further confused by the gods, Kaikeyi could not accept Daśaratha’s entreaties. In a disdainful and harsh voice, she addressed the fallen monarch. “Where now is your honor, O king? Your claim that you adhere to truth is simply an empty boast! Are you to withdraw the boons previously promised to me and further sworn on this very spot? Fulfill my boons as you vowed and protect your far- reaching fame!”
Daśaratha, unconscious, could not reply. After some time he revived and looked upon his queen’s face. From her cold expression it was obvious that she was not in the least assuaged. The grief-stricken monarch gazed up at the clear night sky. He prayed to Nidra, the night goddess, to stay for-ever. How could he face the dawn, bringing as it would Rāma’s departure? Daśaratha sat weeping, continuously repeating Rāma’s name.
Kaikeyi spoke impassively. “I have only asked you to fulfill your promise to me, O king. Why then do you now lie down dejected? The path of morality has been clearly shown by your ancestors. Proceed upon that path now, O truthful one, and send Rāma away!”
The educated Kaikeyi, knowing her husband to be devoted to religion and piety, invoked the codes of morality. “Those men who understand right from wrong declare truthfulness as the highest virtue. I simply urge you to act upon truthfulness alone, O king, and do your duty. Truth is the support of all the worlds, the eternal Vedas represent truth, virtue itself is rooted in truth and truth sustains all beings. By following truth one attains the supreme. Therefore set your mind on truth, O king, and grant my prayer: banish Rāma to the forest.”
Kaikeyi stood up amid her strewn ornaments. Her eyes flashed as she made her final demand to the king. “Three times you promised and therefore three times I ask you. Fulfill my wish to see my son installed on the throne and send Rāma away to the woods. This alone will satisfy me and save me from giving up my life, after seeing you abandon your honor.”
As the unscrupulous Kaikeyi maintained her pressure on him, Daśaratha could see no means to escape from his avowed word. With great difficulty he controlled himself, drawing upon his reserves of fortitude. His heart burned with unbearable anguish as he looked through tear-dimmed eyes at Kaikeyi. How could he any longer consider her his wife? She was fit to be rejected. Her name should never again be associated with his. No one should call her the queen of Daśaratha.
The king spoke fiercely. “O perverted woman, here and now do I disown your hand, which I formerly clasped in the presence of the sacred fire and with the utterances of holy mantras. Now the night has passed and soon the people will joyfully urge me to install Rāma. However, as at your insistence I shall this day surely breathe my last, Rāma should be made to offer the last rites to my departed soul. O woman of evil conduct, you should make no offerings to me, for I fully reject you today.”
Kaikeyi fumed. What use were these empty words? Her husband had already rejected her when he favored Kaushalya. She addressed the king in piercing words. “Why do you say such scathing and hurtful things, O monarch? I merely ask that you give me what you have already promised. Summon now your son Rāma and give up this needless agonizing. Do your duty and stand fast to virtue!”
Like a first-class horse lashed with a whip, Daśaratha controlled his mind and righteously responded to Kaikeyi’s words. “Bound with the strong cords of morality, I am helpless. My judgment fails me, and in this evil hour I seek the refuge of Rāma. Bring my gentle son before me.”
The king fainted away, exhausted with grief and his futile efforts to change his wife’s mind.
1.7: Rāma Agrees to Depart
Towards the end of night, Vasiṣṭha, accompanied by numerous disciples, hastily entered Ayodhya from his hermitage outside the city. He went along the well-swept and watered streets, all thronging with citizens eagerly awaiting Rāma’s installation. Crossing the outer courtyard of the king’s palace, which was decorated all over with rows of flags, he approached Daśaratha’s inner chambers. The ṛṣi saw the courtyard crowded with large numbers of Brahmins reciting sacred hymns from the Vedas. Upon reaching the palace gate he was met by Sumantra, who prostrated himself before the sage and then immediately left to inform Daśaratha of his arrival.
As he passed through the palace and approached the inner chambers, Sumantra was entirely ignorant of his master’s present plight. He composed in his mind pleasing prayers with which to greet the king, who was dearer to him than his own father. The guards informed Sumantra that the king was in Kaikeyi’s chambers and, as he arrived at her door, he began to loudly recite those prayers. “Even as the sun, which sustains all beings, arouses the world, arise now, O Emperor, like the sun rising from the eastern hills. As Mātali, the minister of Indra, extolled his master who then rose up and conquered the demons, so do I now extol you to rise up and do your duty, O lord. All of us await you with joined palms. The glorious sage Vasiṣṭha has arrived with other sages and stands ready to perform the sacred installation ceremony of Rāma. Order us now to proceed, O mighty monarch.”
Hearing Sumantra speaking at the door, Daśaratha became overwhelmed with sorrow once more. He went to his charioteer and embraced him. The king looked at Sumantra with eyes reddened with grief. “Today, O Sumantra, your well-chosen words only pierce my heart with pain.” Daśaratha’s happiness had ended. He could not say anything more and simply stood with tears flowing down his face.
Sumantra was unable to fathom the cause of the king’s sadness. He stepped back with tightly joined palms. This was strange. Surely this was the happiest day of Daśaratha’s life. For so long he had desired a successor. At last his desire was about to be fulfilled.
Seeing the mystified Sumantra, Kaikeyi said, “The king has remained awake the entire night, considering Rāma’s installation. Sleeplessness has made him unwell. He wishes now to see his son. Therefore bring Rāma here.”
The intelligent minister looked at Daśaratha. Something was surely wrong. On such a momentous occasion why was the king not himself going to fetch Rāma? Daśaratha saw his minister’s confusion. Reassuring him, the king told him to fetch Rāma. Sumantra considered then that his master might just be exhausted from the preparations for the installation. Saying “It shall be done,” he bowed low and left for Rāma’s palace.
Meanwhile the priests were making ready all the items required for the ceremony. Around a beautifully carved and adorned wooden seat were arranged many gold pitchers filled with water from all the sacred rivers, ready to anoint Rāma. Above the seat was a large white umbrella which shone like the full moon on a clear night. Excellent musicians played melodies appropriate to the mood, while Brahmins chanted Vedic texts meant to invoke good fortune. The brilliant sun rose in a clear sky and everyone eagerly awaited the arrival of the king and his son.
Sumantra reached Rāma’s palace, which was as splendid as Mount Kailāsa. Secured with oak doors fifty feet tall, and embellished with hundreds of balconies, its main facade was adorned with gold images studded with innumerable gems. The outer gateway was constructed of coral worked with gold and embedded with large precious stones of every description. As Sumantra passed through that gateway he was greeted by delightful music and the aroma of various incenses. Peacocks and cranes crowded the courtyard, which was graced with blossoming trees and bushes.
Sumantra descended from his chariot and entered the palace, which was in no way inferior to the palace of Kuvera, the god of riches. Enlivened by simply seeing that palace, Sumantra passed through three entrances, each guarded by powerful young warriors wielding spears and bows. Rāma was as dear to him as his own life and his heart pounded with joy as he approached the inner chambers. The corridors through the palace were cool and delightful, decorated with fine wood carvings and lit by the luster of thousands of celestial gems. Arriving at the gate to Rāma’s personal quarters, Sumantra asked the doorkeepers there to inform Rāma of his arrival. Rāma, who was alone with Sītā, immediately instructed that Sumantra be shown into His room.
Sumantra went before Rāma, whom he found seated upon a gold couch, being fanned gently with a whisk by Sītā. Richly adorned with costly garments and smeared with crimson sandal-paste, Rāma seemed to shine like the midday sun. He smiled affectionately at Sumantra, who fell prostrate on the ground, offering prayers. Rising up with folded hands, the minister said, “Most blessed is Kaushalya for having had You as her son. Your father, along with Queen Kaikeyi, now desires to see You. Be pleased to go there without delay.”
Rāma looked at Sītā and said, “Surely My father is speaking with his queen about My installation. I think the blessed Kaikeyi, always favorable to My father, must even now be urging the king to make haste with the ceremony, knowing as she does how much the emperor longs for its completion. As he has sent his most trusted messenger to fetch Me, the king along with his most beloved queen undoubtedly wish to bless Me that My installation will proceed without impediment.”
Rāma rose to leave and the dark-eyed and lovely Sītā invoked divine blessings upon Him. Following Her husband to the gate She said, “After installing You as Prince Regent, the king should, in course of time, consecrate You as the ruler of this world, even as Brahmā installed Indra as the ruler of the gods. I wish to serve You in that state. May the great deities Indra, Yamarāja, Varuṇa and Kuvera, the guardians of the four quarters, guard You from every side.”
Along with Sumantra, Rāma went out from His palace quarters as a mighty mountain lion might emerge from his cave. Rāma saw Lakṣman standing at the first gate, bent low with joined palms. At the middle gate Rāma met His friends and relations and He greeted them all according to their status, offering obeisances or embracing them.
Within the courtyard Rāma mounted upon a golden chariot, which shone like fire and was covered over with white tiger skins, and had thousands of small golden bells hanging from its sides. The charioteer spurred on the tall steeds, which were as powerful as young elephants, and the chariot moved away swiftly with a deep rumbling. As the outer gates swung open, Rāma’s chariot came out from the palace like the moon emerging from behind a cloud.
Rāma went along the main road, preceded by a platoon of mailed warriors wearing swords and carrying bows. The prince sat peacefully while Lakṣman fanned Him. He smiled at the people who thronged the streets in the thousands. His chariot was followed by great elephants resembling moving mountains. Thousands of horsemen brought up the rear. Poets and singers chanted Rāma’s praises to the accompaniment of divine music echoing in the heavens. Mixed with these sounds were the shouts of the warriors, which resembled the roaring of lions.
On the balconies and at the windows of the mansions lining the roads stood women who showered Rāma on all sides with flowers. The ladies also praised Sītā, saying, “Surely that godly lady has performed the highest penances to have been blessed with this great hero Rāma as Her husband.”
The citizens, seeing Rāma pass by, uttered blessings. “May victory attend You!” they cried out. Others were heard to say, “Here goes Rāma, who will today inherit the royal fortune. Fortunate too are we who will soon be ruled by Him.”
Being extolled everywhere, Rāma rode down the highway, which was lined with white houses appearing like clouds and with shops filled with abundant produce of every variety. The streets were strewn with jewels and with grains of rice and blades of sacred kusha grass. Brahmins made offerings of ghee lamps and incense to Rāma as He passed, invoking divine blessings and saying, “We would renounce every worldly happiness simply to see Rāma coming out of the palace as Prince Regent today. Indeed, even liberation itself is not so desirable.”
None could turn away their eyes or mind from Rāma as He went along the road in Ayodhya. Everyone looking upon Rāma also felt that He was glancing at them. Gradually Rāma and His entourage arrived at Daśaratha’s palace. Rāma passed through the three outer gates on His chariot and then got down and passed through the last two gates on foot. He politely sent back all those persons who had followed Him, even though they found it difficult to part from Him. At last Rāma reached the inner chambers alone and approached Kaikeyi’s rooms.
As He entered the rooms, Rāma saw the afflicted king seated with Kaikeyi on a golden couch. He bowed at His father’s feet, then laid himself low before Kaikeyi, His mind fully composed. Daśaratha appeared dejected and distressed, his face streaked with tears. He sat burning with agony and repeatedly sighing, appearing like the eclipsed sun or like a holy Brahmin who has told a lie. Seeing his son standing before him with a modest demeanor and folded palms, the monarch said only, “Rāma,” and could not say another word, being overcome by grief.
Rāma was seized with apprehension to see His father in that unusual state. Like the ocean at the rising of the full moon, Rāma became agitated. He was devoted to the king and was saddened to see him so sorrowful. How was it that on such a day His father did not greet Him? Even when angry he would always rise to bless his son. Why was he now remaining seated, looking downwards and weeping silently? Rāma went before Kaikeyi, who sat at a distance from the king, and addressed her alone.
“O godly lady, pray tell Me the reason for My father’s distress,” Rāma asked gently. “Even though always affectionate to Me, why does he not greet Me today? Have I unwittingly committed some offense? Is the king angry with Me for My having failed in some way to respect him?”
Kaikeyi remained silent and Rāma continued. “I hope no suffering caused by illness or mental anguish has afflicted My father. Truly it is said that everlasting happiness cannot be had in this world. I hope I have not offended anyone dear to the king. If I were unable to please My father or if I failed to do his bidding and thus angered him, I would not survive even for an hour. What wretched man would not devotedly serve his father, a veritable god to him on earth, to whom he owes his own birth in this world?”
Understanding from Kaikeyi’s taut expression that there was tension between her and His father, Rāma said, “Perhaps My father has been hurt by some utterance of yours, O fair-faced queen, made out of vanity or anger. My dear Kaikeyi, please inform Me of the cause of this unprecedented disturbance to the emperor, for I am very curious.”
Upon hearing this question from the high-minded Rāma, Kaikeyi, who had become impudent and was thinking only of her own interests, replied boldly, “The emperor is neither angry nor anguished, O Rāma. However, there is something on his mind which he will not disclose for fear of hurting You, his beloved son. Having made a promise to me, the king now repents and wishes to retract his word, just like any other common man. The ever-truthful monarch wants to build a dam across a stream whose waters have already flowed away. Truth is the root of piety. This is known to the righteous. O Rāma, take care lest the king loses now his piety for Your sake, angry as he is with me.”
Looking into Rāma’s apprehensive eyes, Kaikeyi said, “If You will undertake to do whatever the king may ask, be it good or bad for You, then I shall explain everything. I shall speak out the king’s promise only as long as it shall not fail because of You; but the king himself will not in any event tell You.”
Rāma was distressed to hear Kaikeyi speaking in this way. Within the hearing of the emperor He replied to her, “Alas, how shameful it is that I should hear words expressing doubt about My devotion to My father! You should never think this, O glorious lady. At My father’s command I would this very moment leap into blazing fire, swallow a deadly poison or plunge into the depths of the ocean. Therefore tell Me, My dear mother, what is on your mind? By My avowed word I shall without doubt do whatever is desired by the king. Know that Rāma’s word is always truth!”
Seeing the king mute and the guileless Rāma prepared to carry out her desire, Kaikeyi felt her purposes all but accomplished. In an unkind voice she revealed her wicked intentions to Rāma.
“It is well known how I once saved the king’s life and how, as a result, he granted me a couple of boons. Against those boons I solicited today a promise from the king to fulfill my desire. I wish for Bharata to be installed in Your place and for You to go to the forest, remaining there for fourteen years. O descendant of emperors, prove true to Your word and to that of Your father. Indeed, rescue the king from the ignominy of impiety and leave without delay. Let Bharata be duly consecrated with all the paraphernalia arranged for You. While He remains here to rule this wide and prosperous earth, You shall remain for fourteen years in some distant forest, wearing matted locks and the barks of trees.”
The king cried out in pain as Kaikeyi spoke. Rāma stood by without showing any emotion as the queen continued. “Overcome by compassion for You, this monarch cannot even look at Your face. O Rāma, ornament of Your line, make good his promise and deliver him from his difficult and awkward situation!”
Even though Kaikeyi uttered such cruel words, Rāma did not yield to grief. The king, however, felt increasing agony as he thought about his impending separation from Rāma. He listened in silence as Rāma replied to Kaikeyi, “So be it! To honor My father’s promise I shall put on the dress of an ascetic and depart forthwith for the forest. You need entertain no doubt in this regard, O queen. Why, though, does not My father greet Me as before? I could never transgress his order, even as the ocean, by the order of the Supreme Lord, can never transgress its shores.”
