That is when Sita knew Ram’s worst fears had come true. The people had gossiped. Ayodhya had mocked its king and queen.
‘Wait for me,’ she told Lakshman, ‘I have forgotten something.’
She went back to the palace and instructed the cook, ‘Pour ghee generously on his rice, even if he protests. He will not admit it but he likes it.’
She said to the lady who cleaned his room, ‘Make sure you mop the room after you sweep. He will not complain but dust bothers him.’
She said to the man who arranged his clothes, ‘Make sure you sprinkle the scent of jasmine on his upper garments. He will never demand it, but he likes the perfume.’
She said to the gardener, ‘Every morning prepare a garland of white lotus flowers and deep-green tulsi leaves for him. He is too shy to ask you for it.’
She said to his masseur, ‘He prefers the oil slightly warmed, and be gentle when you massage his feet. He has not got used to the royal footwear yet.’
She then boarded the chariot and said, ‘Let us go, Lakshman. All is well.’
Sita turned around. There was no one to bid her farewell. Her sisters were still asleep. Even the handmaidens slumbered. The streets were deserted. Was it that early? But the sky was red, ready to receive the rising sun. And she heard the conch shells announcing that Ram was seated on the throne, ready to receive the courtiers and his subjects. Against the dawn sky, the bright yellow flags of Ayodhya fluttered proudly.
Marathi folk songs speak of Sita’s pregnancy cravings and of the last-minute instructions she gives while leaving for the forest.
Folk songs often speak of how women are jealous of Sita’s happiness and want her to suffer. Thus they project their own life into the Ramayana.
Sita had promised to make offerings to the river Ganga when she was leaving for the exile. This is one more excuse often made to take Sita out of the palace back into the forest.
The Padma Purana states that Sita heard the Ramayana from two parrots when she was a child. The parrots did not know the whole story. Sita felt they were lying and in trying to force out the rest of the tale she accidentally killed one of the pair. The surviving parrot cursed Sita that in her life she would also be separated from her mate. Tales such as these make Sita’s exile an inevitable consequence of her own actions.
Lakshman Conveys Ram’s Decision
Lakshman was silent as the chariot rolled into the forest. This was a different route, a narrow route, not the great royal highway that cut through Kosala’s rich farms and orchards. She would not see Guha. There would be no river to cross, just a desolate mountain pass. ‘Never seen this part of the forest before,’ she said. It was rocky and barren. A lizard ran before the chariot. Sita chuckled. Lakshman remain unmoved.
The chariot finally stopped. Sita alighted, eager to walk amongst the trees. Lakshman remained seated. Sensing he had something to say, Sita paused.
Lakshman finally spoke, eyes to the ground: ‘Your husband, my elder brother, Ram, king of Ayodhya, wants you to know that the streets are full of gossip. Your reputation is in question. The rules are clear on this: a king’s wife should be above all doubt. The scion of the Raghu clan has therefore ordered you to stay away from his person, his palace and his city. You are free to go wherever else you please. But you may not reveal to anyone you were once Ram’s queen.’
Sita watched Lakshman’s nostrils flare. She felt his embarrassment and his rage. She wanted to reach out and reassure him, but she restrained herself. ‘You feel Ram has abandoned his Sita, don’t you?’ she asked gently. ‘But he has not,’ she stated confidently. ‘He cannot. He is God; he abandons no one. And I am Goddess; I cannot be abandoned by anyone.’
‘I don’t understand your strange words.’
‘Ram is dependable, hence God. I am independent, hence Goddess. He needs to do his duty, follow rules, and safeguard reputation. I am under no such obligation. I am free to do as I please: love him when he brings me home, love him when he goes to the forest, love him when I am separated from him, love him when I am rescued by him, love him when he clings to me, love him even when he lets me go.’
‘But you are innocent,’ said Lakshman, tears streaming down his face.
‘And if I was not? Would it then be socially appropriate and legally justified for a husband to throw his woman out of his house? A jungle is preferable to such an intolerant society.’
The words of Sita were like a slap in Lakshman’s face. Ram was not like Jamadagni who beheaded his Renuka. Ram was not like Gautama who cursed his Ahilya. Ram accepted even the soiled berries of Shabari with love.
