by Mukunda Rao
Now, sitting cross-legged, watching Lakshman disappear between the trees, Rama breathed hard and tried to concentrate on nothing. But the mind was a cauldron of thoughts, brewing endlessly.
‘Who am I? What am I?’ he asked aloud. He asked himself; he spoke to the elements; he spoke to the universe. He had to learn everything anew. He had to understand everything all over again. There was no answer that came his way, and he stayed with the question. A long time, an age, a yug seemed to pass. Then, all of a sudden, thoughts began to crack and burn like arani wood.
He was the wind that penetrated and touched everything; the hill that sat serenely in the wind like Shiva’s bull; he was the sky that held within its womb the secrets of existence. He was the sun that lit up the world and was light unto oneself. He stood up, straight as an arrow, and gazed upon the world below. Somewhere from that world came Shambuka, dark and huge and naked but for a loincloth wrapped around his buttocks. He came roaring like a sea in humour.
‘Ah! Rama,’ he shouted, ‘you here, like truth in search of itself. So foolish, no?’
‘Namaskar,’ Rama greeted him.
‘No need, no need. You are me and I am you, right? Then who is greeting whom?’ Shambuka laughed and went and sat on the root of a tree. Studying Rama, he asked, ‘What is it, Rama? You look sad.’
‘I have been thinking,’ said Rama.
‘There is no harm in thinking,’ said Shambuka.
They were surrounded by trees, which stood tall and alert like witnesses. The sun was young and soft, and a gentle breeze hovered over them like a caring mother. The sea, though some distance away from the hill, roared occasionally, making its presence felt like thoughts from the underside of the mind.
‘I have been thinking about why you left Ayodhya,’ Rama began gingerly. What Parvati had told Sita could only be a small part of the story. He wanted to hear the full story from Shambuka. He wanted to know the truth. ‘Is that so important?’ Shambuka asked. Rama nodded gravely. It was as important as understanding why he was sent out on nothing less than a fourteen-year exile; why Brahman scholars hated Shambuka and wanted him killed; why Valmiki was considered a wicked poet and why, although he lived in a hermitage where power and desire were seen as empty pursuits, he chose to write the story of a prince whom he didn’t think much of. He wanted to know why Sita loved him like the earth loves her creatures, and why his brother should sacrifice his family life and accompany him like a slave. In short, he wanted to know why the world was what it was, and why his life was the way it was.
‘My friend, you are really frightening. It seems you did not ask even a single question before you came here; and now, you are asking too many questions, the answers to which no one has.’
‘But you can at least tell me why you left Ayodhya. Why…’
Shambuka raised his hand and stopped Rama from speaking further. ‘Why?’ he asked rhetorically, scratching his chin. Then he spoke rather solemnly. ‘There was a time when I was critical of your culture and was against the Brahman scholars and their books. But no more. And I’m no enemy of Ayodhya, though I still think that the culture there is all wrong. Perhaps for the many living there, it is the best. I have no quarrel with them and no desire to argue with them and change their views. But I wish to live differently, and that’s how some of us find ourselves away from your civilization, trying to live a life we think is right for us.’
‘But you really think the way we do things in Ayodhya is all wrong?’
Shambuka knit his brows and stared at Rama. What could he say? That Ayodhya was beyond repair? There was much in the Brahman philosophy that had been borrowed from other traditions, especially from non-Brahman traditions, but the Ayodhya Brahmans had used them cleverly, with cunning metaphysical twists, to serve their own interests and to bolster their spiritual authority. By inventing divine sanction for varnabheda, caste distinction, the new generation of Brahmans was dividing the society into impervious, irreconcilable and antagonistic castes, which could only result in the retrogression and degeneration of Ayodhya. With their diabolic theory of karma and hierarchical notions of knowledge systems, notions of Brahman and atman as being separate and different from the body and the world, their spirituality was trapped in a hopeless dualism. And by pitting moksha against samsara, they were creating eternal opposites and sowing the seeds of perpetual conflict, guilt and fear. Samsara could never be antithetical to moksha, for moksha could not be outside samsara. The yoni and linga, by themselves, were barren, empty; only in their union was there liberation. But would Rama understand all this? Was his mind ripe enough to receive the truth?
