Shambuka Rama

by Mukunda Rao

  Rama shut his eyes and sighed deeply, in tandem, it seemed, with the mellifluous music of the flute that was now deep and intense, and longing to touch and encompass everything, like a river in its wake. ‘I really don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘I’m confused, and I have begun to realize that confusion is not such a bad thing after all.’

  Her heart swelling with tender feelings for her husband, Sita threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. ‘Rama, Rama,’ she cried, ‘I’m so happy for you. I know you are a man of truth.’

  Sita’s remark touched something raw in him. This had never happened before. He gripped her upper arms and held her away from his body. ‘What do you mean, Sita?’ he cried harshly, unconsciously squeezing her arms with his powerful fingers. ‘Do you mean you know the truth, that you know what is right?’

  ‘Rama, you are hurting me,’ she said, biting her lip in pain.

  Rama released her arms. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, regretting his momentary loss of balance.

  ‘What is troubling you, Rama?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, breathing hard and feeling awkward. After a long pause, he spoke in a voice thick with sorrow. He had thought he knew everything, he said haltingly, clumsily, as if the words he used were most distasteful to him. He thought he had answers to every question, solutions to every problem. All along he had been under the illusion that everyone loved him, and they all wanted him to be the king. He was blessed, that’s what he believed. Suddenly now, he was not sure of anything.

  Sita did not react; she was not just hurt but angry. Couldn’t he ever relax and let himself go, at least for a while? It was not worth brooding over the past and spoiling whatever little happiness came between them occasionally. There was something ugly about suffering. She sat stiffly, looking away from him, looking at the dark nothing over the hills beyond. A long time passed in awkward silence.

  Rama slowly began to see things. He saw how unkind and callous he had been, how his own suffering had made him insensitive to the feelings of others. It was heartbreaking. Regretting his harsh and foolish reaction, Rama took Sita’s hands in his. Reluctantly Sita turned to him, and his sad, remorseful face stabbed at her heart. The music of the flute had ceased, but now, yet another song came floating over the hill. And it made Sita forget herself and squeeze Rama’s hand in sudden excitement.

  Come, my moon-eyed bride,

  Come to the sea-side night,

  Come my headstrong wife,

  Come to kill my pride.

  The night is long,

  I’m far from land…

  He never knew Lakshman could sing, and sing so well! And the plaintive song tore at the brother’s heart.

  Rama awoke to the chirping of birds outside. The sun had already risen and lit up the world with his soft, invigorating radiance. Sita was standing by the window combing her hair. Sitting up and gazing at her lithe frame aglow in the morning rays, Rama cleared his throat, drawing her attention. Sita beamed in his direction, put the wooden comb back in her bag, and said, ‘I thought I’d get you milk. I also want to see if there is anything I can do in the kitchen.’

  Surprised, Rama asked, ‘Why should you?’

  ‘We should do some work to earn our food, no? This is not Ayodhya, my dear Prince Rama.’ Sita reckoned that if they were going to stay in the hermitage as guests for only a few days, perhaps it was not required, but if they planned to live there for a long period, then they better follow the norm.

  It seemed both Sita and Lakshman had already decided for him. It was amazing the way both of them had taken to the hermitage. Perhaps there was something in the very air here and something in the residents, who were warm and friendly despite being a little crude and unrestrained in their behaviour. Valmiki certainly had queer ideas. His peering at people while speaking to them was also a little intimidating. He scrutinized you as if you were a vegetable or fruit, the quality of which he needed to determine.

  I have lived like a moron all these years, Rama thought, reflecting on his past. He had behaved as if he didn’t have a mind of his own, as if he were a mere medium for the thoughts and feelings of others. What Valmiki had said was true. He had been fooled and he had allowed himself to be fooled. ‘My son,’ his mother had said the day he was leaving, tears streaming down her cheeks, ‘you must know the truth today. In name, I am the eldest queen, but I have never been dear to your father. It was just that in the flush of youth he fell in love with me and wanted me to be his wife. All these years I have suffered enough indignities at the hands of both your father and Kaikeyi. Still, I pulled on, for I believed you would make up for that loss with your love. Now if you go away, my life will be empty and worthless, and my condition worse than that of a maid. Please, Rama, my son, take me with you.’

