Ramayana
Page 18
Truly, I would have removed the stain I am.’
Then looking at Rama, ‘He who touches my body
touches not me; I am deep in myself where you live.
My Lord, you are where you stand
but
you are in here too, so who dare touch me?
My heart, my love, my fidelity are alone
things that only I control and they are yours always.’
Rama could not reply.
‘Would you rather the earth
that gave me
take me?’
Silence.
‘O my man elect: my man only.’
Sita heard herself asking Lakshmana to build a fire.
Rama nodded agreement.
Unnerved Lakshmana
burst out a hideous high-cracking laugh!
It was a shocker and its continuance smacked all at the sore:
a short high laugh that made each feel mocked
and drawn to their own shortcomings.
It seemed as though everyone was there
yet somehow looking away from the scene
whilst contemplating Sita,
the crown of the glorious war
about to immolate herself … End nobly her suffering
with husband the chaperone to her final breath …
A jewel-embedded bower was laid
on heaped wood and coal
so Sita had a throne.
A kingly fire raged tall soon enough
for Lakshmana was of course a fine fire-starter.
All the time Rama remained still
as though readying himself for utter peacetime.
He remembered their cottage in the forest
where once in the open he had fallen asleep on Sita’s lap,
and when he had fully rested he awoke to watch
raw wounds on Sita’s hands and cheeks
and Sita had said, shyly,
‘Rama, a crow was nipping me
but I could not disturb you. You lay there so beauteous.’
And here he was now watching Sita, beauteous as ever,
with toenails red as rubies,
in her tattered bark-skin, calling out to Fire-God,
‘O Agni, I surrender myself.’
Sita, who had lived the exile
of Lord Rama,
Rama, whose hands held eternity and a minute
in that moment
held back from the hands of a wife
who stepped
for her throne
in the fire
as though she was raised to her realm on the lotus.
Liquid fire become the flooding waters
of Time
’neath her feet.
And every bystander a witness.
Immolation’s accomplice
before the lord’s will.
So it is with the vessel, the bark of our being,
which in the very act of its separation
from its own flesh, own breath,
in the final air of its parting
it hearkens blindly after itself,
after just its name even
but cannot retrieve the sound
but cannot retrieve
the
sound …
So it was
in that split
Sita’s yarn was virtually spun.
Epilogue: Prayer
Agni and Brahma visit Earth.
Agni could brook no more.
Agni breaking through
into the fire.
Agni raising Sita.
Sita dripping in gold.
A golden doll.
Her head dropped
as one who has been
dipped in
shame.
Said Agni, ‘Lord Rama, if gold has been lost in mire
in mire it will glow for its beholder.
Let its essence find proof fantastic in Sita.
Neither skin nor even a hair is bereft.
She is yours to adore.’
Rama was astounded. And blessed Sita.
The gods were so disturbed by what they had watched
that only unto this moment
did Brahma
hover towards Ayodhya.
Sereneness was suddenly everywhere sunshine and breeze:
not a slip in the loveliness of the world could be felt
when Brahma, bearded, was speaking prayer-like.
‘Rama, of the trinity I am become Creation.
Shiva is Destruction and Vishnu is the Preserver.
We three have borne all existence
from the Supreme Being. We are subject
to the waters of dissolution and the fire of birth.
We are the range.
Though there are worlds upon worlds below
and worlds upon worlds above,
and there in the midst
Earth, the Supreme Being alone is everywhere
at home.
The Supreme Being is the heart.
The Supreme Being alone is timeless
and suffers neither birth nor death nor growth.
Such a one is void of beginning or end.
Or in-between.
Such a one is only you, Rama.
Rama, you are Vishnu
but you are more than Vishnu.
If you are not, Rama, existence is mere air.
You are the mantra, the syllable sacred.
The unknown, the unknowable
even to yourself.
In yourself you are a billion eyes and a billion feet
and you uphold time
by living in all that lives.
You are everything that dies and everything that revives.