‘First tell me,’ he asked gruffly, ‘why do your gods hate the dark-skinned Shudras?’
‘It’s not that the gods hate the Shudras,’ Rama tried to explain rather half-heartedly, ‘but God has decreed that it shall be the dharma of the Dasyus to serve royalty, the Brahmans and the merchant classes.’
Suddenly it seemed to Shambuka that it was a waste of time speaking to Rama. He was too deeply caught in the quagmire of the shastras. Perhaps he lacked the courage to question Brahman authority. ‘You would have been a good king, Rama,’ said Shambuka mockingly. ‘A fine king you would have made of the Brahmans and the merchant classes and the chieftains. I wonder why they conspired to drive you out. A costly mistake they made.’
Blushing with embarrassment, with confusion, Rama looked away. He remained silent for a long time. Then, he said softly, ‘Maybe I was not happy with what was happening. Maybe they weren’t too happy with me either.’ His face twisted in shame and despair. He stood up and started pacing up and down the little stretch between the rock he had been sitting on and the tree stump Shambuka sat on. He had never been so nakedly emotional before and it took him some effort to calm his thudding heart and express what lay deep within.
Rama began to tell Shambuka about an incident that had occurred in Ayodhya. Once, a man had robbed grain from a shop. King Dasharath wasn’t well, so Rama was asked to arbitrate. On speaking to the man, he learnt that the man was without a job; he had five children, and they were dreadfully poor. The punishment for robbing was flogging in public, that is, if the man repented for his crime; otherwise, and if King Dasharath so willed, his right hand was to be severed. But Rama felt that that would have been cruel and unjust, for the man was desperate and suffering. So he let him go free, with a warning. He also asked the minister to give the man a bag of rice from the royal store. The minister didn’t like his judgment. He thought it would send the wrong signal to the Dasyus, and the merchants would be very angry.
Rama paused and looked at Shambuka to see his reaction. Shambuka grinned, drumming his thigh. ‘And then?’ he urged Rama to go on. Rama continued, telling him about the case of a Shudra boy who had tried to elope with the daughter of the village chief. The Ayodhyan law viewed such scandalous acts most severely. The boy had to be hanged in public, or his genitals cut off, or both. Rama’s father asked him for his opinion. Rama talked to the girl and to his great surprise, the girl wished to die along with her lover.
‘Your young heart revolted at the idea of killing the boy. And you had been just married!’ There was an edge of sarcasm in Shambuka’s voice.
Rama stared at Shambuka with some annoyance. Then he continued his story in a heavy voice. He had suggested the boy be banished from the country. With this decision, he thought he had saved the boy’s life, but this action turned out to be worse than death for the boy. By sending him away from his family, friends and community, Rama had turned him into a chandala. He was surprised, though, when the king approved of his suggestion. The soft punishment could help win over the Dasyus and suppress the rebellion brewing among the Shudras. It was only later that Rama had learnt from his mother’s dasi that the boy was actually from the Naga community. If the boy had been hanged, the Nagas would have killed the village chief, and there would probably have been an armed rebellion.
‘And then?’ Shambuka egged Rama on. More than twenty years ha
d passed since Shambuka had left Ayodhya. Unlike Valmiki, he had not cared much to hear the stories, often distressing, from the people who had fled Ayodhya and sought shelter at the hermitage. But now, coming from Rama, the Prince of Ayodhya himself, he was curious.
Rama obliged. He also welcomed this opportunity for catharsis, needing to empty his mind and cleanse himself of the disease that had begun to eat into his vitals. He told Shambuka about many other unpleasant things that had happened. He expressed his regret for not having been able to stand up to what he believed in his heart to be right.
One day, all of a sudden, the king had stopped consulting him, saying he was too young to be involved in governance. Further, the king reasoned, he had just got married, so he ought to enjoy life rather than be bothered about politics.
It was at this time that Rama had also realized he was very popular with the people, particularly among the younger generation. Wherever he went, people flocked to see him, and they sang his praises and declared that they wanted him to be their king. ‘Lord of Compassion’ and ‘King of Justice’ is how they referred to him. Then, something happened that broke his heart; in fact, it whipped up his rage like nothing else had done before. One morning, a maid was found dead in the palace garden. She had been strangled to death.