‘You were not even given the dignity of being told. You were tricked into leaving the palace,’ said Lakshman.
‘You judge him, Lakshman, but I love him. You see your brother as an ideal and are angry because he has not lived up to your expectations. I see my husband for what he is, and understand his motivations; at every moment he strives to be what he thinks is best. I will not burden him with my expectations. That is how I make him feel loved. And he sees me, knows that I will support him no matter what, even when he resorts to such a devious route like an errant child,’ Sita said with a smile. ‘Go back home; observe Ram well. Know that the man who calls himself the husband of Sita will never remarry. Of the king of Ayodhya, I do not know.’
‘This is not right. I can’t stand this nobility,’ shouted Lakshman.
‘Imagine what would have happened if Ram had refused to obey his father. Imagine what would happen if Ram refused to banish his wife. People would forever pass snide remarks about him, even if his actions could be justified. It is not about being right. It is about being a king who is above all doubt. To be such a king, he needs our support.’
‘What will you do now? Where will you go? I was told to leave you near the hermitage of sages so that you will find refuge,’ said Lakshman.
Sita looked at her brother-in-law, older than her, taller than her, battle-scarred and weary, looking down at the ground, looking like a child consumed by shame.
With a smile, she said, ‘I know the forest well, Lakshman. I remember more years here than in the palace. Do not worry about me. I am not happy with this situation, but I accept it and will make the most of it. Thus I submit to karma without letting go of dharma.’
A mystified Lakshman returned to Ayodhya. Sita stayed back in the forest, smiled and unbound her hair, for when the farmer abandons the field, the field is finally free to return to being a forest.
In the folk songs of the Gangetic plains, Sita asks Lakshman to fetch water. He says there is no waterbody nearby. So she asks him to pierce the earth with an arrow and cause water to spring out as he always did in the forest. He tells her to do it herself as he does not want to stop the chariot. Sita uses the power of her chastity to create a well. This proves to Lakshman that she is indeed chaste and has not thought of Ravana since the fire trial.
In regional Ramayana s, in keeping with a motif found in many folktales, Ram asks Lakshman to kill Sita and bring proof of her death, either her eyes or her blood. Lakshman, however, spares Sita and takes the eyes of a deer to Ram instead.
In a Bhil song, Ram wants Lakshman to kill Sita but Lakshman does not, realizing she is pregnant. In Telugu songs, Ram even conducts funeral rituals for Sita assuming she is dead.
Public readings of the Uttara-Ramayana are forbidden because the tragedy may upset the earth, Sita’s mother, and result in earthquakes.
When Lakshman returns to the palace, he has a philosophical conversation with Ram on the nature of reality. This is the Ram Gita found in the Adhyatma Ramayana.
Sita Weeps as Surpanakha Gloats
When Sita wept finally, she wept for Ayodhya, the imagined powerlessness that makes people snatch power through gossip.
As she walked into the forest, she observed the absence of boundaries. There was nothing to distinguish the crop from the weed. Everything had value. In nature, nothing is pure or polluted. Culture excludes what it does not valu
e. Nature includes all.
Sita heard a flute. The sound led her to a patch in the forest that was as dark as night. Here she saw glowing figures: a man in the centre and many women around him. He made the music; they danced around him. Neither was bound to the other by law or custom. There were neither expectations nor obligations, only immense affection and understanding. So many possibilities, Sita thought.
‘One day, in another lifetime, Ram will be Krishna and Sita will be Radha. They will dance together in joy,’ shouted the hopeful trees.
‘But duty will call. He will leave the village to go to the city. Her heart will be broken once more,’ said the blades of grass, stretching themselves to comfort Sita.
The darkness gave way to a harsh sunlight. The trees were weeping. The birds were howling. The serpents were wailing. ‘Ram has banished Sita,’ they cried. ‘Ayodhya does not think she is good enough for it.’
Sita calmed the trees and the birds and the serpents: ‘Weep for my Ram who is locked by rules, unable to breathe free in the palace. I am back in the forest, where I can do whatever I please, whenever I please. I am no longer anyone’s wife; I am now a woman with child. Gauri is not bound to bow her head and watch her step any more; I am now Kali. Come, let us swim in the river and eat Shabari’s berries.’
