The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

  Meanwhile, Kausalya heard about Viswamitra’s mission and quickly prepared the princes to go with the rishi. They took their three mothers’ blessing, they made no distinction between them, and came to their father’s court. They were taller by half a head than even the kshatriyas of those times, who were at least a head taller than the tallest man of today. And they were magnificent: Rama was dark as a blue lotus and Lakshmana fair as a moonbeam. Both princes wore their hair down to their shoulders. Regal, powerful, handsome, poised, and so humble, they prostrated themselves before Dasaratha. Then they stood before him with folded hands, like two young Gods.

  Dasaratha said, “Brahmarishi Viswamitra has come to take you to the jungle, to help him complete his yagna. Go with him, my sons, and obey him in all things as you would obey me.”

  The princes bowed to their father and, without a word, crossed to Viswamitra’s side. They stood quietly awaiting his command. The muni rose and led them out into the sun. When Rama and Lakshmana left Ayodhya with Viswamitra, a scented breeze blew through that city. The flights of birds, and every other natural omen, were auspicious all around them. As the king and his ministers stood at the palace door, waving to the strange company of princes and hermit, the sky filled with ethereal music and there was a soft rain of petals of light.

  Vasishta looked at Dasaratha, and smiled.

  8. Kamasrama

  Viswamitra walked in front, his long strides leading quickly into the distance and out of sight of Ayodhya. Not once did the princes turn to look back, but followed the rishi, their quivers strapped to powerful shoulders, their swords bound to lean waists and their bows in their hands. Rama walked five paces behind Viswamitra, and Lakshmana five paces behind his brother.

  The hermit did not say a word, and the princes, too, kept his silence like a sacred thing between them. Just as it was evening, they arrived at the southern bank of the Sarayu. Twilight birds filled the trees in armfuls, like leaves ablaze with song.

  For all his fierce appearance, Viswamitra said gently, “Rama, take up water in your palms, and I will teach you the bala and atibala mantras. Then not hunger, thirst, nor tiredness will touch you on our way.” When Rama approached, the muni laid a hand on the dark youth’s head. “These mantras are Brahma’s daughters. I know of no one in the three worlds more worthy of receiving them!”

  He stared wistfully at Rama for a moment. Then the chant of the mantras spiraled from him like a flight of birds. It seemed to Lakshmana they flew down Rama’s throat, as the heir to Ayodhya repeated the arcane words after the sage. The other birds of dusk fell silent, to hear the syllables of wonder.

  After that initiation, Rama’s body rippled with new resonance. Viswamitra taught Lakshmana also the mantras, and the brothers worshipped him as their guru now.

  They prepared to sleep beside the whispering river, for night had fallen. As if it was a long-standing habit, they spread tall grasses into elegant mats for the muni and for themselves. When the hermit lay down, the princes also lay close to each other, for the first time in their lives on such beds. They fell quickly into tranquil dreams under the stars, as the moon crept above the trees and lit the river with silver light.

  * * *

  The next morning, Viswamitra was up before the sun. For a while, he stood gazing at the sleeping Rama by the magic light of dawn. Dew still lay on the ground and the river seemed hardly awake herself.

  Viswamitra called softly to the sleepers, “Rama, awake, the first sandhya is here. Rouse yourself, Lakshmana.”

  The princes awoke. Rested and smiling, they waded into the fragrant river. Standing waist deep in the flow, they worshipped the rising sun with Suryanamaskara. They came out of the water and prostrated themselves at Viswamitra’s feet. When he had blessed them, they resumed their journey. When they had gone until noon they came to a place where, shielding their eyes against the sun, now climbed to his zenith, they saw an enchanting sight below them: the dark Sarayu flowed in soft thunder into the Ganga, which fell from the stars!

  How the two rivers sparkled at each other’s touch. Viswamitra allowed himself a rare smile. They saw that the asramas of myriad rishis, all seekers after truth, dotted the banks of the rivers at the sacred confluence. It was one great hermitage, made up of a score of small ones.

  Moved, Rama asked, “Whose asrama is this? Even from here I can feel how ancient and holy it is.”