Rāma looked across at His father, who could not return His glance. The king kept his head down and wept softly. Rāma turned back to Kaikeyi. “Ordered only by you, O Kaikeyi, I would joyfully part with, in favor of Bharata, not only the kingdom but also all My personal property, My wedded wife Sītā and even My own beloved Self. How much more gladly would I part with these things when ordered by My father, the emperor himself, in order to please you and honor his pledge? Please reassure My afflicted father, for seeing him sitting there shedding tears pains Me greatly. He may feel assured that I shall immediately enact his desire without feeling any sorrow at all. Let swift horses be sent for Bharata. Without questioning My father’s command I shall now quickly proceed to the forest!”
The ignoble Kaikeyi then rejoiced at heart. Confident that Rāma would soon leave, she urged Him to hurry. “Let it be so!” she exclaimed. “Messengers may leave immediately to fetch Bharata from His uncle’s kingdom. You should not wait a moment, O Rāma, lest some impediment presents itself. Keen as You are to depart, leave right now. Do not be concerned for the king’s silence, for he is too shy to ask You himself. Let this apprehension be banished from Your mind and make haste. As long as You have not left, the king will take neither food nor water.”
Drawing a deep sigh with the words, “Alas, how very painful,” the king collapsed unconscious on the couch. Rāma gently placed His cool hands on His father’s forehead and raised him up. The prince was again urged on by Kaikeyi. Turning towards her, Rāma said, “I have no desire to live in this world as a slave to material gains. Like the ṛṣis I am devoted only to righteousness. I will always do whatever is agreeable to My adorable father, even at the cost of My life. The greatest piety lies in serving one’s father. Indeed, O gentle lady, greater still is service to the mother, according to sacred texts. Surely you do not see any good points in Me, O princess of Kekaya, as you felt it necessary to ask such a minor thing of My father. Your request alone would have sufficed. I shall go to a lonely forest and live there for fourteen years. Please bear with Me only as long as it takes for Me to take leave of My other mothers and to gain the agreement of Sītā. Try to ensure that Bharata protects the kingdom and serves His aged father, for this is the eternal morality.”
Unable to speak due to grief, Daśaratha wept aloud. Rāma bowed low at the feet of His royal father and also before the hard-hearted Kaikeyi. He was moved by acute sorrow but He kept it within Himself, showing no external sign. Joining His palms and circumambulating His father and stepmother, Rāma departed.
He then made His way towards Kaushalya’s rooms. Lakṣman, hearing from Rāma of the turn of events, followed close behind, His eyes brimming with tears. Reaching the room where the installation was to be performed, Rāma respectfully went around the royal seat without casting His eyes upon it. Despite His renouncing the rulership of the world, no change of mood could be perceived in Rāma, any more than in a perfect yogī who has completely transcended all dualities.
Forbidding the use of the royal umbrella which was offered Him as he left, as well as the pair of beautiful royal whisks, Rāma sent away His ministers, His chariot and the citizens. The news of Rāma’s impending exile had spread quickly and the people were shocked and dismayed. By mastery over His mind and senses Rāma controlled His own agony upon seeing the people’s sadness. He exhibited His normal peaceful demeanor and approached Kaushalya’s apartments. He was followed by Lakṣman, who, seeing His brother equipoised, was strenuously controlling His own emotions. Rāma smiled softly. He was as dear to His relatives as their own lives and He did not wish to display any feelings which would cause them pain.
As he entered Kaushalya’s quarters a loud and pathetic cry came from the ladies. “Alas, here is that Rāma who has served all of us exactly as He did His own mother. Today He will leave for the forest. How could the foolish king exile the harmless Rāma and thus bring ruin to the world?”
Hearing from a distance the piteous wail, Daśaratha shrank with shame and hid his head beneath the silken sheets on his couch. Rāma went towards Kaushalya’s room. He carefully maintained His composure, although He felt agonised at seeing the suffering of His relatives. As He approached the outer entrance of Kaushalya’s apartment He saw many doorkeepers seated and standing there. They quickly flocked around Rāma, uttering blessings on the young prince. At the middle entrance Rāma was greeted by elderly Brahmins who were constantly reciting Vedic hymns. Bowing low before them, Rāma entered and came to the inner door where He was led into Kaushalya’s chamber by her personal maidservants.
1.8: Grief and Fury
Kaushalya had spent the night in undisturbed prayer and penance on behalf of her son. She was unaware of His meeting with the king and Kaikeyi. Rāma found her seated before the sacrificial fire, surrounded by Brahmins making offerings to Viṣṇu. She was clad in white silk and, although fatigued by fasting, she still appeared most beautiful. Upon seeing Rāma bowing at her feet, she rose up joyfully to embrace and bless Him. “May You attain the age and fame of the virtuous royal sages who have gone before You in our line. Sit with me a little and take breakfast, then go to Your father, the ever-truthful monarch, for today he will install You as the Prince Regent.”
Kaushalya offered Rāma a bejeweled seat next to her, but He merely touched it in respect and said, “O godly lady, surely you do not know that a great calamity has now arrived. What I am going to tell you will cause you unprecedented pain, even as it will My beloved wife Sītā. I am about to leave for the forest; therefore, what need have I of this fine seat? The time has arrived for Me to occupy a mat made of forest grasses. Indeed, in accord with a promise already made to My father, I shall inhabit a lonely forest region, living on fruits and roots. How then can I partake of this royal fare you offer? The emperor will install Bharata as Prince Regent and has exiled Me to the forest, to live like a hermit for fourteen years.”
Kaushalya at once fell down, like a tree severed at its root. Her mind confused, she lay on the floor like a goddess fallen from heaven. Rāma quickly lifted her, gently stroking her face with His hand. Kaushalya slowly regained her senses. Struck with agony, she looked at Rāma, who was controlling His own grief. She knew beyond doubt that her son could not possibly have spoken falsely, nor was He given to flippancy or jest. His words were certainly true and they pierced her heart.
Clasping Rāma’s hand in hers, she spoke in a choked voice. “For a long time I suffered the terrible pain of being childless, O beloved son. Surely the feeling of being without issue is a grief that consumes a barren woman. Before Your birth every effort your father made to please me was futile, O Raghava, for I longed only for a child. Your birth ended that pain, but now I fear that an even greater suffering has arrived.”
Kaushalya could not bear the thought of separation from Rāma. She held Him tightly as she spoke. “Separation from You will rend my heart in two. That pain will be compounded by the cruel words of a junior wife. What could be more painful for a woman? Unending grief and lamentation has become my lot. Even with You by my side I have been despised; what then will be my fate when You are gone, O dear child? Surely I shall soon die.”
Kaushalya thought how she had always been neglected by her husband in favor of Kaikeyi. With Bharata enthroned she would be entirely abandoned. For twenty-seven years she had watched Rāma grow to manhood, awaiting the day when He would assume the throne and end her woes. How could she any longer suffer Kaikeyi’s scorn? Now Rāma, her only solace, was leaving. It seemed her prayers were all in vain. Her fasts and meditations were useless. What was the value of all her self-discipline and sacred observances? Rather than becoming the king, her son was being cast away. Kaushalya condemned herself.
“Surely my heart is hard like steel, for it does not shatter upon hearing this terrible news. Death will not take one before the proper time or else I should have certainly gone immediately to the court of Yamarāja, the great lord of death. If by one’s own sweet will one could meet with death, then in Your absence I would depart this very day. Without You, O Rāma, life will be useless. Therefore, like a cow following its calf, I shall definitely go with You to the forest.”
Wailing in this way Kaushalya contemplated the calamity about to befall her. Rāma was duty bound to His father and would never oppose his order. He would certainly leave without delay. Unable to bear her suffering, Kaushalya collapsed sobbing onto a couch.
Lakṣman stood nearby, writhing in pain. This situation was intolerable. How could Rāma accept it? Why did He not do something? Unable to repress His tumultuous anger, Lakṣman spoke furiously to Kaushalya. “I also find Rāma’s imminent departure to be unacceptable, O glorious lady. Rāma should never relinquish the royal fortune for any cause. Perverted by the words of a woman, the king has lost his good sense. He is desirous of sensual enjoyments and has been overpowered by lust and senility. What will he not say, urged on by the sinful Kaikeyi? To desire the banishment of the powerful Rāma is nothing short of madness. What vice or offense can be found in Rāma? There is no man in this world, even if he be Rāma’s deadly enemy, who could find in Him any fault, even in His absence. What man who respects virtue would forsake such a son, who is equal to the gods, disciplined and kindly disposed even to His enemies? What son would heed such a command from a father who has abandoned righteousness?”
Lakṣman’s furious voice resounded around the chamber. If the king would not give Rāma the kingdom, then it should be taken by force. He would stand by His brother with bow in hand, exhibiting His valor. Let anyone who dared try to prevent the installation of Rāma! He would hold off the entire city of Ayodhya should they oppose Rāma. Whoever supported Bharata would find himself slain by Lakṣman. This situation called for strong action. Why should They accept it meekly? Lakṣman tightly gripped the bow hanging from His shoulder and turned to His brother.
“If, at Kaikeyi’s instigation, our father acts like an enemy, then he should be made captive or even killed without compunction. The scriptures make clear that even a father or a preceptor can be rejected if they lose their discrimination, failing to distinguish between right and wrong. On what authority has the king sought to confer the kingdom upon Kaikeyi’s son when it rightfully belongs to You?”
Breathing hot, heavy sighs, Lakṣman turned back to Kaushalya and assured her that Rāma would be installed as king. He held up His bow. “O godly lady, I swear by My bow that I am truly devoted to Rāma with the whole of My heart. If Rāma enters into blazing fire or retires to the forest, know that I have already done the same. I shall dispel your sorrow by means of My arms even as the sun dispels the morning mist. Let your royal highness along with Rāma witness today My valor. I shall kill my aged and wretched father who, as a result of senility, has entered his second childhood in Kaikeyi’s association.”
Lakṣman stood blazing like fire, yet Rāma remained calm and composed. Kaushalya, weeping, spoke to her son. “Having heard Your brother Lakṣman, who has raised pertinent and proper arguments, consider now what ought to be done. You should not obey the unjust command of Kaikeyi, leaving me here to grieve.”
Kaushalya knew Rāma would act only according to moral laws. He would never be swayed by sentiment to deviate from scriptural codes. She called upon Rāma as his mother. “Dear son, do I not deserve the same obedience as you offer to the king? Is service to the mother not an even higher virtue than service to the father? I cannot allow you to leave, nor could I live in your absence. If you leave I will take a vow to fast until death. You will then be guilty of killing your own mother.”
The queen cried piteously, trying again and again to convince Rāma not to leave. Rāma burned with anguish to hear His mother her express her feelings, but keeping His mind under control, He spoke to her in a gentle voice. “I do not feel able to flout My father’s command, and therefore I wish to enter the forest. The order of one’s father is no less than the order of the Supreme Lord. It cannot be transgressed if one wishes to acquire virtue in this world. The king is not ordering Me to do anything sinful. By obeying his command I shall be following the path of morality, which has ever been followed by pious men. I only desire to do what is right, never otherwise. For as long as one does the bidding of his father, he is never overcome by evil.”
Rāma turned towards Lakṣman and admonished Him, speaking in soft but firm tones. “I know Your unsurpassed love for Me, as well as Your strength of arms, which cannot be easily withstood, O noble prince. My gentle mother does not deeply understand the imports of morality and is thus experiencing great agony. My father’s command is rooted in righteousness and is therefore worthy of being obeyed. Indeed I have already given My word to honor his order. I cannot break My pledge. Since I have been commanded by Kaikeyi according to My father’s promise, O valiant prince, how can I, knowing well the path of piety, neglect that command? Therefore give up this unworthy thought of overthrowing the king. Stand firm on righteousness alone and do not give way to anger and a display of strength. Accept My resolution to follow the royal order.”
Rāma went before His mother and knelt down with folded hands, bowing His head low. He was as devoted to Kaushalya as He was to Daśaratha and did not want to leave without her consent. He again asked her permission to depart. Rāma swore on His life that after the fourteen years had passed He would return and remain in Ayodhya as her devoted servant. He asked her not to yield to sorrow. In accord with the eternal laws of morality she should serve the king. He also desired to follow the path of piety. For that reason He was anxious to leave for the forest in compliance with His father’s order. She should not try to prevent Him.
Hearing His request, Kaushalya felt impassioned. How could her son abandon her in this way? She had always carefully observed her duty as a mother. She was always affectionate towards Rāma. Surely Rāma realized that she would die if He left her now. In a last attempt to change His mind the queen spoke in spirited tones. “As your mother, I do not grant You leave to depart. Am I not as venerable to You as Your father? O Rāma, I cannot face the thought of Your leaving. In Your absence I care not for either life or death. What will be the value of life to me without You, whether it be in this world or in heaven? Your presence for even an hour is more preferable to me than the possession of heaven and earth combined.”
As his mother wailed piteously, Rāma only became all the more desirous to escape, even as a lordly elephant would want to escape when surrounded by men goading it with firebrands towards a trap. Fixed in His determination to do his duty, He replied, “I feel that both you, My dear mother, and the powerful Lakṣman have not properly understood My mind. Thus both of you harass me most painfully. Happiness in this world is temporary and ultimately illusory. Only the foolish think themselves to be the body composed of material elements and thus seek sensual happiness. This body, along with its relations and all its sensual joys, exists for only a few moments. The real self is the eternal soul dwelling in the heart, whose happiness lies only in the pursuit of a godly life.”
Both Kaushalya and Lakṣman listened silently as Rāma spoke eternal spiritual truths. He described how association of friends and relatives was exactly like the coming together of sticks floating in a river. They are thrown together and very soon parted by the swift current of time. Therefore one’s happiness should never depend upon such ephemeral relationships. One should give up all attachment for the body and fix the mind only upon the eternal Supreme Lord, whose order is represented by superiors such as the king. This would bring everlasting happiness. Rāma concluded, “How then can I abandon the righteous path of following My father’s command simply out of attachment for either the kingdom or My relatives?”
Rāma reassured them that he was not at all disturbed to be leaving for the forest. He responded to the suggestion that Daśaratha was acting against the codes of morality. “The king has adhered to virtue even at the cost of his own desires and happiness. Suffering intense pain, he is prepared to abandon his beloved son for the sake of truthfulness. My dear mother, it is he who is always your shelter and means of happiness in both this and the other world. You should therefore remain by his side and serve him. Pray grant Me leave to go to the forest. I shall never accept the rulership of the earth through unrighteousness.”
Rāma stopped speaking and approached the anguished Lakṣman, who was still incensed with His father and Kaikeyi. Lakṣman stood with His eyes open wide in rage, like an infuriated elephant. Rāma gently restrained His devoted brother. “Control now Your anger and grief, O Lakṣman. Take courage and overlook this seeming offense to Myself. Experience instead the joy of assisting Our father to increase his virtue by implementing his pledge. Gentle brother, please send back all the items gathered for My consecration today. Reassure My mother and help Me prepare for My departure.”