You are the element, the space and the depth entire.
You are the range. The range unbound.
Rama, you are God.
Sita is purer than light. Sita is Lakshmi.
Sita is the journey of your existence,
the plenitude of your source.
Rama, without Sita you are mere air.
Rama and Sita, you are the twain essence of life.
You are the twain endurance of the essence.
You are the spirit. The spirit unbound.
You are the breath. The breath unbound.’
When Brahma had spoken,
the world stooped before Rama.
Rama, weeping, saying,
‘Lord, I am only man.’
Rama by Sita side by side
unable to move or utter aught
save all now and evermore praying
Shanti! Shanti! Shanti!
Acknowledgements
I AM GRATEFUL to the following writers for their advice: Imtiaz Dharker, Rachel Dwyer, Aviva Dautch, Ushma Williams and Paula Richman and to Archana Rao, at Faber and Faber, for being a reader of my version.
I am indebted to the inspired Helen Taylor for the Thresholds Project that put me in touch with the generous staff at the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology in Cambridge, in particular: Sarah-Jane Harknett, Mark Elliott and Sudeshna Guha (who was a reader of my version).
I am grateful to my editor, Matthew Hollis, for his belief in this project at its earliest stages. Above all my version owes a huge debt to my wife, Katherine Hoyle, for her constant love, enthusiasm and critical feedback.
The project was made possible by a Grants for the Arts award from Arts Council England, an award from The Society of Authors and from The Royal Literary Fund.
The translators of the Ramayana to whom I am most indebted are: William Buck, John Brockington and Mary Brockington, Michael Dutt, Romesh Chunder Dutt, Robert Goldman, Ralph T. H. Griffith, U. Thein Han, George L. Hart and Hank Heifetz, R. K. Narayan, Ray A. Olsson, Sanjay Patel, M. S. Poornalingam Pillai, Savero Pou, C. Rajagopalachari, Sachchidanand Sahai, Arshia Sattar, Kamala Subramaniam, Baljit Kaur Tulsi and Swami Venkatesananda.
Many enthusiasts and scholars developed my knowledge of the Ramayana. Chief amon
gst these were: Dewan Bahadur, Stuart H. Blackburn, Suniti Kumar Chatterji, Kathleen M. Erndl, Robert Goldman, Acharya Hemachandra, J. Kats, Anna S. King, Gauri Parimoo Krishnan, Ramdas Lamb, J. P. Losty, N. R. Navlekar, V. Raghavan, K. S. Ramaswami Sastri, V. S. Srinivasa Sastri, A. K. Ramanujan, Velcheru Narayana Rao, Paula Richman, Frank E. Reynolds, P. L. Amin Sweeney, David Shulman and Monier Williams and mostly, John Brockington and Mary Brockington.
Extracts have previously appeared in Bengal Lights, London Review of Books and Poetry Salzburg.
DALJIT NAGRA
About the Author
Daljit Nagra was born and raised in West London, then Sheffield. He currently lives in Harrow with his wife and daughters and works in a secondary school. His first collection, Look We Have Coming to Dover!, won the 2007 Forward Prize for Best First Collection and was shortlisted for the Costa Poetry Award. In 2008 he won the South Bank Show/Arts Council Decibel Award. Tippoo Sultan’s Incredible White-Man-Eating Tiger Toy-Machine!!! was shortlisted for the T. S. Eliot Prize 2011.
By the Same Author
LOOK WE HAVE COMING TO DOVER!
TIPPOO SULTAN’S INCREDIBLE WHITE-MAN-EATING TIGER-TOY MACHINE!!!
Copyright
First published in 2013
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Cover design by Faber
Cover image of Ramayana scene: Indian School /
Private Collection / Archives Charmet / Bridgeman Images
Monkey detail taken from Rama and Lakshmana, c.1634,
Indian School / Brooklyn Museum of Art / Bridgeman Images
ISBN 978–0–571–29489–3