  How many other truths were hidden from him? What other realities had his insensitivity blinded him to? Even the king’s charioteer, Sumantra, had argued that Kaikeyi’s demand was so reprehensible that it would be adharma to submit to it. Why then did his father keep quiet? Was he a victim of his own carnal desires? How could one overcome by lust possess the right to be the king? Sweat broke out on Rama’s face, and he felt a blinding pain in his head. He started pacing, talking to himself.

  ‘Enough of this foolishness, enough,’ he finally cried out. He must put an end to this misery; he must quit this endless struggle and become a hermit. There was no other way he could quieten his restless mind, no other way he could overcome his wretched suffering and the deep hurt caused by his father’s betrayal. But would he be able to do it? Was he prepared for that arduous task? Could he honestly, completely sever all his connections with Ayodhya? Did he possess that quality of mind and conviction to live nakedly the life of a hermit?

  He paused and looked around to make sure there was no one there watching his distressing soliloquy. His eyes caught a pale brown lizard on the wall, still and attentive like a witness. Its tiny tail quivered a little (or did it?), and then the creature went still again, still as a heart at death, and then suddenly, tch-tch-tch-tch-tch it chattered. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone through a gap in the bamboo wall.

  Rama breathed deeply to silence the thudding of his heart, folded his arms over his broad chest and stilled his body. He stood thus, as if challenging fate, when a worm of doubt crept into his head. He asked himself in anguish if he was succumbing to some self-destructive impulse due to his frustration and despair at feeling betrayed. Perhaps it was self-hatred that he wanted to plunge into the fire of asceticism?

  No. It could not be self-hatred or some destructive impulse, he tried to reassure himself. In the first place, he had never been enamoured of the prospect of becoming the king of Ayodhya. When it was announced that he would be anointed crown prince, he had accepted it merely as the natural course of action, being the eldest son of the king. No, he had never been attracted to the throne and the power that came with it. He sighed, turning over in his mind the shameful past. It was fate. They were all mere puppets in the hands of vidhi. Whatever had happened had to happen. He must now simply let go everything. He declared aloud: ‘Now, I must consciously, by my own choice, renounce the throne, not for fourteen years but wholly and completely. I must fix my mind on the world beyond this fragmented, woeful samsara; I must discover and live in the space within the heart.’

  Would Sita approve of his decision? Perhaps she could join him in his sadhana. But what would Lakshman do? He was made of a different mettle, wasn’t he? He was a man of action, not cut out to be a hermit, and why should he be? He must, therefore, persuade Lakshman to go back to Ayodhya, to his wife, and live like the prince he was. He could assist Bharat in running the affairs of the state. Bharat was too sentimental. Like a woman, he could be beautiful in his affection for people, but not tough and objective enough to deal with the complex affairs of the state.

  Rama allowed himself a smile of satisfaction at having finally arrived at the most profoundly sensible decision of his life. And it seemed to him that it
was the second decision he had taken entirely on his own, the first being his decision to go into exile, despite everyone except Kaikeyi resisting it.

  He felt light, uplifted and blessed. He had now to only open his wings and fly to his destination, which was the source of all wisdom and happiness. He made one more decision: He must send Sita back to Ayodhya. Why should she live the harsh life of a hermit? She must go and bear with this separation. Perhaps she could marry again, that is, if she so desired.

  He sighed, feeling heavy and holy. Another day had begun, another day away from Ayodhya, from his ailing father and suffering mother, another day towards himself. A few more days and he should be able to convince Sita and Lakshman to return to Ayodhya, and then he too would leave this place and start on his journey to the maharishi’s ashram, where he would formally relinquish the burden of samsara and take the ultimate diksha. He sighed again, wondering about the mysterious ways of maya. Suddenly the room looked different, as though it had been sanctified and charged with the sacred forces of the heavens.