Rāma placed His hand on Lakṣman’s shoulder. He was pained to see His brother’s distress, but He had no intention of challenging His father. He had to vindicate the king’s honor. As long as He remained in Ayodhya the king would suffer the pain of seeing his truthfulness questioned. Only when Rāma had left for the forest, clad in deerskins and wearing matted locks, would Kaikeyi be satisfied and the king’s word redeemed.
Lakṣman looked at the ground. He was burning with the thought of the terrible injustice about to be done to His brother, but He could not possibly defy Rāma’s desire. Rāma put His arm around Lakṣman’s shoulder and spoke reassuringly. “All this should be seen as the will of Providence, which can never be flouted. No blame should be attached to Kaikeyi, for it was Providence alone who moved her to make her request to Our father. How could she have ever decided to send Me away? She has always treated Me exactly as has My own mother, Kaushalya. Surely she was prompted by Providence to say to the king those terrible words, giving him such grief. I know her to be gentle and kind. She would never, like a vulgar woman, utter words intended to torment both Myself and Our father.”
Rāma felt no anger towards Kaikeyi and He did not want her to be blamed for what was, after all, a divine arrangement. He continued, “That which cannot be foreseen or understood must be accepted as the will of Providence alone. What man can ever contend with destiny? Joy and sorrow, gain and loss, birth and death—all of these come one after another by the arrangement of Providence or destiny. None can avoid them nor can anyone alter the strong course of destiny. When even the best laid plans go awry without any apparent cause, it is undoubtedly the work of Providence.”
Rāma smiled at Lakṣman whom He knew had spoken only out of love. He asked Him not to lament for that which was unavoidable, decreed by some unseen destiny. Lakṣman should not censure either Their father or Kaikeyi, as they were moved by superior forces. Rāma then asked that the sacred waters gathered for His installation be instead used to anoint Him at the inauguration of His vow of asceticism. He looked at His younger brother with affection. “Beloved Lakṣman, I will soon depart, for this is surely My destiny.”
Lakṣman stood with His head bent low, pondering His brother’s words. His mood swung between distress at Rāma’s impending exile and delight at His brother’s steadfast adherence to virtue. But He was still not fully convinced that it was right for Rāma to leave. Furrowing his brows, He hissed like an angry cobra in a hole. His frowning face appeared like that of a furious lion and was difficult to gaze upon. Violently shaking His head and arms, He said to Rāma, “Your steady devotion to duty is unequalled, O Rāma, but carefully consider its result in this case. By accepting the words of that wicked couple You are prepared to do something that is condemned by all people. I am surprised that You do not suspect the motives of Our father and Kaikeyi. If there were any truth in this story about the boons granted by the king, then why did Kaikeyi not seek their fulfillment long ago?”
Lakṣman accused the king of conspiring with Kaikeyi. Daśaratha must have surely lost his senses under the influence of lust. Along with the covetous Kaikeyi he had made a sinful plan, quite opposed to any morality. He concluded that the king’s authority was therefore fit to be rejected. “Please forgive my intolerance, O Raghava, but I cannot accept Your present piety, which impels You to take as fate this evil turn of events. Nor can I accept that destiny is supreme.”
Lakṣman was a heroic and powerful warrior. His face turned crimson as he went on. Why should one acquiesce to a painful fate as if he is helpless? Only those who are cowardly and weak would trust in destiny alone, Lakṣman argued. The valiant always remain firm of mind. They never become disheartened when their purposes are thwarted by fate. Rather, they exert themselves with all power. Lakṣman stood before Rāma with His bow held high. “Today You shall see Me rushing at the enemy like an uncontrollable king of elephants! Not even all the gods united together will prevent Your consecration today. Those who support Your exile will find themselves either deprived of life or sent to the forest. I will dash the hopes of Our father and Kaikeyi. Anyone opposing Me will find no shelter in destiny as My fierce strength ruthlessly cuts him down!”
Lakṣman drew His sword and cleaved the air. He gave full vent to his rage. The right time for Rāma to retire to the forest had certainly not arrived. He should rule the globe for thousands of years. Only when His own sons were ready to take His place should He leave for the forest. That was the proper course of virtue. Lakṣman seemed about to consume the earth as He spoke.
“If You fear censure for the seemingly sinful act of rejecting father’s order, You should not worry. I shall personally guard You in every way and forcibly repel all those who object to Your accepting this kingdom, even as the coastline holds back the ocean! O Rāma, allow Yourself to be installed today. I alone am able to prevent any impediments to the ceremony. These arms of Mine are not meant simply to add to My attractiveness, nor is this bow a mere ornament, nor are My sword and quivers of arrows hanging on My body as badges of honor. All these are meant for crushing the enemy. Today You will see arrows released like incessant showers of rain. You will witness My sword flashing like lightning as it cuts down all those who stand before Me. The earth will be thickly covered with the arms, legs and heads of heroes. Hewn down by My sword, enemies will drop like so many meteors falling from the sky! While I stand on the battlefield with uplifted weapons how can any man alive be proud of his strength? Today I shall demonstrate the king’s helplessness and establish Your unopposed sovereignty! Tell Me which of Your enemies should this day be deprived of life, fame and relations? Instruct Me how to proceed so that this wide earth will be brought under Your control. O glorious lord of our race, I am here to do Your bidding alone.”
Rāma wiped away His brother’s angry tears. He knew Lakṣman was only speaking out his devotion to Him. Lakṣman knew that ultimately He had to follow Rāma. He knew Rāma could not possibly act against religion or morality. Nevertheless, in His pain He expressed His powerful feelings. Rāma perfectly understood Lakṣman’s mind and He comforted Him. “O gentle brother, You should know I am firmly obedient to My superiors’ command. This is the path trodden by the righteous. Be firm and control Your grief and anger. That will be the most pleasing to Me.”
Kaushalya realized her son was unshakeable in His determination to obey His father’s order. Tears streamed down her face. Who could believe this was happening? Rāma, the dearest son of the emperor, was being exiled to the dangerous jungle. How could that pious-minded and gentle boy live in such a fearful place? Destiny was surely supreme in a world where one like Rāma must retire to the forest. Kaushalya trembled with grief. She held her son’s head. “It is well known how a cow will follow her roaming calf. In the same way I shall follow You wherever You may go, for separation from You, my dearest son, will kill me.”
Rāma addressed His mother with love. “Betrayed by Kaikeyi and seeing Me leave for the forest, My father will surely not survive if he is also abandoned by you, O godly queen. It is sheer cruelty for a woman to desert her worthy husband. That should never even be contemplated, for it is always condemned. So long as the king lives you should render him service, for this is the eternal moral code. For a married woman the husband is her deity and her lord.”
Rāma knew His mother was fully aware of her religious duty, which she would never abandon. He spoke only to give her strength and reassurance. The queen listened in silence as Rāma, invoking the ancient religious codes, described the fate of a woman who does not serve her worthy husband. Even if she is devoted to fasts and sacred observances, she will become tainted by sin and suffer the reactions. On the other hand, a woman who devotedly serves her husband, even without any other religious practices, will reach the highest heaven.
Rāma folded His palms. “Therefore, O queen, remain devoted to the king and ensure that he does not suffer excessive grief. Leading a holy life, bide the time until I return. When you finally see Me duly installed as king and dedicated to your service, you shall achieve all that you desire.”
Although dismayed at the prospect of losing her son for fourteen years, the pious Kaushalya nevertheless felt delighted to hear His admonition. It was clear she could not change His carefully considered resolution to depart. Blinded by her tears she said, “Go then with my blessings, O heroic son. May good betide You always. My misery will end only when You again return from the forest and offer me words of consolation. If only that time were already arrived! Leave now with a steady mind, dear Rāma. Following in the footsteps of the righteous, repay Your debt to your father.”
Still in the grip of sorrow, Kaushalya began to worship the gods in order to invoke divine blessings for her son. Praying to each of the principal deities and asking that they guard Rāma from all dangers, she offered oblations of ghee into the sacred fire. As she finished her prayers, Rāma bowed before her and held her feet for some time, while she wept softly. Embracing Him tightly, Kaushalya said, “Please leave in peace, my child, and accomplish Your purpose. When at last I see You returned, as one would see the full moon appearing above the horizon, all my sorrow will be gone. Only when I see You ascend Your father’s throne, wearing the crown and clad in royal robes, will my heart’s desire be fulfilled. May all the gods protect you as you sojourn in the dreadful forest. Depart now, O Raghava, I wish you well!”
Rāma took leave of the grieving Kaushalya, who followed after Him with her eyes. He went out of her apartments feeling agony. Lakṣman, who had resigned himself to accept Rāma’s determination to depart, followed close behind.
1.9: Sītā’s Plea
Rāma moved along the royal highway towards Sītā’s quarters, praised by the many Brahmins who lined the road. Sītā still had not heard the news of Rāma’s impending exile and was eagerly awaiting Him, Her mind absorbed in thoughts of his installation. As Her husband entered the room She sprang from Her seat. Rāma had left Lakṣman outside and had gone alone to speak with Sītā. He was perplexed as He considered how to tell His wife the terrible news. Although striving to control His mind and contain His grief, Rāma’s face wore a pained expression and His head hung low.
Sītā was astonished to see Him in that state, His face pale and bathed in perspiration. Apprehensively She inquired, “What troubles You, my lord? Today is the auspicious and joyful day of Your installation, but You seem to be covered by the dark shadow of grief.”
Sītā asked Rāma why He was not accompanied by the royal servants carrying the white umbrella. Why was He not wearing regal dress or anointed with sandalwood paste after having gone through the inaugural ceremony? Where was the king and his ministers? What was happening?
Rāma steadied His mind and looked upon Sītā’s face. “My worshipable father has ordered Me to enter the forest for fourteen years’ exile. O most beautiful princess, according to Kaikeyi’s desire, My brother Bharata will be installed in My place. Indeed, in days gone by two boons were granted to Kaikeyi by My ever-truthful father. She has recalled the king’s debt now and placed him under his word to send Me away, conferring the office of Prince Regent upon the noble Bharata. In obedience to morality I shall therefore depart forthwith to the forest. I have come to see You on My way.”
Sītā shook like a tree caught in a gale. How could this be true? She listened with astonishment as Rāma continued. “O high-minded lady, please remain firm. In My absence You should take to fasts and prayer, remaining disciplined at all times. Worship and serve My father and mother who are both grieving deeply due to My separation from them. Sumitra and Kaikeyi should also be served by You, as should Bharata and Shatrughna, who are both as dear to Me as My own self. Be especially careful not to praise Me before Bharata, for men endowed with power and wealth cannot tolerate hearing others praised. Indeed, Bharata will be the king and should therefore be served by You with all attention, carefully avoiding any offense.”
Sītā was dumbfounded. She turned pale and Her eyes opened wide. She knew without doubt that Rāma meant what He said. The princess listened in horror as He instructed Her. Rāma told Her to remain living peacefully in Ayodhya under the protection of the emperor and Bharata, devoting Herself to righteousness and religion. Rāma Himself would leave immediately for the forest.
After hearing Rāma speak, the noble Sītā became indignant out of Her love for Her husband. Her cheeks flushed red and She replied angrily, “How have You uttered such words today, O lord? They are never worthy of one possessed of strength and weapons, who is capable of affording protection to the weak. Your advice is not worth hearing!”
Considering Rāma as Her only refuge, Sītā spoke strongly. She described how the father, mother, brother, or any other relation were never the shelter of a chaste woman with a husband. The wife should share her husband’s fortune under all circumstances. She stood in front of Rāma, Her eyes flashing as She continued, “I am enjoined by ancient religious codes to enter the forest along with You, dearest Rāma. I cannot possibly remain in Ayodhya! If You leave today for the forest, I shall walk before You, clearing away the sharp grasses and thorns on the path.”
Sītā assured Rāma that He could take Her anywhere with confidence. She would live happily under His protection and would prefer forest life with Him to residence in the richest palace or even heaven itself without Him. She had been trained in all the arts of service and was well prepared to accompany Him. “I need no further advice, O lord. Simply order Me to depart. Remaining with You in fragrant woodlands, I shall be as happy as I am now living in Your palace.”
Sītā felt pained that Rāma had not considered taking Her with Him. Raised in a line of warrior kings, the princess was not easily disturbed by difficulty. Again and again She exhorted Her husband to take Her to the forest. “Certainly You are capable of guarding Me from any danger. Indeed, none other can guard Me as You can, Rāma. Nor is it their sacred duty. I shall therefore go with You today. That is My fixed determination.”
Sītā was fond of the country. She imagined Herself alone with Rāma amid beautiful mountains, woods and lakes. Even if it was austere She would nevertheless prefer thousands of years spent with Her husband in this way than a single day without Him. She spoke Her deepest feelings. “I shall enter the forest at Your feet. I am exclusively devoted to You, My mind is ever attached to You and I am determined to die if disunited from You. Therefore grant My prayer and take Me with You today.”
Rāma considered the difficulty of living in the forest and He did not feel at all inclined to take Sītā with Him. He spoke gently to His dear wife, who had buried Her face in Her hands and was sobbing. “My dearest lady, You are born of a noble line and are always devoted to virtue. Practice that virtue and appease My mind, for I cannot bear to see You suffer. I shall now give You advice meant only for Your good, frail Sītā. Not only is there no joy in the fearful forest, but it is always fraught with misery. Simply by taking You there I would be neglecting My duty to protect You.”
Rāma described the forest where He had gone many times for hunting expeditions. There were numerous lions and other fierce beasts. Marshes and rivers abounded in crocodiles and other fierce aquatics. The forest paths were rugged and often impassable. Innumerable thorny trees and stinging bushes made traveling difficult. Sharp grasses grew everywhere. Hornets, gnats, scorpions, spiders and mosquitoes were always present, along with snakes and serpents of every kind. In the deep forest the darkness was dense. Furious winds often blew, lashing a traveler’s face with debris.
Rāma was determined to dissuade the gentle Sītā from following Him. “Exhausted after searching all day for food, one must lie down at night upon beds of dry leaves. Baths must be taken in lonely lakes which are the abode of serpents. By day and night the terrible pangs of hunger can be appeased only by one’s mind, for food is scarce. O princess, one is subjected to all kinds of illnesses and mental anguish. Anger, greed and fear must be completely controlled. A forest is certainly a place of terrible suffering; therefore, give up this idea of following me there. It is not a secure place for one such as You.”
Sītā’s determination remained unshaken. “All these dangers will be as nothing to Me if I am able to remain by Your side. I will in any event have no fear whatsoever with You as My protector. Even Indra will not be able to harm Me when You are with Me. What then of mere beasts? You have always instructed Me that a wife can never be independent from Her husband, O Rāma; indeed she is half of his very self. How then can I not accompany You?”
Sītā remembered how, when She was a young girl, an astrologer had predicted that She would one day have to live in the forest. Surely that time had arrived. She continued to plead with Rāma. Was this not an opportunity for Her to fulfill Her religious duty by following Him to the forest? Would not any other course be against virtue? The husband was the wife’s supreme deity. Sītā quoted the scriptures. A chaste woman who remained throughout life by her husband’s side surely attained the same destination as him after death. That was Her only desire, to be with Rāma always. Looking into Rāma’s eyes, She spoke in a piteous voice. “For what reason then, O great hero, will You leave Me behind? I who am devoted and faithful, who shares alike Your every pleasure and pain and who desires to follow the religious path? You should certainly bring Me with You; otherwise, being sorely afflicted, I shall resort to poison, fire or water in order to bring about My end.”