Under the berry tree, Sita found Surpanakha, full of hate and rage, gloating. ‘They rejected you as they rejected me. Now you suffer as I do, stripped of status as I was stripped of beauty.’
Sita smiled, and offered Surpanakha a berry. ‘These are really sweet, as sweet as the berries in Mandodari’s garden.’ Surpanakha was surprised. She had expected to derive pleasure from Sita’s pain. But Sita was not in pain. ‘Surpanakha, how long will you expect those around you to love you as you love them? Find the Shakti within yourself to love the other even when the other does not love you. Outgrow your hunger by unconditionally feeding the other.’
‘But I want justice,’ said Surpanakha.
‘How much punishment will be enough? Ever since the sons of Dashratha disfigured you, they have known no peace. Yet you rave and rant relentlessly. Humans are never satisfied with justice. Animals never ask for justice.’
‘I am not an animal, Sita. I will not be treated as one.’
‘Then be human. Let go and move on. They who hurt you cannot expand their mind. But surely you can.’
‘I refuse to submit.’
‘You trap yourself in your own victimhood. Then be like Ravana. Stand upright while your brothers die, your sons die and your kingdom burns, imagining your own nobility. Who loses, but you? Cultures come and go. Ram and Ravana come and go. Nature continues. I would rather enjoy nature.’
Surpanakha picked up the berry offered by Sita. It was indeed sweet, sweeter than any lover’s impatient, lustful gaze. She ate another berry and smiled. ‘Now I will race you to the river,’ shouted Sita as she ran for the stream. Surpanakha giggled as she jumped into the waters. Once again she felt beautiful.
Many authors wonder about what happens to Surpanakha. Many retellings make her responsible for Sita’s rejection by Ram. So while some authors see Sita’s fate as an outcome of patriarchy, many also see it as an outcome of women’s jealousy.
Reference to repairs of damaged noses by surgery (rhinoplasty) in the Sushrut Samhita has led people to conclude that Ravana’s surgeons repaired Surpanakha’s nose.
In Rajasthan, bards narrate the story of Surpanakha’s rebirth. She is born as Phulvanti and Lakshman is reborn as Pabuji, a great folk hero. They are destined to marry but Pabuji uses every excuse not to consummate the relationship. Like Lakshman, he remains the celibate ascetic-warrior. Surpanakha’s love remains unrequited.
The Thief Becomes a Poet
She was a queen after all, with every limb covered with exquisite jewellery. All alone in the forest, seated on a rock under a tree, contemplating her next move, she looked like a lonely nymph. She naturally caught the attention of a bandit called Ratnakar. He moved menacingly towards her with his sword. ‘Give me your gold,’ he growled.
With no trace of fear on her face, Sita removed a pair of bangles and handed them over with regal grace.
As the bandit examined the bangles, Sita asked, ‘Why do you steal?’
‘I was a farmer once, but the pain of burning forests to clear land for fields was unbearable. I was a hunter once but the pain of killing animals was unbearable. So now I steal. There is no pain in taking things from humans who have taken things from nature,’ said Ratnakar.
‘Why steal at all? Why not become a tapasvi like Shiva, outgrow all hunger?’
‘I have a family to feed,’ said Ratnakar, intrigued by the strange, bejewelled lady in the forest.
‘That sounds like a good excuse. But tell me, will your family who enjoys your loot also suffer the punishment that will be meted out to you when you are caught by the king?’ asked Sita.
‘Of course they will,’ said Ratnakar.
‘Are you very sure?’ asked Sita.
The bandit decided to check. And to his great disappointment, his wife said, ‘Why should the children and I suffer for your crimes? You are the head of this household, responsible for feeding us. How you do so is your concern.’
‘My family is no family at all,’ said the bandit, when he returned, with drooping shoulders. ‘I feel so alone.’
‘Open your eyes, expand your mind and you will learn to stop blaming the world for your problems and you will accept your family with all its limitations,’ said Sita.
‘How?’