  He saw his great bow and quiver hanging on the wall. Only a man of immense strength could lift and draw that unique dhanush. It was strong and heavy, with the two sinuous curves overlaid with gold, chased with minute designs of trees and flowers and animals; and, in the middle, the silver grip had grooves for the fingers to grip the bow firmly. This magnificent bow had come as a gift when he had won the lovely Sita in the swayamvara.

  The swayamvara stood out in his mind, as fresh as rain-drenched leaves, and vivid as the full moon. Before his turn came, three princes from neighbouring kingdoms, who all looked stronger than him, had struggled to lift the bow, let alone shoot the target. Unsure of himself, trembling at the prospect of failure, Rama had approached the pedestal upon which lay the awesome bow, gleaming in all its splendour. He had lifted his head and caught Sita’s eyes, large and penetrating, looking directly into his. Charged with a strength he had not known before, he had lifted the heavy bow with ease, and drawing the golden arrow to the full, stretched the length of his arm, his eye wholly focused on the glassy eyeball of the moving silver fish. Then he had released the arrow. After that, all that he could see was a joyous Sita rushing at him with a garland of flowers in her hands.

  For a long time now, he had not used the bow, and the leather quiver still held many arrows winged with eagle feathers. Impulsively, he went over to the wall and picked the bow. Gripping it in his left hand, he plucked the string with his right thumb, letting it vibrate and fill the room with its shivering melody. He felt goose pimples break out on his skin, felt his blood surge through his limbs and his heart beat against his chest like the hooves of a galloping horse. He twanged the string again and again. The thatched roof shuddered as if caught in a storm, and something cracked like an overstretched bone. He picked a crescent-shaped arrow and drew it against the taut string. If he released the arrow, it had the power to cut through the bamboo wall or sunder a man’s head.

  Suddenly, Rama’s hands trembled and something in him cried out: How could you pretend to be what you are not? You are born to rule the world. You are Rama, the invincible, the only one. He felt a tremor inside and his hand shook under the weight of the great bow. He dropped the arrow, lowered the bow and let it fall to the floor. He too fell on the floor and buried his head in his hands. I can’t go on like this, he said to himself over and over again.

  He sat thus for a long time, struggling with the tumult within him. Gradually, the exhaustion and emptiness within him began to give way to a different feeling, and he realized to his surprise that he was now feeling refreshed and cleansed. Just as he stood up, Sita came in, carrying a bowl.

  ‘Rama, what are you doing?’ she cried, her face wracked in fear. Or was it anger? He could not tell. He avoided her eyes, looking out of the window. He saw, at a distance from the cottage, some people looking towards the cottage. He did not realize that the twang of the bowstring had reverberated far beyond the confines of the hut. It had sounded like the single-stringed instrument ektara, thrummed erratically and fiercely, and that had drawn the attention of the people around.

  ‘Rama,’ she continued, with an edge of anger, ‘you scared the people.’ Her probing eyes considered him for a few moments before she spoke again: ‘You are a learned and intelligent man, and you know what is right and what is wrong. Still, if you’ll permit me, I would like to say something.’

  ‘There is no need for permission, Sita,’ he said, intrigued by the eyes boring into his, the same eyes that had smiled on him with admiration and love when he had lifted the bow at the swayamvara. ‘You are my wife,’ he said, as though he needed to remind her of that irrevocable bond.

  ‘I’m your wife, Rama,’ she said, a faint smile creasing her lips. She hesitated and then continued, ‘I have been wanting to ask you this question: When we left Ayodhya, why didn’t you leave the bow behind? Why did you choose to carry it with you?’

  ‘Why? Should I remind you that I’m a prince and as a prince I’m the protector of the dharma?’

  ‘You are no longer a prince, my dear husband.’

  To hear another utter these words shook Rama deeply. He looked out of the window, trying to calm himself. There was a man he could see at a distance, dark like the bark of a tree, unmindful of the world around him, swinging his axe at a log of wood.

  ‘Rama,’ Sita spoke again, the bowl still held in her hands, her voice now cool and cleansing like a stream, ‘you are the best judge. But I’ll say what I think, what I have been wanting to tell you. At the Rishimitra’s ashram, it was the most adharmic act on your and Lakshman’s part to have killed the forest dwellers when they were resting at the camp by the lake.’