Although Sītā’s lamentations hurt Him, Rāma did not relent. He tried to pacify and reassure Her, but She only became all the more determined to accompany Him. Agitated at the thought of separation from Her husband, She taunted Him.
“Has My father Janaka obtained as My protector a woman in the form of a man? How, in Your absence, could I tolerate the people falsely saying, ‘It seems that strength and valor are lacking in Rāma, as He could not protect His own dear wife’? What fear has assailed You that You now desire to desert Me, although I remain entirely devoted to You? I will not cast My eyes on another man even in thought! How then can You even consider delivering Me for protection to another, O My lord?”
Sītā continued to beseech Rāma. She had no intention of remaining behind without Him under any circumstances. Be it heaven or hell, She could only be happy by Her husband’s side. Sītā gazed imploringly at Rāma as She begged Him to take Her with Him.
Rāma was agonized by the thought of leaving behind His beloved wife. He would miss Her. Still, He feared Her suffering in the forest. His heart ached as She cried out to Him.
“Without You heaven would be exactly as hell to Me, while with You hell would be the best of all abodes. How can I remain here under the control of those who are inimical to You and have sent You to the forest? If I must watch You leave without Me, then I shall drink poison this very day. I cannot bear the pain of separation from You for even an hour. How, then, shall I stand it for fourteen years? Take Me with You or let Me give up My life here and now in Your presence.”
Sītā’s beautiful face was streaked with tears, which fell continuously from Her dark eyes like drops of water from blue lotus flowers. Rāma embraced Her and gently wiped away Her tears. He was still apprehensive about taking Her, but He could not see Her endure the pain of His separation. She was already almost senseless from grief and He had not even left. What would happen to Her during fourteen years of His absence? Making up His mind to take Her with Him, He spoke to Her reassuringly.
“I would find no pleasure even in heaven if I obtained it at the cost of Your suffering, O most pious lady! Not knowing Your real feelings and being afraid that forest life would cause You pain, I discouraged You from following Me. I see now that destiny has decreed You should dwell with Me in the forest. Follow Me then, O princess, and I shall protect You in strict accord with the moral laws always followed by the virtuous.”
Rāma made clear His firm intention to go to the deep forest and remain there for the full duration. He wanted Sītā to have no doubt of what lay ahead. He was fixed in His determination to obey His parents’ command. How could one who disregarded elders and teachers ever hope to please God, who is not so easily seen or obtained? Earth, heaven and the kingdom of God can all be achieved by one who serves his mother, father and teacher. Explaining all this to His devoted wife, Rāma said, “Not even truthfulness, charity or sacrifice are comparable to serving one’s father and mother. This is the eternal religion. Pious men, devoted to serving their parents, reach the regions of the gods and beyond. I therefore desire to do exactly what My truthful father has enjoined. I shall go to the forest today. As I see that You are set on following Me, My resolve to leave You behind has weakened. O lady of bewitching eyes, I shall take You with Me and together We shall practice asceticism in the deep forest. I am pleased with You, Sītā. Your determination to serve Me in every circumstance is worthy of Your dynasty and it adds glory to Mine. Prepare to leave immediately! Give away all Your riches to the Brahmins and go with only a simple dress and no belongings. We shall soon depart.”
Sītā was overjoyed to hear Her husband’s agreement. Her face bloomed like a full-blown lotus. Excitedly She began following Rāma’s instructions, giving away all Her costly garments and jewels, as well as all the other riches in Her palace.
In the meantime Lakṣman, who had been waiting patiently outside Sītā’s apartments, saw Rāma coming out. He bowed down before Rāma and held His feet tightly. “If Your mind is set upon leaving for the forest, then take Me with You,” he implored. “I shall walk ahead of You holding My bow and guarding against all dangers. With joy I shall accompany You through beautiful woods resounding with the cries of wild animals. Without You I do not desire even the rulership of all the worlds.”
Lakṣman hoped Rāma would approve, but Rāma tried to dissuade Him. “My dearest Lakṣman, You are dearer to Me than life itself. Always affectionate, devoted to virtue and firm on the right path, You are My constant and most valued companion. Yet if You follow Me to the forest, who will be left to serve Your mother Sumitra and the illustrious Kaushalya?”
Rāma suggested that Kaikeyi would not be kind to her co-wives once her son obtained the kingdom. Bharata would be devoted to His own mother, Kaikeyi, and thus the other queens would be neglected. Therefore Lakṣman should remain in Ayodhya to care for Kaushalya and Sumitra. By serving Rāma’s elders, Lakṣman would demonstrate His devotion to Rāma. Rāma concluded, “Incomparably great religious merit will be earned by You, O noble Lakṣman, and Our mothers will be saved from suffering.”
Lakṣman was not inclined to accept Rāma’s advice. How could He live without Rāma? In soft but firm words He argued that Bharata and Shatrughna were both devoted to Rāma. They would therefore serve all of Rāma’s elders equally. Lakṣman promised His brother, “If somehow They become proud and arrogant upon attaining the kingdom, abandoning virtue and neglecting Their elders, I will return to punish Them. For even while We live in the forest, news of the kingdom will reach Us through the sages and ascetics living there.”
Lakṣman had already anticipated Rāma’s objections and had carefully considered them. There was no doubt in His mind that He should follow His brother. Continuing to reassure Rāma, Lakṣman reminded Him how the king had already arranged more than adequate support for Kaushalya and her dependents. The revenue of thousands of villages was under her control. She was capable of maintaining herself as well as Sumitra and even Lakṣman Himself. He concluded, “Therefore kindly make Me Your personal attendant, for there will be no unrighteousness in this act. Going before You with My sword, I shall clear a safe path for You and Sītā. In wakefulness or sleep, You shall find Me by Your side ever ready to do Your bidding.”
Rāma was pleased and comforted to hear Lakṣman speak. Lakṣman was as dear to Him as life itself and Rāma had been sad at the prospect of leaving Him. Holding Lakṣman by the shoulders and looking into His expectant face, Rāma said, “Take leave of Your near and dear ones, O My brother, for We shall depart shortly.” Lakṣman felt a surge of happiness and His limbs trembled. He bowed to His elder brother and asked for His order.
Rāma asked Lakṣman to go to Vasiṣṭha’s hermitage, where He had left some divine weapons. There were two celestial bows along with a pair of inexhaustible quivers, two impenetrable pieces of body armor and a pair of long, shining swords. Rāma had received these as a dowry from Janaka and had left them with Vasiṣṭha so they could receive daily worship in his hermitage. He said to Lakṣman, “Bring all these weapons, dear brother, for I feel We will have need of them soon.”
Lakṣman joyfully went and fetched the weapons. Then He and Rāma together began to distribute Their wealth to the Brahmins. Many sages came at that time to offer their blessings to Rāma and all of them were given great riches. Gold, silver, jewels, pearls, chariots, horses, silken garments and hundreds of thousands of cows were distributed freely to anyone who came begging charity. Many thousands of Brahmins were given sufficient alms to maintain them for the rest of their lives. Rāma’s relations and dependents, as well as the needy and afflicted were also given much wealth. At that time in Ayodhya there was not a single Brahmin or needy person who was not provided with gifts. Being thus honored and gratified by Rāma, they all returned to their own homes, praising Him in their hearts.
1.10: Sad Farewells
It was time for Rāma and His two companions to say Their farewells. Holding Their weapons and followed by Sītā, the brothers made Their way towards Daśaratha’s palace. As They passed along the road many men crowded around to watch Them. Plunged in sorrow at seeing their beloved prince leaving, they lamented in various ways.
“Here passes the same Rāma who before would move regally in state, followed by a huge retinue,” said the people. “Now He walks with only Sītā and Lakṣman as His companions. Although used to every luxury, He is going to the terrible forest in obedience to His father’s word.”
Some citizens censured the king, whom they felt had been gripped by some evil spirit. How could he send his dearest son into exile? Rāma’s qualities were evident to all; his compassion, learning, gentleness, sense control and mental peace—all were ever visible in that noble prince.
The citizens could not face the prospect of Rāma’s departure. They felt pain, just as a tree with all its fruits and flowers is hurt when its root is damaged, and they spoke out in public places. “We will give up our homes and villages and go with the pious Rāma to the forest. Let us share with Him all His joys and sorrows. Let Kaikeyi rule over a deserted kingdom, bereft of its people.”
Everyone feared the prospect of Kaikeyi becoming powerful as the mother of the king. They angrily cursed her again and again. All of them would go with Rāma. They would abandon the city, leaving its houses to be filled with dust and overrun by mice. The forest would become a city and Ayodhya a forest. They would drive out from the forest all the fierce animals and snakes, sending them to live in Ayodhya with Kaikeyi as their protector.
The two brothers heard the laments of the people, but they kept Their minds under strict control. Smiling gently and glancing with affection at the citizens, They walked together like a pair of powerful lions. They entered Daśaratha’s palace and saw Sumantra, who stood with folded hands and a disconsolate face. Rāma asked him to announce Their arrival to the king. When Sumantra went before Daśaratha he found the king distracted by grief, heaving deep sighs, his eyes red from weeping. The devoted and faithful Sumantra regarded his master to be like the eclipsed sun or a fire covered by ashes. Bowing at the king’s feet, Sumantra said, “The illustrious Rāma has distributed all His wealth to His dependents and the Brahmins, and He now stands at your door awaiting your permission to depart for the forest.”
Ordering his minister to show Rāma in, the king also asked that all his wives be present. Sumantra brought the queens, who arrived accompanied by numerous maidservants. He then brought Rāma and Lakṣman before Their father. As Rāma entered the room, Daśaratha ran impulsively towards Him; but being stricken with sorrow, he fell senseless to the floor. Rāma and Lakṣman rushed to assist Their unconscious father. All the ladies threw up their arms and gave out a wail which mixed with the tinkling of their ornaments. A commotion filled the room, with cries of “Alas! Alas! O Rāma!” Kaikeyi alone remained unmoved.
Rāma and Lakṣman, both crying, lifted Their father and placed him gently on a couch. As the king returned to consciousness, Rāma regained His composure and, with folded hands, said, “I have come to take leave of you, father. Please grant Me your permission to go to the forest. Also allow Lakṣman and Sītā, whom I could not deter even with great effort, to accompany Me. O great king, please give up your grief and look favorably upon Us, for We wish now to depart.”
Rāma calmly awaited His father’s permission. The king spoke with difficulty. “As a result of a promise made to Kaikeyi I have lost my good sense. Therefore, my dear Rāma, take me captive and rule over this kingdom.”
Fixed in righteousness, Rāma replied, “May you rule the earth for another thousand years. I have no desire for sovereignty. After a mere fourteen years have passed I shall return and once more take hold of your feet, having redeemed your pledge, O ruler of men!”
Daśaratha was mortified, but he saw Kaikeyi urging him on with covert gestures. Bound by the fetters of truth he spoke to his son, granting him permission to leave. “Please leave with an undisturbed mind, O Rāma, and may Your journey be a safe and happy one.”
The king was devastated. He could see that Rāma’s decision to depart was firm and not to be reversed. Rāma was devoted to piety and truth. Daśaratha requested Him to remain for just one night, so that he and Kaushalya might see Him a little longer. He wanted to offer Rāma all enjoyable things on that last day. Trembling with grief the king said, “I swear to You that I never wanted this to happen. I have been obliged by Kaikeyi, who has abandoned virtue after long concealing her evil intentions. Your willingness to accept even this terrible order, simply to save me from sin, proves beyond doubt Your greatness. O gentle Rāma, I permit You to leave. Only, go tomorrow with my blessings.”
Hearing of His father’s request, Rāma became concerned. He did not wish to delay His departure any longer and said, “Who will offer Me tomorrow the delights I enjoy today? The time for My departure has come and I must now cast aside all thoughts of enjoyment. Let Me leave right away. Make over this vast kingdom, with all its riches, to Bharata. My resolution to live in the forest cannot be swayed. Your boons to Kaikeyi should now be implemented in full. I shall live with ascetics for fourteen years and the world should be given to Bharata.”
Rāma moved closer to His anguished father, who sat shaking his head. He asked the king to be firm and free from sorrow. Rāma assured His father that He had no desire at all for the kingdom, nor for any pleasures, nor even for life itself devoid of virtue. He only wished to execute the king’s command and prove him true to his word. Comforting the grieving monarch, Rāma said, “Since Kaikeyi said to Me, ‘Go to the forest, O Raghava,’ and I replied by saying, ‘I am going,’ I must now redeem that pledge. Please let Me leave. I cannot wait an instant longer.”
Rāma felt sorrow to see His father suffering such intense agony. Not wanting to increase His father’s pain, however, Rāma kept His own feelings in check and maintained a calm expression. He spoke gently, assuring His father that He would certainly enjoy His stay in the forest. He would sport happily with Sītā in the many delightful woods and groves. Protected by His own weapons and by Lakṣman, there would be no fear for Them from the beasts and Rākṣasas in the forest. When fourteen years had passed the king would find Them returned unharmed and ready to serve him again. Bharata alone could competently and righteously rule the globe in His absence.
Rāma added, “I shall never accept the kingdom by bringing infamy to you, O king. Indeed, I could renounce every pleasure, including My own dear wife, in order to satisfy your command. I shall only be happy the moment I enter the forest. You need not feel any pain for Me. Be peaceful, my lord, and allow Me to leave.”
Daśaratha, tormented by a burning agony, embraced Rāma tightly and then again fell unconscious, showing no signs of life. All the queens, along with their maidservants, cried loudly. Kaikeyi felt her purpose fulfilled and was rejoicing inwardly. Witnessing her silence, the king’s intimate friend Sumantra was furious. Beating his head, wringing his hands and grinding his teeth, he spoke scathingly to her, his eyes blazing with wrath.
“Here lies your husband, the support of the whole world, betrayed and forsaken by you, O queen. Surely there is nothing sacred for you. I consider you to be the murderess of your husband and the destroyer of your entire race. Do not despise your lord in this way, for his order is superior to that of even a million sons. Ignoring the time-honored rule of primogeniture, you seek to usurp Rāma’s rights and bring unbearable pain to the king.”
Tears flowed from the old minister’s eyes as he spoke. He told Kaikeyi to renounce her evil aim. If her son became the king, then no pious man would remain in the kingdom. What joy would she derive from ruling the empty earth, which was earned through sin? It was a great wonder that the earth did not split apart and swallow her, or that the great sages did not utter fiery curses to consume her on that very spot. Having served the king all his life, Sumantra felt every pain the king felt as if it were his own. As he addressed Kaikeyi he could hardly bring himself to look at her.
“The glorious king will never belie his promise to you. Do not force him to perform an act repugnant to himself and the whole world. Follow the desire of the king and become a protectress of the world. Let Rāma be installed on the throne. He will undoubtedly always remain favorable to you in every way. If, however, on your order He is sent to the forest, then your only gain will be unending infamy. Give up your misguided desire, O Kaikeyi, and live happily.”
Kaikeyi looked coolly at Sumantra, who stood before her with joined palms, and she made no reply. Her mind remained unmoved as she awaited the execution of her order. Seeing her resolve, Daśaratha, who had regained consciousness, sighed and said to Sumantra, “You should immediately order my army to make ready to depart. They should accompany Rāma to the forest. So too should wealthy merchants skilled at establishing networks of shops. Search out hunters who know the secrets of forests and send them with Rāma. Assemble thousands of capable servants and have them prepare to leave. Indeed, you should arrange for my entire treasury and my granary to be transported along with Rāma. He should not have to endure any austerity during the fourteen years of exile.”