Shambuka looked furious. ‘A dark-skinned woman,’ he said, gritting his teeth, ‘with firm breasts, wide hips and strong thighs, is one of the good things of life the gods have decreed the high-born should enjoy, eh?’ Then he asked cruelly, ‘How many maids did you impregnate, Rama?’
‘Shambuka,’ Rama cried hotly, ‘I am Rama!’ He placed his hand on his chest, as though taking an oath. ‘And I always speak the truth. I have not looked at any woman, apart from my Sita, with desire, let alone touch another woman.’
Regretting his harsh words, Shambuka put his arm around Rama. ‘So you were an ideal hero of the people!’ he said, with an apologetic smile.
‘In a way,’ he said, as if speaking to himself now, ‘I’m happy I left Ayodhya.’
‘You did not leave,’ Shambuka remarked pitilessly. ‘They drove you out.’
‘Ah, yes. That’s a fact. It’s also a fact that I feel relieved to be away from a house where kama ruled over dharma, where all talk of dharma and moksha was a hoax.’
‘Away for fourteen years,’ remarked Shambuka.
Yes, when Rama thought of fourteen years, the pain came back tenfold. He stared at Shambuka. What did he have to do with Ayodhya now? It was all over and done with. ‘They did not want me,’ he cried, shaking his head in despair.
‘Perhaps the people wanted you to be their king, the good king they never had. Perhaps they are hoping you will return soon…’
Rama leapt to his feet. What was Shambuka suggesting? That he should break the vow and return to Ayodhya? It was blasphemous even to think of it.
Shambuka laughed, studying Rama’s flushed face. Was it fear or hope he saw on Rama’s face? Hope that he would, somehow, be saved? Fear that all was lost? Or was there bubbling in Rama the beginning of a revolt? Shambuka shook his head, though his eyes glinted with mischief. No, he was not asking Rama to do anything. How could he? If Rama was genuinely disgusted with his life and wanted to renounce the world, then he should bury his conflicts, forget Ayodhya and proceed to embrace sanyasa. But if Rama felt strongly about going back to Ayodhya and taking charge of the rotten situation there, then it was a different matter. Then he needed to go and nothing could come in his way.
‘Are you suggesting that that should be my dharma?’
‘That you should ask yourself, Rama,’ replied Shambuka.
Rama was in a quandary. What was Shambuka saying? Was it possible to break his vow and return to Ayodhya? Could such a thing be done at all? He broke out in a sweat. What would the world think of him? That he had disobeyed his father or that he obeyed his conscience? Was he meant to reject the advice and teachings of his gurus or listen to the wise Shambuka and return to be the king of Ayodhya? Would the world think that he had abandoned his dharma or that he established a new and liberating dharma in the world?
Rama remained in anguish for a long time. When he finally lifted his head, the sun had moved and a lengthy shadow had fallen on the rock where he sat. He stood up. Shambuka sat with his eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips.
‘Shambuka Maharaj,’ he said.
‘Oh, cut that nonsense, Rama,’ cried Shambuka, but did not open his eyes.
‘I cannot decide,’ cried Rama heavily, and started pacing up and down, twigs and dried leaves of many summers forming a crisp carpet beneath his feet. ‘But I must,’ he added, nodding to himself. Suddenly, he paused in his tracks and his eyes lit up. ‘Shambuka, if I decide to return to Ayodhya, will you come back with me?’
Shambuka opened his eyes and burst into his usual roar of laughter. Then he beckoned to Rama. ‘Come, let’s go and ask the sea; let’s ask the Ancient One.’
Rama did not move. ‘But there is one thing I must know before I decide,’ he said.
‘Oh Rama, you still won’t let go of your doubts, will you?’ Shambuka guffawed. ‘You want to know if I really killed a Brahman; you want to know if I killed my guru?’
Rama nodded. That’s what his teacher had told him: that the Shudra Shambuka had killed a Brahman, and then with the help of his friends, had escaped from the city. Rama had to know the truth; it had to be now or never.