  Rama could not believe his ears. ‘Sita,’ he cried, ‘what are you saying? You know they were harassing the rishis…’

  ‘That is what the ascetics told you. But these people, you know, have been living in that forest for several generations. You don’t know their side of the story and you didn’t care to find out. And then, Rama, you know that it is not right to kill those who haven’t offended you in any manner; you know that your dharma tells you that unless you are offended or provoked or your life is threatened, it’s wrong to kill anyone, even if he is a rakshasa. Still, you went ahead and killed those natives simply because the rishis told you they were harassing them.’

  This was no Sita of Ayodhya! She had never spoken so boldly, so defiantly before. His eyes flashed fire, and he asked sharply, ‘Whose side are you on?’

  She saw he was angry, but she couldn’t help it. She was the daughter of Janaka before she became Rama’s wife. Janaka was no ordinary soul but a great king, known for his compassion and righteousness. Being the daughter of such a father, it was her dharma to be honest, even if it hurt; that is what her mother had taught her, and she had taught her well. Now, Janaka’s daughter Janaki spoke, in a voice that had lain fearfully stifled in her for a long time.

  ‘Rama, I’ll tell you what I have been thinking from the day we left Ayodhya. You were supposed to wear the garb of a mendicant and live in accordance with it in the forest. But you chose to carry your great bow. I was scared when you killed those forest people, not as a king who would weigh the merit of the case before taking any action but as a merciless hunter. I dreaded the consequences of such an action. Did you leave Ayodhya and come to the forest, bow in hand, to protect the rishis by killing the natives of Dandaka?’

  She paused, studying Rama, wondering if she should go on. Rama was not looking at her but he was listening. She continued gently. ‘My dear, you know that a weapon – be it a sword, javelin, mace or bow – is an instrument of violence, of death. To keep the weapon is to be incited to commit violence, to kill. The touch of a weapon is like the touch of fire; it always destroys. Forgive me if I have hurt you. You know best what is right in a given situation, and you know the subtle nuances of dharma. I have spoken my mind with the greatest respect and love for you.’

  Rama was afraid he would betray h
is hurt and rage if he spoke. But he knew in the depths of his heart that what Sita said was as true as the fact that the moon followed the sun, as true as the fact that fire burnt everything before it. He also knew he was Rama, the prince of Ayodhya, cast out for fourteen years. He knew that he was a sad and indignant man, burning within with a thousand questions and doubts, in search of truth, and that he wouldn’t be at rest until he found himself. He held his silence.

  Sita now offered Rama the bowl she had been holding. ‘Drink your milk, Rama,’ she said in a caressing voice. He quietly accepted the bowl of milk. ‘All right, my lord,’ she said, trying to put him at ease, ‘I leave you to your thoughts. I’ll finish my work in the kitchen and come back soon.’

  Rama sat on the floor and put the bowl down in front of him. He sat erect, like an ascetic in meditation under a tree. To one side lay the great bow, like a corpse yet to be cremated. He tried to still his mind and bring his attention to the point between his eyes, as taught to him by his guru. It was futile, like trying to catch a flock of birds with a single hand. The birds flew away in all directions, and then they came back shrieking, whipping the air with their monstrous wings, and swooping down on him like vultures. Through this frightening uproar, he heard a voice calling him, as though from a distance: ‘Rama, Rama, O Rama.’ He opened his eyes and realized there was someone calling him from outside the hut. He got up and went to the door.

  Carrying a basket, Valmiki stood outside, grinning like the morning sun. ‘Ah, you are at home!’ he said, the grin growing wider. ‘I was about to leave, thinking you might have gone out.’

  ‘This is not my home,’ said Rama, with a wry smile.

  ‘The whole world is your home, eh?’ Valmiki teased.

  ‘Yes,’ Rama mumbled. ‘Since I’m a nobody,’ he said, trying to make light of the heaviness in his heart, ‘and since I belong to no land, at least for fourteen years, the whole world is my home.’ As he stepped outside, a foul smell assaulted his senses. Instantly, he put his hand up to his nose and glanced at the basket in Valmiki’s hand.