As Daśaratha spoke Kaikeyi became alarmed. The king was going to divest the kingdom of all its wealth before her son was crowned. Dismayed and fearful, she turned towards Daśaratha and spoke, her mouth parched and her voice choked. “How can you bestow upon Bharata a kingdom stripped of its wealth? How then will He actually be the ruler of this world, as you have promised?”
The king turned angrily towards Kaikeyi. “After handing me a heavy burden to bear, you are now lashing me as I carry it, O hostile and vulgar woman! When asking for your boons you should have stipulated that Rāma could not take anything with Him to the forest. Abandoning all sense of righteousness, you have taken to a path leading only to grief. I cannot stay here with you any longer. Along with all the people of Ayodhya I shall follow Rāma to the forest!”
Rāma approached His father and said politely, “O great king, of what use to Me is an army and all your riches? I have renounced the kingdom; how then can I take its wealth? He who has parted with an elephant yet seeks to retain its tether is simply a fool. I am resolved to enter the forest and dwell there with the ascetics, wearing the barks of trees and living on whatever produce I can glean from day to day.”
Rāma wanted to act only in accord with the scriptural instructions regarding the vow of forest life. He told His father that one living in the forest should not do so in great opulence. Rāma asked that the king not bestow upon His brother a kingdom bereft of its riches. He would leave with only His weapons and a spade for digging roots. Turning to the king’s servants, Rāma said, “Bring Me the tree barks and I shall take off these royal garments and make ready to depart.”
His request so gladdened Kaikeyi that she personally fetched the Spartan forest clothes made from barks and grasses she had already prepared. Shamelessly handing them to Rāma, Lakṣman and Sītā, she said, “Put these on.” Rāma and Lakṣman quickly and adroitly changed into those clothes, but the beautiful Sītā was perplexed, unsure of how to wear them. Trying again and again to place the bark linen over Her other clothes, Sītā felt abashed. With Her eyes flooded with tears She said to Her husband, “How does one wear such dress, My lord?”
Rāma personally fastened the bark over Sītā’s silk dress. Seeing Her clad in forest apparel, Her many female servants began to wail piteously. “This noble princess has not been ordered to enter the forest!” they cried. “Dear Rāma, please let Her remain here with us so we may continue to serve Her and enjoy the blessing of seeing Her divine form. How can this gentle lady live like an ascetic in the forest? She does not deserve to suffer in this way!”
Although hearing their loving remonstrances, Rāma continued to tie on Sītā’s forest clothes as She desired. Suddenly Vasiṣṭha became overwhelmed with distress at seeing the gentle Sītā about to enter the forest. Feeling angered and weeping hot tears, he said to Kaikeyi, “O cruel woman, have you no shame? After deceiving the king and bringing disgrace to your family, are you still not satisfied? Will you stand by and watch as this high-born lady leaves for the forest, wearing the coarse garments you prepared? You did not ask that She be exiled along with Rāma! These tree barks are not meant for Her. Excellent garments and jewels should be brought by you for your daughter-in-law. She should proceed to the forest on first-class conveyances and accompanied by all Her servants.”
Vasiṣṭha loved Rāma and Sītā like his own children. He could not stand and watch as They departed while the hard-hearted Kaikeyi looked on gleefully. The sage spoke words which pierced Kaikeyi deeply. He explained that according to scripture the wife was her husband’s own self. They were one and the same person. As such Sītā should therefore rule over the kingdom, even if Rāma Himself could not. The forest would become the capital of the world. Indeed, the entire state of Kośala, along with all its people and the city of Ayodhya, would leave along with Rāma. The sage blazed with anger as he went on, appearing like a smokeless fire.
“Surely Bharata and His brother Shatrughna will also enter the forest, clad in barks. You may then rule over a desolate kingdom, peopled only by trees, which alone could not rise up and follow Rāma!”
Kaikeyi remained silent and looked at Rāma and Sītā, who were ready to leave. Sītā wished only to follow Her husband. Even upon hearing Vasiṣṭha’s words, She was not swayed in the least from Her purpose. She stood next to Rāma, covered from head to toe in the grass and bark clothes given by Kaikeyi. All the people present then loudly exclaimed, “Shame upon the powerless king who does nothing to stop this flagrant injustice!”
Hearing their cries the emperor became dispirited and lost interest in life. He turned to Kaikeyi and rebuked her for making Sītā wear forest garments, but the queen remained silent. Rāma came before His father, who sat with his head bent low, and asked his permission to leave. He requested the king to take special care of Kaushalya, whom he feared would suffer in his absence. Looking at his son clad in the dress of a hermit, the king fell unconscious. After being brought to his senses by his ministers, who gently sprinkled him with cool water, Daśaratha lamented loudly.
“I think in my past life I must have given terrible pain to other living beings and thus this pain is now being felt by me. Surely life will not leave one until the appointed time arrives. Otherwise, why does death not claim me now, who am tormented by Kaikeyi and beholding my dearest son wearing the robes of an ascetic?”
Crying out, “O Rāma!” the king broke off, choked with tears. With a great effort Daśaratha then managed to control his grief and, turning towards Sumantra, he said, “Fetch here the best of my chariots and take the glorious Rāma beyond this city. Since I see a virtuous and valiant son being exiled to the forest by His own father and mother, I can only conclude that this is the results of piety, as declared by the scriptures. Religion is undoubtedly difficult to divine.”
As Rāma and Sītā approached the chariot brought by Sumantra, Kaushalya came and tightly embraced Sītā, saying, “Wicked are those women who forsake their worthy husbands when fallen upon hard times. Even though such women have in the past been protected and afforded every happiness, they malign and even desert their husbands when misfortune arrives. Such women are heartless, untruthful, lusty and sinful by nature, being quickly estranged in times of trouble. Neither kindness nor education nor gift nor even marriage ties can capture the hearts of these women.”
Kaushalya loved Sītā as a daughter. She knew that Rāma’s gentle wife was entirely devoted to piety and she spoke to Her only out of motherly affection. She continued, “For virtuous women, who are truthful, pious, obedient to their elders and acting within the bounds of morality the husband is the most sacred object and is never abandoned. Although Rāma is being sent to the forest You should never neglect Him, dear Sītā. Whether wealthy or without any means whatsoever, He is always Your worshipable deity.”
Sītā was filled with joy to hear this advice, which was in accord with her life’s aim. Joining Her palms, She replied reverentially, “I shall surely do all that your honorable self instructs. I have always heard from you proper advice about how to serve My husband. Even in thought you should not compare Me to wicked women, for I am unable to deviate from virtue, even as moonlight cannot be parted from the moon. As a lute is useless without its strings or a chariot without its wheels, so a wife is destitute when separated from her worthy husband. Having learned from My elders all the duties incumbent upon a wife, and knowing the husband to be a veritable deity, how can I ever neglect Rāma, O venerable lady?”
Kaushalya’s heart was touched by Sītā’s reply and she shed tears born of both delight and agony, being moved by Sītā’s piety and at the same time anguished at the thought of Her imminent departure.
Rāma looked with affection at His mother. It was time for Him to leave. He feared Kaushalya would pine away after He left. Rāma stood before her with folded palms. “Please do not show My father sad expressions, heightening his grief. Fourteen years will pass quickly, even while you sleep. You will rise one morning to find Me returned with Sītā and Lakṣman, surrounded by friends and relatives.”
Rāma looked around at all the royal ladies standing there and said, “Please forgive any unkind words or acts which I may have said or done out of ignorance because we have lived closely together. Now I take leave of you all.”
A cry rose up from the ladies that resembled the cry of female cranes. Daśaratha’s palace, which had always been marked with the joyous sounds of music and festivities, was now filled with the sound of agonized wails.
Catching hold of Daśaratha’s feet, Rāma, Sītā and Lakṣman took their final leave of him and walked around him in respect. Numbed by grief, Rāma bowed to Kaushalya and climbed up onto the chariot, followed by Sītā. As Lakṣman followed Them, His own mother Sumitra came up to say good-bye. Embracing her son she said, “Serve well Your elder brother Rāma, my dear son. The eternal moral law states that the older brother is the refuge of the younger, whether in good times or bad. Never forget the duties of our race, O Lakṣman, which are to practice charity, perform sacrifices for the good of the people and to lay down one’s life on the field of battle.”
Blinded by tears, Sumitra allowed her son to mount the chariot as she called out, “Farewell, dear son, farewell! Always see Rāma as You do Your father Daśaratha, look upon Sītā as myself, your mother, and see the forest as Ayodhya!”
Sumantra took up the reins of the horses and urged them forward. The great golden chariot moved ahead with a thunderous rumbling. As it passed down the royal highway the people assembled were stunned with sorrow. Both old and young alike rushed towards the chariot as thirsty men would rush toward water in the desert. Clinging to the sides and the back of the chariot they looked up at Sumantra, calling out, “Hold fast the reins, O charioteer, and drive slowly. We wish to see Rāma a little longer.”
Rāma, anxious to be gone as quickly as possible, asked them to desist and told Sumantra to drive more swiftly. Ordered by Rāma, “Move on!” and at the same time told by the people who filled the road, “Stop!” Sumantra could do neither. With great difficulty the chariot pressed slowly forward.
Seeing Rāma leaving and his city plunged into despair, the king fell prostrate. Upon being brought back to consciousness, he got up and, along with Kaushalya, ran after the chariot. Rāma looked behind Him and saw them trying to make their way through the crowd. He was unable to bear the sight of His father and mother in such distress, but being bound by duty, He urged Sumantra ever forward. The charioteer was perplexed, hearing from behind the king calling out, “Come back!” and then being ordered by Rāma to drive quicker. Rāma said to him, “This pain should not be prolonged further. Make haste! If My father reprimands you when you return, you should simply say you could not hear him.”
Finally breaking free from the crowd, the chariot gathered speed and left the city. Daśaratha was still running along the road, his eyes fixed on the dust raised by the chariot’s wheels. Breathless and at last losing sight of the chariot in the distance, Daśaratha fell down on the road.
As he lay there Kaushalya and Kaikeyi came to raise him up. On seeing Kaikeyi, however, the king became inflamed with anger. “Do not touch me, O sinful woman!” he roared. “I never want to see you again. You are neither my wife nor relation and I have nothing more to say to you. I also reject those who serve and depend upon you. If your son is in any way pleased to receive the sovereignty, then I shall shun Him as well!”
Daśaratha gazed at the tracks of the chariot. He covered his face in shame, blaming himself for Rāma’s departure. With Kaushalya’s help, he slowly made his way back to the palace. As he passed along the road he saw the city marked by mourning, its shops closed, its streets deserted. Lamenting all the while, Daśaratha entered his palace as the sun goes behind a cloud. The great palace was silent and without movement, overlade with a heavy atmosphere of sorrow. Daśaratha went into Kaushalya’s apartments and, laying down upon a soft couch, cried out, “O Rāma, have You really deserted me? Alas! Only those who will endure these coming fourteen years will be happy, seeing again the face of my gentle son. I cannot tolerate life without that tiger among men. O wicked Kaikeyi, you may rule this kingdom as a widow!”
Kaushalya looked sadly upon her husband and said, “Having discharged her poison upon Rāma, the crooked Kaikeyi will now wander freely like a female serpent who has shed her skin. With Rāma exiled and her own son installed as king, surely she will cause further fear to me, even like a snake living in one’s own house. How shall I survive without Rāma?”
Thinking of Rāma and Sītā entering the forest, Kaushalya cried out in pain. How would they survive? Exactly at a time when they should have enjoyed the luxuries of life, They were banished and made to live like ascetics. When again would she see Them? Surely in some past life she had committed some grievous sin. For that reason she now suffered such terrible pain. She lamented loudly, “O Rāma! O Lakṣman! O Sītā! Where are You now? The fire of my grief tortures me today as the blazing sun scorches the earth in summer!”
Sumitra gently reassured Kaushalya, reminding her of the greatness of Rāma and Lakṣman. Controlling her own grief and sitting next to Kaushalya, she placed her arms around her co-wife. She spoke about Rāma, describing His qualities and immeasurable strength. Simply to prove His noble father to be perfectly truthful, He had renounced the throne and gone to the forest. This was the path of virtue followed always by cultured men. That path led only to regions of never-ending happiness. Kaushalya should therefore not pity her son.
Sumitra spoke softly. “Being ever attended by the loving Lakṣman and followed by His devoted wife, Rāma will feel no discomfort. Even the sun will withhold its scorching rays from Rāma’s body, seeing His boundless virtues. A gentle and soothing breeze will always blow softly on Rāma. At night when He lies down to sleep, the cooling rays of the moon will caress Him like a loving father.”
Sumitra stroked Kaushalya’s face. She spoke to assuage her own suffering as much as that of Kaushalya. She told Kaushalya not to worry. Rāma would surely be protected by the terrible weapons that Viśvāmitra gave Him. He would dwell fearlessly in the forest just as He would in His own palace. Sumitra concluded, “Knowing the power of that prince, I have no doubt we will see Him returned as soon as His term of exile is concluded. With Rāma as your son you should not grieve in the least, for your good fortune is very great indeed. Shed your sorrow now, O sinless lady, for all the people must be comforted by you at this time, pained as they are by Rāma’s separation.”
Comforted by Sumitra, Kaushalya felt relief and embraced her co-wife tightly. The two queens sat together for a long time, lost in thoughts of Rāma. Nearby the king lay almost unconscious on a couch, repeatedly murmuring Rāma’s name.
Part Two
2.1: Into the Forest
After their father had returned, Rāma and Lakṣman left the city and went along country paths toward the forest. Even though They urged Sumantra to drive quickly, a large number of citizens continued to follow Them. Rāma stopped to rest after some time and allowed the people to reach Him. He said to them with affection, “You have shown your great love for Me beyond any doubt. Now for My pleasure, please bestow this same love upon My brother Bharata. I am sure He will take good care of you in every possible way. Although still a youth, He is old in wisdom and greatly heroic. He will prove a worthy master and dispel all your sorrows and fears. Serve Him well, for He has been selected by our lord the emperor. It is also My desire that all of you please Him with your service. Be kind to the emperor so that he may not suffer excessive agony in My absence.”
Rāma tried hard to make the people turn back, but they would not return. The more Rāma showed His determination to stick to the path of righteousness and truth, the more the people desired to have Him as their ruler. It was as if Rāma and Lakṣman, by the cords of Their virtuous qualities, had bound the people and were dragging them along.
The chariot began to move forward again and a group of elderly Brahmins, their heads shaking with age, ran behind, struggling to keep pace as the chariot picked up speed. They called out, “O swift steeds, stop! Come back and be friendly to Your master Rāma, who is always intent on pleasing the Brahmins. O horses, halt! Although endowed with excellent ears, do you not hear our plaintive cry? You should not bear Rāma away. He is pure-minded, heroic and virtuous. Therefore, you should return Him to the city to be our king, not carry Him away to some distant, lonely place!”