Shambuka said grimly, ‘That’s the official version of my escape from Ayodhya, isn’t it? But what do you think, Rama? Do you think that I am capable of killing a Brahman, and my own guru, at that? And if I had done so, do you think it would not affect me, not leave me wracked with guilt?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rama whispered hoarsely.
‘Suppose,’ Shambuka challenged, ‘I admit that I did murder a Brahman who happened to be my guru and my wife’s father, would you kill me, Rama? Kill me with your bare hands?’
‘I might,’ said Rama, his face blank, betraying no emotion.
Shambuka giggled as though most amused by this sudden turnaround in their conversation. He then moved with long, quick strides and placed himself before Rama. Closing his eyes, he drew the energies in his body to the point between his eyes. Rama lowered his arms, as if readying himself to receive the dark secret, the secret that would change his life and the destiny of Ayodhya. An age seemed to pass before Shambuka opened his eyes, which now looked into Rama’s with invigorating yet calming empathy.
‘Rama,’ he said quietly, ‘I’ll tell you something which I haven’t shared with anyone else so far. Listen carefully. Usually, during the nights, after our meal and after the other students had gone to sleep, my guru and I would sit outside the cottage, discussing certain complex concepts in the texts. Some of these texts were quite old and nobody knew who had composed them. Sometimes, to know how well I had read these texts, or to test me, he would ask me questions. I don’t know if he found my answers satisfactory, but he never told me I was wrong. He would just nod, give a smile and say, yes, go deeper, go deeper and see what the eye cannot see and the mind cannot comprehend.
‘One such night, I told him I had a question that had troubled me for a long time. “Please tell me: Who is a Brahman?” My guru said, “Brahman is the beginning, the end and the beyond. It is the bija from which this Brahmanda, this whole universe, has emerged; it is the womb of nothingness from where time is born.” He went on thus until, at some point, he stopped abruptly. Then he said, “Why do you ask? You can articulate this better than I can. But remember, you only understand It, you do not know It. And I do not know It either.’
‘What did he call you?’ Rama asked suddenly.
‘Ah! He called me Shyam, for that’s the name I had given myself.’
‘Please go on,’ urged Rama.
Shambuka continued and it seemed it was a different Shambuka speaking. He did not laugh or smile; instead, there was an edge to his voice as he continued. ‘I said, “Sir, I did not ask what Brahman is. I ask
ed: Who is a Brahman?”
‘My teacher gave a sigh and gazed at the darkening sky for a long time. Then, in a voice thick with pain and sadness I had not known before, he said: “Brahman is a tragedy. It is an unforgivable sin that a community should give itself a name that is sacred and ineffable, that transcends nama and roopa.
‘“No, we shouldn’t have done that, we should never have appropriated this blessed term as an appellation for a community, for a caste. A true Brahman, one might say, is one who is dedicated to jnana, who is in search of brahman. That way, many of our ancient gurus and authors of important texts were Brahmans. Not by birth, but in spirit, in their thought, deed and manner. Look at you: You are not only a Brahman by birth but in spirit too. That’s what I like about you. But, you know, the same cannot be said of all those born in Brahman families.”’
Shambuka allowed himself a slight smile, and gently put his hand on Rama’s shoulder. ‘You know, Rama,’ he continued in a steady voice, ‘at the time he didn’t know that I was born of a Shudra womb. But he was a good man. Very intelligent and knowledgeable. And if you must know, he was part of the group of Brahmans your father had chosen to codify the new laws and compose the Dharmashastra. If I know him well, I think he never forgave himself for being a part of something he never believed in, something that went against all his learning. He never admitted it openly, he dared not, but I know he regretted that. And yet, upon knowing that I was a Shudra, he wanted me arrested and punished. How does one understand his strange behaviour, Rama?’
Rama stepped back as though he had been slapped. There was silence; neither man spoke. In the thick of that stillness, there was the faint sound of waves breaking on the shore. ‘So,’ Rama spoke severely, ‘because the guru went against his own understanding of the truth, because he lent his name to a shastra he believed should never have been composed, because he betrayed his calling, he had to be killed. Isn’t that the truth, Shambuka?’