‘Sit down and keep repeating the one word that very naturally springs from your mouth.’
The bandit sat down and the only word he could utter was ‘mara’, which means ‘death’. He kept repeating the word for hours, and slowly as his mind calmed down, the world inverted itself on its own. ‘Mara, Ma-Ra, Ma, Ra, Ma, Ra-Ma, Rama, Ram …’
‘Who is this Ram who calms my mind so?’ he asked Sita.
Sita told him the story of Ram, of his birth, his marriage, his exile, his war, his triumph, his return and his coronation. She did not disclose that she was the wife who accompanied him to the forest, the wife whom Ravana abducted and Ram rescued, the wife who was cast out following palace rumours. But the tone of her voice betrayed her identity: Ratnakar was in no doubt that this was the queen of Ayodhya, the wise daughter of Janaka that many travellers spoke of.
‘This story calms my turbulent mind. Let me chant his name and think about him some more.’
‘Who will take care of your family while you are busy meditating and finding answers to your life’s problems?’ asked Sita.
‘Time they took responsibility for their lives as I have taken for mine. We are responsible for our own actions. We alone have to face the consequences of our choices,’ said Ratnakar.
So Ratnakar sat in one place, calming his mind by thinking about Ram and his tale. Days passed. He did not budge from his position. Sita kept watch, eating fruit from nearby trees, drinking water from the river, sleeping on rocks. She saw termites make a hill around Ratnakar’s body and realized he had gone deep into meditation; he felt no pain, heard no sound, smelt no fragrance. No apsara of Indra could seduce him. The bandit was transforming. The inner fire of tapa was turning him into a sage.
Then one day, a pair of lovebirds sat on the branches of the tree above. An arrow struck the female of the pair and she dropped to the ground. The male circled around its mate, wailing piteously. The sound disturbed the bandit’s meditation. He opened his eyes, emerged angrily from the termite hill and cursed the hunter, ‘May you who separated the lovers never find happiness.’
The curse came out in verse. From pain was born poetry.
The bandit decided he would spend the rest of his life composing the story of Ram in verse. ‘I shall call it Ramayana,’ he said, ‘the story of Ram.’
‘It will be known as Valmiki’s Ramayana,’ said Sita encouragingly.
‘Who is this Valmiki?’ asked Ratnakar.
‘You,’ said Sita, ‘reborn out of the hill of valu or sand.’
‘You are my guru, you made my rebirth possible.’ Valmiki bowed down and touched Sita’s feet with his forehead. ‘I don’t know who you are. But clearly you have been abandoned by your family as I have been abandoned by mine. Let me take care of you.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ said Sita.
‘Then take care of me.’
‘Only if you expand your mind, include your wife and children too. They may have abandoned you but you must not abandon them.’
Valmiki nodded his head and returned home. Sita followed him.
Ratnakar’s wife, Gomti, screamed at him, demanding to know where he had been for so many weeks, and why he was dressed like a tapasvi, covered with ash and wrapped in clothes of bark. She wailed at the misery of her life, how she had had to fend for herself and her children, of the nights she had spent without food, comforting her starving children. She cursed her husband and her fate and the gods. She wept uncontrollably. Valmiki did not react. When she calmed down, he apologized and hugged her. She started to weep again.
Then her gaze drifted to Sita. ‘Who is this?’ Gomti asked, her gaze suspicious. ‘Your mistress?’ Then she looked at him: unkempt and dirty. ‘Can’t be,’ she scoffed.
‘My husband left me in the forest, banished me from his home. I have nowhere to go. Your husband invited me to your home. Will you accept me as your guest?’ asked Sita.
‘We have nothing,’ said Ratnakar’s wife, looking at Sita suspiciously. How could someone abandoned by her husband look so calm? ‘But I guess we can share nothing.’
Sita smiled and gave her royal robes and jewellery to Valmiki’s wife. As daughter-in-law she was expected to wear this bridal finery to uphold the reputation of her husband’s house. Now she had been relieved of that burden. She could finally wear the clothes of leaf and bark of forest dwellers she had always longed to wear.
Sita: An Illustrated Retelling of the Ramayana Page 30