Rāma looked back, feeling compassion for the distressed Brahmins. He did not want to ride Himself while Brahmins walked, so he got down from His chariot and continued on foot. Although His heart was breaking to see the people's anguish, Rāma looked straight ahead and walked with firm strides, followed by Sītā and Lakṣman. Sumantra drove slowly behind Them in the chariot. As the Brahmins continued to beseech Them, They gradually approached the banks of the river Tamasa. Searching out a suitable site, they decided to camp there for the night. The citizens of Ayodhya camped nearby. Rāma released the horses and allowed them to drink the clear river water. After bathing, Rāma spoke to Lakṣman, indicating the forest across the water.
“There lie the desolate woods, My brother, echoing on all sides with the sounds of birds and beasts. The city of Ayodhya will similarly resound with the cries of forlorn men and women, lamenting for Our having left. I fear for My father and mother who must be weeping incessantly and will perhaps even lose their sight.”
Rāma thought of Bharata. By now He would have been informed of the situation. Thinking of Bharata's nobility, Rāma felt reassured as He spoke with Lakṣman. “I am sure the high-minded Bharata will take good care of Our parents, consoling them in every way. As I reflect upon Bharata's soft-heartedness and piety, My mind is pacified. My dear Lakṣman, I am grateful You have chosen to follow Me, for this too gives Me solace. Fasting for this Our first night in the forest in accord with the scriptural codes, I shall now sleep peacefully.”
Lakṣman had Sumantra prepare a bed of leaves on the ground and Rāma lay upon that with Sītā. He soon fell asleep, but Lakṣman stayed awake, guarding His brother. Nearby He could see the many fires lit by the people who were following Rāma toward the forest.
In the middle of the night Rāma rose and again spoke with His brother. “It seems there is no possibility of Us convincing the citizens to return to their homes,” He said, looking across to the place where the people had set up camp. “Just see the pains they are taking to follow Us, sleeping now on the bare ground. Surely they would sooner give up their lives than go back to the city without Us. Let Us leave immediately while the people still sleep. They should not have to endure this austerity further on Our behalf. As rulers of the people it is Our duty to eradicate Our subjects' suffering. Certainly We should not cause them pain. Thus We must leave now and throw them off Our trail.”
Lakṣman agreed and, as Rāma woke Sītā, he roused Sumantra and had him prepare the chariot. The two princes and Sītā climbed aboard, and Sumantra drove it swiftly upstream, away from the sleeping people. The charioteer crossed a shallow part of the river and then, leaving the common road, drove through the woods. Doubling back and going by different paths, sometimes riding through shallow waters for some distance, Sumantra made sure the people would not be able to track them. He drove quickly, and before dawn they had gone a considerable distance from where the citizens were camped.
As dawn approached in the camp, the sound of numerous birds mingled with the lowing of the cows which grazed freely on the riverbank. Roused by these sounds, the citizens arose and soon discovered that Rāma and His party had left. They were shocked and began to loudly lament. They condemned sleep for having stolen Rāma from them. Falling to the ground, they wept and said, “How could Rāma, who is fit to rule the globe, put on the dress of an ascetic and leave for distant lands? How did that jewel among men, who was like a loving father, go to the forest, leaving us forlorn? Let us now meet our end by fasting until death, or by setting out on the final great journey to the north.”
Looking all around they found big logs of dry wood. Some of them suggested they pile up the wood to make a funeral pyre and immediately enter it. What use was their life now? What could they say to their near and dear ones in Ayodhya when asked of Rāma's whereabouts? How could they say they let Him enter the forest even as they slept? When they returned without Rāma, the city would surely become desolate and devoid of all happiness. Having gone out with that high-souled hero, firmly determined to follow Him anywhere, how could they now go back without Him?
Continuously crying out, the citizens sought out the chariot’s tracks and began to follow them. When they found themselves thrown off the trail by Sumantra’s expert driving, they became utterly despondent. Their anguished voices echoed around the woods. “Alas! What shall we do? We are doomed by Providence!” Gradually the bewildered citizens began to reluctantly head back toward Ayodhya, following the tracks the chariot had made when leaving the previous day.
Depressed and despairing, the citizens finally arrived in the city. They were blinded by grief and hardly able to distinguish between their own relatives and others. They searched for their homes with difficulty, some of them even entering the wrong houses. Afflicted with sorrow, they cast their eyes all around and, although the city and their houses were filled with abundant riches, to them it appeared vacant and nothing gave them pleasure.
Ayodhya seemed at that time to be like the firmament bereft of the moon. Everywhere its citizens shed tears and all of them felt like giving up their lives. No one rejoiced on any occasion, even when coming upon unexpected fortune or seeing the birth of a firstborn son. Merchants did not display their merchandise, nor did the goods even seem attractive. Householders did not cook food and the household deities were neglected.
As the men returned home without Rāma, their wives reproached them. “Without seeing Rāma what is the use of our house, children or wealth?” the wives said. “It seems the only virtuous man in this world is Lakṣman, who has followed Rāma to the forest in order to serve Him!”
The men, pained by the loss of Rāma, made no reply. Their wives lamented at length. How could they remain under the protection of the old king, who had lost his good sense and sent Rāma away? Worse still was the prospect of serving Kaikeyi, whose aim was now completely achieved. Having forsaken her husband and disgraced her family for the sake of power, who else would she not abandon?
The ladies could not contain their feelings. Out of despair they remonstrated with their husbands. “Thanks to Kaikeyi, this kingdom will be ruined. With Rāma gone, Daśaratha will soon meet his end along with his distinguished line, which has existed for so long. How can there be any good fortune with Kaikeyi in a position of power? We should therefore end our lives. Or we should follow Rāma to some distant place where Kaikeyi’s name will never be heard. The glorious and ever-truthful Rāma shall be our only shelter.”
As the ladies of Ayodhya lamented, the sun gradually set on the city, leaving it dark and cheerless, its lights unlit and its temples and public meeting places deserted. Fallen upon evil days, the celebrated city became silent, the sounds of singing, rejoicing and instrumental music having ceased. All the people remained in their own homes, thinking only of Rāma.
* * *
During that night the chariot carrying the princes covered a long distance. As they traveled, Rāma remembered the pain of His relations and people. Reflecting again and again upon His father’s command, he kept His determination strong and urged Sumantra to drive swiftly. They passed many villages, seeing on their outskirts well-tilled and cultivated fields, as well as beautiful, blossoming woodlands. People from the villages, to where the news of Rāma’s exile had already spread, saw the chariot passing, by and they censured the emperor and especially Kaikeyi, saying, “The cruel Kaikeyi has acted without propriety. She has caused the exile of the highly virtuous Rāma. What will become of us now? How will the delicate princess Sītā survive in the forest? How shameful that the king could abandon all affection for such a son and daughter-in-law!”
Going more slowly as He passed the people, Rāma heard their comments and He smiled at them without saying anything. As the chariot moved on more swiftly, the travelers saw innumerable gardens, fruit orchards and lotus ponds. Temples resonant with the sounds of sacred incantations were everywhere. While sitting in the chariot and enjoying the sights of His flourishing kingdom, Rāma thought of His coming exile. He would long for the day of His return to this prosperous land of Kośala.
As they at last reached Kośala’s southern border, Rāma got down from the chariot and stood facing the direction of Ayodhya. With His face covered in tears He spoke in a choked voice. “I take leave of you, O foremost of cities. Protected by the emperor and your presiding deities, may you fare well. When I have squared My debt to My father and fulfilled his pledge, I shall return.”
Many country dwellers had gathered around Rāma. They were filled with grief to see Him bid His sad farewell to Ayodhya. Rāma glanced at them with affection. He thanked them for the love they showed for Him, and told them to go home.
The people simply stood gazing at Rāma, unable to move. Although He urged them to return home, they stood rooted to the spot. They could not turn away from the heroic and handsome prince. As they stood watching, Rāma remounted His chariot and it disappeared into the distance, even as the sun sets at the end of the day.
Gradually the party reached the Ganges river in the Ushinara province. Along the banks of the river for as far as the eye could see in both directions were clustered the hermitages of ascetics and ṛṣis. Hundreds of hills ran along the length of the river, and the river flowed with cool water flecked with white foam, making a roaring sound as it rushed past. Somewhere the river ran still and deep and somewhere else it dashed violently against rocks. In places it was covered with white lotuses, while in others thousands of swans, cranes and herons hovered on its waters. It was the resort of even gods and Gandharvas who sported along its banks. Surrounded by trees laden with fruits and flowers and full of varieties of singing birds, the river appeared most beautiful.
Seeing this celestial region, Rāma decided to stop for the night. He took shelter under the branches of a large tree and sat down to offer worship to the Ganges. Sumantra unyoked the horses and allowed them to drink and then roll on the grassy riverbank. The charioteer stood with folded hands near Rāma, who sat peacefully with Sītā by His side.
The king of that territory was named Guha, a dear friend of Rāma who ruled over the tribal people known as the Niṣadhas. Hearing from his people of Rāma’s presence, he immediately went to Him. Guha found Rāma by the bank of the Ganges and he stood at a distance, waiting respectfully for his audience. He was overjoyed to find his friend arrived in his kingdom, but his joy was mixed with sorrow at seeing Him dressed as an ascetic. Rāma looked up and saw Guha standing there, surrounded by his relations and elderly ministers. Quickly approaching him with Lakṣman, He tightly embraced him and they exchanged greetings. Guha spoke to Rāma, whom he had met on many occasions in Ayodhya when going there to pay tribute.
“I am honored by your presence in my kingdom. This land here is as much Yours as it is mine. Indeed, I am Your servant. Only order me and I shall immediately do whatever You wish.”
He showed Rāma the many varieties of food and drink he had brought, as well as the excellent beds he had prepared for them. Rāma thanked him and said, “I have been well honored by you today. You should know that I am under a vow to live in the forest as an ascetic. I accept your offerings but allow you to take them back. Please leave only as much as may be taken by My horses. Since these steeds are dear to Hy father, you will please Me by serving them well.”
Reluctantly, Guha commanded his men to do as Rāma had requested, having the best of food brought for the horses. He watched with sadness and admiration as Rāma accepted only water for Himself and then lay down to sleep on a bed of leaves. Lakṣman washed Rāma’s feet and again kept vigil nearby. Going over to Lakṣman, Guha said, “Here is a bed for You. There is no need to remain awake for I shall stand here, bow in hand, and guard You all from danger. There is nothing in these woods unknown to me. Indeed, along with my men I could withstand the attack of a vast and powerful army coming upon this region.”
Guha took Lakṣman by the arm and showed Him the bed, but Lakṣman politely refused his offer. “Under your protection we feel not even the least fear, O sinless Guha. But how can I rest while Rāma and Sītā lie down on the earth?”
Lakṣman looked at His brother lying beneath the tree. His mind was troubled. How could one such as Rāma, who was capable of withstanding even the gods in battle, be brought to such a state? Lakṣman’s thoughts drifted to Ayodhya. He became restless, thinking of His father and the subjects. Surely Daśaratha would soon breathe his last, having sent his dearest son to a life of severe austerity. Probably Kaushalya and the king would die that very night, uttering words of despair and anguish. Losing their beloved monarch after watching Rāma depart, the people of Ayodhya would be seized with agony after agony.
Engrossed in such thoughts, Lakṣman breathed heavily like an infuriated serpent. Hot tears glided down His face. Guha placed an arm around His shoulder and gently reassured Him. As the two men spoke the night gradually slipped away.
When dawn broke, Guha arranged for a large rowboat to ferry the princes across the fast-flowing Ganges. The time had arrived to leave the chariot and continue on foot. As the princes fastened on Their armor and weapons, Sumantra humbly approached Them with joined palms and asked for instructions. Rāma smiled and said, “You have rendered Me excellent service, O Sumantra. Please return now to the king’s presence and inform him of Our well-being. We shall now proceed on foot.”
Sumantra found it difficult to leave Rāma. Gazing into His face, he spoke in an anguished voice. “What man in this world has ever had to face such a perverse destiny, O Raghava? What is the value of cultivating piety and truth when we see such a result? We are actually lost and ruined by Your departure. Coming under the control of the sinful Kaikeyi, we will simply suffer.”
Sumantra broke down and wept for some time and Rāma comforted him. As he regained his composure Rāma said, “I cannot think of anyone who is as great a friend to our family as you, O noble charioteer. Please act in a way which will not increase My father’s grief. Whatever he instructs should be carried out without hesitation, even if he orders you to serve Kaikeyi.”
Rāma understood all the nuances of statecraft. He was worried that in his absence the king’s ministers and servants might try to undermine Kaikeyi. He wanted the kingdom to run smoothly and his father to be spared any unnecessary anxiety in dealing with intrigues. Wanting also to ensure that His family not be left anxious for His sake, Rāma added, “Please tell My father that neither Lakṣman nor Sītā nor I are grieving in any way. Happily do We commence Our sojourn in the woods. The period of fourteen years will soon pass and We shall return.”
Rāma considered the urgent need to re-establish stability in Ayodhya. He spoke solemnly to Sumantra. “Ask the king to fetch Bharata quickly and duly install Him as Prince Regent. Bharata Himself should be told to accept the post without any hesitation, for this will be most pleasing to Me. He should then serve the king and all the queens with an equally disposed mind.”
Rāma gave His permission for Sumantra to leave, but the charioteer still stood before Him, his mind perplexed. How could he return without Rāma? He revealed his mind to Rāma. “As we left the city the people were practically rendered senseless with grief even upon seeing You in this chariot. What then will be their state when they see the chariot returning empty? Surely Ayodhya will be torn in two, even as the army of a hero is split apart when it sees his chariot carrying only the charioteer, the hero having been slain.”
Sumantra thought of Daśaratha and Kaushalya. They would be devastated by grief when they heard that their son had actually entered the forest. Sumantra felt incapable of returning. He pleaded with Rāma to let him go to the forest too. He was prepared to remain with Rāma for the full fourteen years rather than go back to Ayodhya without him. Falling to the ground and clasping Rāma’s feet, he spoke with pain in his voice.
“My desire is to convey You back to Ayodhya at the end of Your exile. If I must return without You, then seated upon the chariot I shall enter blazing fire. I am Your devoted servant and it does not befit You to abandon me now. Let me follow You and render You every service. Fourteen years will be as many moments in Your presence, while in Your absence it will seem like fourteen ages.”
Rāma was moved by compassion for Sumantra, who was piteously supplicating Him again and again. He lifted the weeping charioteer. “I know your devotion for Me, Sumantra. However, I must ask you to return. Kaikeyi will not be satisfied unless she sees the chariot returned without Me and hears from you of My entry into the forest. For the good of the king I want her to be convinced that I have fulfilled the terms of her boons, and I also desire that her son Bharata be given the kingdom.”
Rāma knew that if any doubt remained about whether or not He had really gone to the forest, then, in the hope of His return, they would not install His brother Bharata. He therefore convinced Sumantra of the need for him to return to Ayodhya, carrying the messages He had given. With a heavy heart Sumantra finally assented and got up on the chariot. Rāma then turned and spoke to Guha. “It would not be proper for Me to stay in a region where I have many men to serve Me. I wish to go to some uninhabited part of the forest and live in a simple hermitage, gathering My daily food from wild roots and fruits.”
Rāma knew Guha and his people were hoping to accommodate Him in a nearby wood, but He was devoted to virtue and wanted to properly follow the scriptural instructions, which prescribed a life of strict asceticism for one taking the vow of living in a forest. Using the sap of a banyan tree, Rāma and Lakṣman matted Their hair into a thick mass. With Their matted locks and Their bark and grass garments, the two princes looked like a couple of ascetic ṛṣis. Rāma helped Sītā onto the boat, and then jumped aboard Himself, along with Lakṣman. Headed by Guha, the oarsmen plied the boat out across the river. Rāma waved to Sumantra, who stood motionless on the sandy river bank, gripped by despondency.
The boat approached the southern shore of the Ganges swiftly and smoothly. Sītā folded Her palms and prayed to the goddess Gaṅgā for protection in the forest. The river was placid and shone like a sheet of glass under the bright sun. Small ripples spread from the side of the boat as the oars gently and rhythmically splashed the water. Rāma and Lakṣman sat silently, thinking of Ayodhya and Their family and friends. They watched as Sītā sat in the prow of the boat, Her eyes closed in prayer. Gradually they approached the shoreline, with its sprawling forest reaching practically to the river’s edge.
After the party disembarked, Rāma said a fond farewell to Guha. He embraced the forest chieftain and then turned and walked toward the thick forest. Lakṣman went ahead of Him, placing Sītā between Them. As They walked They heard the sounds of beasts and birds—the shrill trills of parrots, the grunts of boars, the cries of monkeys and the occasional growls and roars of tigers.
Rāma was apprehensive about Sītā’s safety. The vast and trackless forest lay immediately ahead. What dangers would They now have to face? But as They began to penetrate into the forest, Rāma’s fear for Sītā gave way to delight. At last the moment had arrived! His father’s word would now be redeemed. Despite any danger He would surely stay here for fourteen years, thinking only of the glory of His aged and pious father. Keeping His mind fully alert, Rāma gripped the great bow which hung from His shoulder and placed His other hand on the hilt of the blue steel sword strapped to His belt.
The three travelers had become hungry and They searched for roots and bulbs, fit for offering in the sacred fire. After They had cooked and made the offering, They ate, and when the meal was over, They performed Their evening worship. Rāma and Lakṣman then sat together and Rāma spoke a little to His brother. “Surely the king will sleep only fitfully tonight, O Lakṣman! On the other hand, Kaikeyi will rest peacefully with her desired object fulfilled.”
Rāma was pensive. Until now he had not dwelt upon His own anxiety for fear of increasing the pain of those He loved. Now that He was finally in the solitude of the forest, He felt a deep disquiet. What other terrible suffering would Kaikeyi cause for His father? With Bharata installed as Prince Regent perhaps she would even try to bring about Daśaratha’s death, so that her own son might more quickly become the king. How could the king protect himself, being weakened by grief? What would become of His mother Kaushalya, as well as Sumitra? Rāma appeared anxious as He continued.
“I think that in the morning You should return to Ayodhya, O noble prince! Protect Our mothers and Our aged father. I do not see anyone else who can guard against Kaikeyi’s evil intrigues. Even now she may be plotting to poison Our parents.”
Although He felt helpless, Rāma nevertheless censured Himself for failing to secure His parents’ happiness. Having undergone great pains to nurture Him with love, they were deprived of His company just when they should have found their labors repaid. “Alas,” exclaimed Rāma, “I am an ungrateful and useless son!”
Rāma wept. He could by no means breach the order of Kaikeyi and His father, but He feared He might be acting wrongly if the result was His parents’ death. Torn apart by His feelings, He wanted Lakṣman to go back to Ayodhya to protect them. Rāma lamented loudly for some time. When He fell silent, Lakṣman replied, “Please do not grieve in this way, dear brother, as You simply cause grief for Myself and Sītā. It is not possible for Me to leave You as I would not survive even for a short while in Your absence. Placing Your faith in the pious Bharata, You should not send Me away. I only wish to remain with You here and do not desire even the highest heaven without You.”
Rāma remained silent. He knew well that Lakṣman would never leave Him. It had grown dark and the brothers sought the shelter of a large tree where Rāma and Sītā lay down to rest. Lakṣman remained awake a short distance away, vigilantly guarding Them from any danger. Gradually the full moon rose and shone through the branches of the high trees, illuminating the beautiful faces of Rāma and Sītā as They slept, which appeared to Lakṣman like two more moons fallen to the earth.
The following morning after sunrise They went in an easterly direction toward the confluence of the Ganges and the Yamunā. They were keen to find the hermitages of the ṛṣis whom They knew lived in that region. The famous sage Bharadvāja, the leader of all the Brahmins inhabiting that forest, dwelt nearby.
As They walked They were enraptured by the colorful beauty of the forest. Huge trees rose up on all sides. In some places the trees opened up into expansive clearings carpeted by innumerable varieties of flowers and shrubs. Lakes of crystal clear water covered with white, blue and reddish lotuses were seen here and there. The trees were laden with blossoms, filling the air with their fragrance. The sounds of cuckoos, parrots and peacocks echoed all around.
Keeping close together, the three travelers walked throughout the day, sometimes moving easily and at other times with difficulty through densely wooded regions. Toward the end of the afternoon They heard in the distance the sound of the two rivers rushing to meet each other. Around Them They began seeing signs of life: chopped wood and man-made paths. Catching sight of smoke rising above the trees, They realized they had found the dwellings of the ṛṣis and They quickly went toward them.
At the precincts of the hermitage they were greeted by a young ascetic who was a disciple of Bharadvāja. He led Them through the many thatched cottages of the Brahmin community, showing Them to a great sacrificial arena where Bharadvāja was seated. Surrounded by his disciples, the sage sat before the sacred fire, absorbed in meditation. As soon as the three travelers caught sight of the effulgent ṛṣi They prostrated themselves on the earth in obeisance. They waited respectfully at a distance for the sage to beckon to Them.
Bharadvāja had attained virtual omniscience by his long practice of asceticism and meditation. He immediately sensed the presence of his exalted guests and he rose up to greet Them. Going before the sage, Rāma said with joined palms, “We are Rāma and Lakṣman, the sons of Emperor Daśaratha, O highly venerable sage. Here is My blessed and irreproachable wife, a princess of Videha and the daughter of King Janaka. Ordered by My ever-pious father, I have come to this forest to live the life of an ascetic for fourteen years, and My brother and wife have chosen to follow Me. Please bless Us.”
Bharadvāja gazed upon the faces of his guests, understanding Their divine identities. He offered Them various delicious foods prepared from wild roots and fruits. Tears flowed from his eyes as he spoke to Rāma. “I already knew of Your exile and have been expecting You to pass this way. Your auspicious arrival here at My hermitage signals the success of all My austerities and sacrifices. It is highly difficult to have a sight of You and today I am supremely blessed. My dear Rāma, if You so desire You may remain here in this delightful stretch of land, which is quite suitable for the life of asceticism.”
Smiling and graciously accepting the sage’s offerings of love, Rāma replied, “This hermitage is well known and not so far from the state of Ayodhya. The people will soon seek Me out if I remain here. Please tell Me of some other, more lonely place, for I will not be able to tolerate the pain of the people again beseeching Me to return.”
Bharadvāja understood Rāma’s concern. He directed the prince to a mountain named Chitrakuta, lying some fifty miles away. After spending the night at the sage’s hermitage, the three travelers set out the next morning toward the mountain. It lay across the Yamunā, which They crossed by means of a raft constructed from timber and bamboo.
As They walked toward Chitrakuta They saw countless varieties of trees and plants spreading everywhere in tableaus of rich colors. The constant singing of thousands of birds resounded on all sides, mingling with the sounds of trickling rivulets and cascading waterfalls. From time to time the trumpeting of an elephant could be heard in the distance. Branches of great trees were bent low under their burden of sweet fruits. From many of them hung large honeycombs, heavy with the thick honey produced by the black bees droning around the fragrant forest flowers.
Sītā was captivated by the beauty of the forest, touching and smelling the many blossoms that hung all around. Completely forgetting His grief and anxiety, Rāma laughingly held Her hand and told Her all the names of the trees and plants. The three travelers were elated simply to see such a celestial region. In great happiness They moved toward Chitrakuta.
The part of the forest leading to Chitrakuta had been rendered quite passable due to the regular traffic of ascetics, and the travelers made good progress. Toward the end of the third day of Their departure from Bharadvāja’s hermitage They approached the foot of the mountain. They saw there a huge banyan tree which spread its branches of dark green leaves away in all directions. Bowing down to the presiding deity of the tree, Sītā offered Her respects. She prayed that They would successfully complete Their exile and return that way again on Their way back to Ayodhya. Lakṣman prepared beds of leaves near the foot of the tree. After saying Their evening prayers and preparing a meal, the travelers rested for the night.
At sunrise the following day Rāma and His party moved on again, with the great Chitrakuta mountain rising ahead of Them. Bluish in color, it was covered with copses of green, yellow and red trees. Numerous waterfalls sparkled in the morning sun. The mountain was sheer in places, smoothly sloping elsewhere. Its snow covered peaks disappeared into the clouds. The travelers stopped and stared for some time at its majestic beauty. They began to ascend the mountain and, some way up its side, arrived at the hermitage of the sage Vālmīki, situated on a broad plateau.
The sage was joyful to see Rāma and His companions. He greeted Them with hospitality and respect and they conversed for some time. Vālmīki told Them of his own history. Although he was now a powerful ascetic, blazing with bodily luster, he had previously been a robber who had maintained his large family by plundering travelers.
The ṛṣi told the whole story. Once, long ago, he encountered the sage Nārada in the forest and sought to steal from him. The sage told Vālmīki he would happily give him anything he wanted, but he told him to first go to his family and ask them the following question, “Are you prepared to accept a share of the sins which will ensue from my crimes?” Vālmīki assented to this request and went to his family. However, they declined to accept his sins, saying that they only wished to receive from him the fruits of his action in the form of money and goods.
Leaving them in disgust, Vālmīki returned to the sage, who then told him to renounce his life of crime and become an ascetic. In order to bring about in Vālmīki a full sense of the temporality of life, Nārada told him to meditate on the word mara, meaning “death.” Vālmīki thus constantly repeated the word mara, without realizing that he was, in effect, also repeating the holy name of Rāma. By his meditation he became a powerful ṛṣi.
Rāma decided to stay close to Vālmīki’s hermitage and He asked Lakṣman to construct a cottage. Lakṣman quickly erected a timber-walled hut with a thatched roof. Rāma lit a fire and, with roots gathered from nearby and cooked in the fire, He made offerings to the gods. He prayed to the Lokapālas, the principal deities who guard the universal quarters, asking them to sanctify and protect the dwelling. Then He entered it along with Sītā. Within that spacious two-roomed hut, Rāma constructed an altar for the worship of Viṣṇu in accord with the instructions of scripture. Rejoicing at having found such a delightful place for Their residence, the three travelers settled down in peace.
2.2: Devastation in Ayodhya
After Rāma and His party had gone into the jungle on the other side of the Ganges, Sumantra and Guha spent some time speaking together about Rāma. Both were shocked and saddened to realize His firm intention to spend fourteen years in the deep forest. They had both been hoping that He would relent and perhaps return to Ayodhya to punish the evil Kaikeyi, who did not deserve any kindness. Or He could at least remain with Guha and his people, where He could be reached easily. Now He was gone. Guha heard from his spies about Rāma’s meeting with Bharadvāja, and His going on from there to the Chitrakuta mountain. Sadly, the Niṣadha king returned to his own home in the city of Sringavera, from where he ruled over the forest tribes.
As the reality of Rāma’s departure sank in, Sumantra drove the chariot back toward Ayodhya. After two days traveling he arrived to find the city subdued and silent, overpowered by grief. Sumantra entered by the southern gate. As the empty chariot moved along the road, hundreds and thousands of people approached it crying, “O Rāma! Have You really gone? Where is that faultless hero? Alas, we are forsaken and lost!”
Sumantra, afflicted at hearing their laments, covered his head with his garment. He felt ashamed to have been the one who took Rāma away. He made his way along the royal highway to Daśaratha’s palace, hearing the wails of the women who stood on the balconies of their houses, gazing upon the chariot now bereft of its passengers.
Sumantra reached the palace and went quickly through the first seven gates, arriving at the eighth which led to the king’s inner chambers. He entered the large room and found the king seated on a couch, pale and withered from grief. The charioteer described his journey from Ayodhya with Rāma. Daśaratha listened in complete silence and then, having heard of Rāma’s definite entrance into the forest, fell senseless to the floor.
Seeing their husband fallen, the ladies burst into tears. Kaushalya, assisted by Sumitra, lifted him up and said, “Why do you not reply to the charioteer, my lord? He has carried out a most difficult task on your behalf. Are you feeling ashamed for perpetrating such an unseemly act? Be fixed in your determination, O king, for you have firmly adhered to truth! Do not submit to this grief, as we who depend upon you will not be able to survive seeing you filled with such despair.”
Kaushalya spoke with a faltering voice. Her dear son, whom she had not been able to go without seeing for even a day, was now gone for fourteen years. She dropped in a faint next to her husband. All the ladies flocked around, sprinkling cool scented water on the faces of the monarch and his queen, who lay like a god and his consort fallen from heaven.
When Daśaratha awoke from his swoon he summoned Sumantra, who stood silently nearby. The charioteer was covered in dust and his face was streaked with tears. With folded hands, he stood respectfully before the king.
Daśaratha sighed dolefully and said to Sumantra, “Where will Rāma live now, taking shelter under a tree and sleeping on the bare ground? What will He eat? The prince has known only luxury and deserves the best of everything. Formerly He would always be followed by my great army; how can He now live alone in the desolate forest?”
Although Rāma and Lakṣman had grown up to become fierce fighters, to the emperor They were still his tender young sons. Daśaratha could hardly tolerate the thought of Their living a life of austerity and abnegation, along with the gentle Sītā. Anxiously he imagined the scene facing his two boys. How could They survive in the wild among carnivorous animals and venomous snakes?
The king continued, “Did you follow Them as they walked alone into some bleak and lonely land? What were Their last words? O Sumantra, pray tell me what They uttered as They were leaving, for this shall be my only sustenance for the coming fourteen years.”
Daśaratha stood up and looked into his charioteer’s face, whose head hung down and who was shaking with sorrow. With a choked voice Sumantra replied to the king, “The ever-truthful Rāma asked me to touch yours and Kaushalya’s feet on His behalf, O great king. He requested me to convey His fond farewell to all the ladies in the royal court, who are to Rāma just like His own mother.”
After bowing at the feet of the king and queen, Sumantra continued to speak with difficulty, describing his parting from Rāma and the others. Faithfully he recounted the exact messages the two princes had given him.
“Rāma, who was constantly shedding tears as He spoke, asked that Bharata be quickly installed as the Prince Regent. He left instructions that Bharata should accord all respect to His aged father and to all of His mothers, especially the grief-stricken Kaushalya.”
The charioteer then recalled the final angry words of Lakṣman. “When Rāma stopped speaking, Lakṣman, hissing like an enraged cobra, said, ‘For what offense has this virtuous prince been exiled? The king has carried out Kaikeyi’s order without considering its merit. Regardless of his reasoning, I find no justification whatsoever for the emperor’s decision to send away the sinless Rāma. Rāma’s exile will end in remorse. It contradicts all good sense and is against tradition and even scripture. Having performed an act which has caused nothing but pain to all the people, how can father remain as the king any longer? Indeed, I cannot even see in him the qualities of a father. For Me, Rāma alone is My brother, master and father!’”
Sumantra, having summoned up the vehemence with which Lakṣman had spoken, calmed himself down and described his last sight of Sītā. “The blessed princess Sītā stood silent as I prepared to leave. As though Her mind were possessed by an evil spirit, She remained motionless and distracted, heaving deep sighs. Gazing upon Her husband’s face, She suddenly burst into tears, covering Her own face with Her two bejeweled hands, which looked like two white lotuses. Then the three of Them stood watching as I drove the chariot away.”
Daśaratha asked Sumantra to describe his return journey and the charioteer replied, “I remained with Guha for three days, hoping and praying that Rāma would return. Finally I concluded that I would not see Him again until the full fourteen years had expired. I yoked up the chariot and urged the horses to move, but they remained stationary, shedding tears of grief. After much cajoling they finally moved and I proceeded on the path back to Ayodhya.”
Sumantra stopped speaking for some time as he struggled to control his feelings. After sipping a little water he continued describing the scene he had witnessed on his return. On all sides in the kingdom he saw signs of grief and separation from Rāma. Even the trees with their flowers and leaves looked withered. The lakes and rivers were dried up and everywhere there were beasts and birds entirely immobile, not even searching for food. The woods were silent and gave off none of their former fragrance. The parks and gardens in the city appeared desolate and deserted. No one greeted him as he entered Ayodhya. Everywhere were sighing men and women, lost in thoughts of Rāma. As they saw the empty chariot they let out tremendous cries of grief. Even the animals wore wretched expressions. On the tops of high buildings he saw noble ladies gazing mutely at each other, their eyes overflooded with tears. The city appeared devoid of all happiness, looking exactly like the empress Kaushalya, bereft of her beloved son.
After Sumantra stopped speaking, Daśaratha became pensive, feeling extreme regret. How had he stood by as Rāma had left? Why did he not reprimand the wicked Kaikeyi? He cursed his foolish attachment to virtue that brought about such an unvirtuous end. Where was the truth in banishing the truthful prince Rāma?
In a piteous voice the king exclaimed, “It was out of infatuation for my wife alone that I exiled Rāma. I did not seek any counsel with my ministers and wise advisors, being dictated to by the sinful Kaikeyi.”
Daśaratha wondered how he could have acted so contrary to his own good sense and wisdom. Surely this great calamity had suddenly happened by the will of Providence simply to destroy his race. The king sighed, feeling helpless in the hands of fate.
Turning to Sumantra, Daśaratha said, “O charioteer, if I have ever done you any good turn, then please quickly take me to Rāma! My mind is drawn irresistibly to the prince. If I am still the king today then let anyone fetch Rāma back to Ayodhya! I shall not survive for even an hour longer without Rāma! Where is that Rāma, whose shining face is adorned with pearl-like teeth? Maybe that mighty-armed prince has gone far into the woods by now. Bring me a chariot and I shall immediately make haste to see Him. If I do not soon catch a sight of Rāma, I shall reach Death’s abode this very day!”
Daśaratha had been hoping beyond hope that Sumantra might somehow have returned with his sons. Realizing the finality of Rāma’s departure, the king gave full vent to his terrible grief.
“O Rāma! O Lakṣman! O Sītā! What could be more painful for me than not seeing You here? You do not know that I am dying from agony, like a lost and forlorn creature.”
The emperor fell senseless onto a couch. Close to him Kaushalya tossed about on the floor as though possessed by a spirit. Seeing Sumantra she exclaimed, “Charioteer! Yoke up the chariot and take me to Rāma, for I shall not live another moment without Him! Where now is my son reposing, His head placed upon His mighty arm? When again will I see His charming features surrounded by curling black locks? I think my heart is as hard as a diamond; otherwise, why does it not shatter to pieces even though I do not see Rāma?”
Sumantra felt all the more agonized himself as he saw the grief of the king and queen. He tried to comfort Kaushalya. “I think your son will settle happily in the forest along with Lakṣman and Sītā. Indeed, I did not detect in Them any dejection at the prospect of living as ascetics. Shaking off Their grief, They appeared pleased upon approaching the forest. Sītā seemed especially happy; much delighted at the sights and sounds of the woods.”
Kaushalya, not appeased by Sumantra’s kind words, turned toward Daśaratha, admonishing him out of grief and love. “My lord, you are famous in all the three worlds for your compassion and kindness, yet you thoughtlessly banished your faultless son! How will your two gentle boys, ever accustomed to every luxury, live like hermits? How will the frail Sītā, a child of a mere sixteen years, survive the ravages of forest life? She has always been offered the very best of cooked foods and will surely not survive on wild roots. How will She bear the terrible roars of lions and tigers?”
Kaushalya became increasingly angry as she spoke. Her eyes reddened, and black streaks of collyrium ran down her cheeks. She censured Daśaratha for his cruelty.
“You have utterly divested Rāma of his right to be king,” she cried. “Even after returning to Ayodhya, Rāma will surely not accept the kingdom. High-class men can never enjoy items left by others. Rāma will therefore not accept the kingdom left by His younger brother, even as a tiger would not eat the food brought to him by another animal.”
Kaushalya’s mind was absorbed in thoughts of her son and she raved inconsolably. How could Daśaratha have perpetrated such an evil act? Kaushalya railed at the king, holding her head in her hands.
“Rāma has been ruined by His own father, even as a brood of fish are swallowed by their father. I believe, my lord, that you can no longer tell right from wrong. The main support for a woman is her husband; the son is the second. Therefore, like Rāma, I am also ruined, my husband having lost his good sense and my son gone away! This whole kingdom has been ruined by you. All your people have been destroyed. Only Kaikeyi and her son are happy!”
Kaushalya stopped speaking and began to sob uncontrollably. Daśaratha, already deeply remorseful, felt even more anguish upon hearing his wife’s words. Crying out, “O Rāma” again and again, he sat disconsolate. With great difficulty he gathered his senses and went before Kaushalya with folded hands, speaking in a trembling voice, his head hanging down.
“Be kind to me, O godly lady. You are merciful even to your enemies. What then to speak of me. The husband is always the lord for the wife in good or evil times. Seeing me to be sorely pained, you should not increase my grief by such harsh words.”
Kaushalya immediately felt sorry. She took Daśaratha’s hands and folded them around her head. Kneeling before him and weeping, she spoke hurriedly through her confusion.
“Now I am surely ruined for having spoken words disagreeable to my husband. I deserve to be punished by you, who I know to be always truthful. She is a wicked and low-born woman who must be beseeched by her worthy and virtuous husband.”
Kaushalya was afflicted by many strong feelings and her mind became completely distracted. Her grief, despair and anger at losing Rāma were now compounded by remorse and guilt at having upset Daśaratha. She had spoken in an almost hysterical manner.
“Pray forgive me, O great king. Overcome by grief I uttered unseemly words. Grief destroys patience, eradicates knowledge and confounds the senses. Indeed, there is no enemy like grief. Even a great blow from an enemy can be endured, but the smallest amount of grief is intolerable. The five nights that Rāma has been gone seem to me like five years. Even as I remember Rāma again my grief grows like the ocean receiving the rapid flow of many large rivers.”
As Kaushalya was speaking the sun set. Daśaratha, being comforted by his wife, fell into a fitful slumber for an hour. Upon waking he sat sighing and recalled something he had done when he was a young prince. Realizing that long past deed to be the cause of his present suffering, Daśaratha related it to Kaushalya.
“Without doubt a person receives the results of his own actions, good or bad, O gracious queen,” the king said. “He who acts without consideration of the results, both immediate and long-term, is surely a fool. If a man cuts down a mango grove because the trees have unattractive blossoms, planting instead the brightly flowering palasha trees, he will later lament when the bitter fruits of the palasha appear. By sending Rāma away I have indeed cut down a mango grove just as it was about to bear fruit. Now I am tasting the bitter palasha.”
Daśaratha felt as if his heart might burst. He maintained his composure with a great effort and continued. “A long time ago, as a youth and before we were married, I went to the forest to hunt. I had acquired great skills at bowmanship and could easily hit even an invisible target by its sound alone. Little did I know that this skill of mine, of which I was so proud, would yield such a disastrous result.
“It was the rainy season and the rivers were swollen. Going out at night on my chariot, I made my way to the Sarayu. I waited there in the darkness by the river bank for a buffalo or an elephant to come by. Soon I heard the sound of gurgling at a point nearby, although I could not see what caused the sound. Thinking the sound to be that of an animal drinking, I took out an arrow and released it. From the quarter where I shot my snake-like arrow there came a loud wail of some forest dweller. In distinct and pain-filled tones I heard the following cry:
“How has this weapon fallen upon a harmless ascetic like myself? To whom have I given any offense? I am a simple seer who has forsworn violence and lives only on fruits and roots. Oh, I am killed! What foolish person has hurled this arrow? This act will result only in evil. I do not grieve so much for myself but for my aged and helpless parents. Without me, their sole support, how will they survive? With a single arrow some ignorant fool of uncontrolled mind has killed me and both my parents!’”
Weeping all the while, Daśaratha continued, “When I heard that plaintive shout I was mortified. My bow and arrows fell from my hands. I was all but overwhelmed with grief and dropped to the ground, almost losing my senses. I scrambled toward the source of the voice with my mind utterly perplexed. There, lying on the bank of the river, was an ascetic wearing tree-bark garments. My arrow was protruding from his chest. Smeared with dust and blood, with his thick mass of matted hair in disarray, he lay groaning. He had come for water and the sound I had heard was the gurgling of his pitcher, which lay nearby with its water run out.
“Seeing me to be royalty, the ascetic looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and spoke angrily. ‘What wrong have I done, O king, that I should receive this terrible punishment? I came here to fetch water for my blind parents. Even now, as I lie here dying, my poor father must be wondering where I am. But what can he do? He is old and feeble and cannot even move. He can no more help me than could any tree help another which is about to be hewn down. Seek his forgiveness, O king. You should quickly make your way along this path to where he waits.’”
Daśaratha’s grief for Rāma was compounded by the grief caused by remembering this long past unfortunate incident. With difficulty he continued to speak.
“The young hermit, writhing in agony, asked me to extract the arrow. I hesitated, knowing that the instant the arrow was removed he would die. The boy reassured me, telling me that he was prepared for death. I thus pulled out the arrow. Looking at me in dismay, due to anxiety about his parents, the boy died, uttering the name of Viṣṇu.
“Seeing the ascetic lying dead, killed by me out of ignorance and folly, I wondered how I could make amends. I quickly filled his pitcher and followed the path he had shown me toward his parents. As I reached the hermitage I saw his aged and blind parents, sitting forlorn like a pair of birds whose wings have been clipped. When he heard me approach, the boy’s father said, ‘Do not delay, my son. Bring the water immediately. Your poor mother is in anxiety because you have been sporting in the river for a long time. Our lives depend upon you, dear child. You are our only support and indeed our very eyes. Where are you? Why do you not speak?’
“I was gripped by fear to behold the sage and I replied to him in a faltering voice, ‘O holy sage, I am not your son but a prince named Daśaratha. I have committed a most terrible and evil act out of sheer folly. Hearing your son collecting water, I mistook him for a beast drinking. I released a deadly arrow and killed the boy. As a result of my rash act your son has ascended to heaven, leaving you here. Please tell me what I should do now.’
“When he heard my story, the sage, though rich in ascetic power and thereby capable of burning me with a curse, restrained himself. Sighing in sorrow with his face bathed in tears, that old ṛṣi, who appeared exceptionally glorious, said to me, ‘Had you not come here and confessed, then as soon as the news of my boy’s death reached me, your head would have been split into a hundred pieces by my anger. Indeed, if one consciously kills a hermit engaged in austerity, then death is the immediate result. You are only surviving now as you performed this deed in ignorance.’
“The sage asked me to take him to the place where his son lay. I immediately lifted both of the elderly ascetics on my two arms and carried them to the river bank. Being placed near the dead boy they cried out in agony and gently stroked his face. The sage said, ‘Why do you not greet us today, dearest child? Why are you lying here upon the ground? Have you become displeased with us? Here is your beloved mother. Why do you not embrace her, my tender son? Please speak to us. Whose heart-moving voice will we now hear beautifully reciting the holy Vedic texts? Who now will tend the sacred fire? Who will comfort us with consoling words, deprived as we are now of our only support? My son, how will I be able to support your old mother?’
“The sage sat weeping for some time, lost in grief. Holding his son’s head he said, ‘Pray wait a while, dear boy, and do not yet proceed to Yamarāja’s abode. I shall go with you and speak to the god on your behalf, saying, “Although my son has been killed as a result of some former sin, he has in fact become sinless. Therefore grant to him those regions which are attainable only by Brahmins perfect in asceticism and study of scripture, or by heroes who drop their body while fighting fearlessly for the good of the people.”’
“Wailing piteously, the ascetic and his wife offered sanctified water to their dead son with mantras and prayers. I then saw the boy appear in an ethereal form along with Indra, the king of heaven. He gently consoled his parents, saying that he had achieved his exalted status as a result of his service to them. He said they would soon join him in heaven. The boy then left, seated next to Indra in a shining celestial car.
“At that time the sage said to me, ‘In order to release you from the terrible sin of killing an ascetic, which can drag even the gods down to hell, I shall pronounce upon you a painful curse. Just as I am dying now in the agony of separation from my son, so in the future shall you die in the grief of separation from your son.’
“After saying this, the sage had me light a fire and place upon it his son’s body. Along with his wife he then entered the fire. The two ascetics gave up their bodies and went to heaven, leaving me stunned and pondering the sage’s words.”
Daśaratha was suddenly afraid as he realized that, in accord with the sage’s infallible curse, his death was now near. Controlling his mind he called out for Kaushalya. His eyes were blinded with tears and his body was trembling. He said to his wife, “That curse uttered so long ago by the sage is now coming to pass. I shall soon die of grief. Come here, Kaushalya, for I cannot see you clearly. Men on the threshold of death have all their senses confounded.”
Kaushalya sat close to her husband and comforted him with soft words. Daśaratha became deeply absorbed in remembrance of Rāma. He longed for one last sight of Him. He felt anguished and remorseful, wishing he had somehow been able to stop Rāma from leaving. The king lay back upon the couch and spoke in a trembling voice.
“This grief is drying up my vitality even as the blazing summer sun sucks out the earth’s moisture. Blessed are they who will see the pious and handsome Rāma returned fourteen years from now. I can no longer see or hear anything. All my senses are failing along with my mind, just as the bright rays of a lamp disappear when its oil has run out. This grief born of my own self is rendering me helpless and unconscious, just as the current of a swift river wears away its own bank. O Rāma, reliever of my suffering, are you really gone? O Kaushalya, my dear wife! O Sumitra, pious lady! O Kaikeyi, my sworn enemy and disgrace of my family!”
Daśaratha lamented and tossed about in agony for some time. Gradually he became silent, his mind fixed only upon Rāma. Stricken with the intolerable pain of separation, the great emperor gave up his life during the night and ascended to the highest abode of the Supreme Lord.
(Continued ...)
(My humble salutations to the lotus feet of Brahmasree Krishna Dharma and I am most grateful to Swamyjis, Philosophic Scholars and Ascetic Org. for the collection of this great and wornderful Epic of the world. )
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