  Viswamitra said, “Deep ages have passed since this asrama was founded. But once Siva himself sat in dhyana in this tapovana, and Parvati, the mountain’s daughter, attended him. Those were the times when Kamadeva, who is formless now, had a body and a face. Kama came to this place and aimed his flower arrows at Siva. For a moment, Siva came under Kama’s spell and reached for Parvati. Then, realizing what he did, he turned to see who dared pierce him with such subtle shafts of lust. Seeing Kama in the bushes, Siva glared open his third eye and made ashes of the Deva of love.

  “The wind scattered Kama’s ashes across the kingdom of Anga. Anga got its name because Kama, who was bodiless now, was called Ananga. The rishis you see are Sivabhaktas, and the asrama is called Kamasrama. Let us go down to the munis. Many of them see through time as other men see the world, and they have been expecting us. Look how they come to welcome us. They are overjoyed at the advent of Rama of Ayodhya.”

  They had a welcome fit for the Gods from the rishis of Kamasrama. Those sages knew, better than Rama himself, who he was and why he had been born. Viswamitra and the princes decided to stay with them beside the two rivers. The brahmarishi, and the others as well, regaled the young kshatriyas with stories of times out of mind: of the bygone millennia of krita and treta, especially legends of fathomless Siva. Slowly, evening deepened into night. Stars like cosmic lanterns appeared above them. They seemed to traverse the sky ever so slowly, for their keenness to eavesdrop on the shining tales of those mystic hermits.

  9. The cursed forest

  They had half a night of sleep after Viswamitra called an end to the stories under the stars. At dawn they bade farewell to the hermits of Kamasrama and set out again. The rishis gave them a boat of reeds in which to cross the rivers that flowed as one to the sea from their confluence.

  As they rowed, with spray flying in their faces, they heard a turbulent rumbling as if the rivers were hollow in the place they forded. Rama, who was more at ease now with Viswamitra, cried above the water’s roar, “What is this noise?”

  The rishi replied, “The Sarayu springs in the high mountains, from the Manasa lake that Brahma made with a thought. The Ganga, which fell from the stars, you know about. This place of the echo is where the Sarayu flows into the golden Ganga. Worship the rivers; they are Goddesses and will bless you.”

  With folded hands the princes prayed to the swirling currents. It seemed to them that, in the bank of morning mist poised over the water, they saw two great and lovely faces. For just a moment, the faces shimmered in the air, their lips mouthing a blessing. But when Rama and Lakshmana glanced at Viswamitra to confirm the vision, he was already peering at the far shore as if he had seen nothing himself.

  They gained that shore and walked away from the river, which was so wide they could not see the rishis who stood across it, waving to them still. Now they entered a jungle that grew, thick and forbidding, not a hundred paces from the water. Viswamitra walked unhesitatingly into the vana, as if he saw an invisible trail leading into it. The princes followed him.

  Dark, dense, and damp was that forest. No light or wind entered it, to dry the rain and dew that lay upon the leaves and grass, or blow away an evil air that hung heavily. All was still, the silence deep and uncanny under the canopy of branches. An aura of stagnant age lay upon this jungle. There were no paths and it was plain that no men ventured in here. They heard snakes on the ground, bees in the air, and birds in the trees, all eerily loud. They heard their own breaths and heartbeats so clearly.

  Rama said, “Surely this is a perfect forest for rishis to have their asramas; but it is dese
rted. Even the songs of birds seem to grate in their throats from anxiety. Are there no flowers, streams, or pools here? Why is this jungle such an ominous place?”

  Viswamitra said, “Once there was no jungle here at all, but the kingdoms of Malada and Karusha, fertile and populous. When Indra slew the brahmana Asura, Vritra, he was guilty of brahmahatya. The rishis of Devaloka washed his sin from him with water from the rivers of heaven. This was the place where that water fell, with the sin. Indra cried out to Bhumi Devi in gratitude, ‘I bless this country to be as fecund as the fields of Devaloka!’

  “Malada and Karusha were the most luxuriant kingdoms in the world, renowned even among the stars. But then a scourge in the shape of a rakshasi came to this place. Her name is Tataka and hers is a twisted tale: for she was not born a rakshasi but the child of a yaksha called Suketu.

  “Suketu had no children; he performed a tapasya to Brahma, to bless him with a son. Brahma did not give Suketu a son but a daughter, as strong as the yaksha could have wished any child of his to be. When Tataka was a ravishing young woman, Suketu gave her to Jarjara’s son, Sunanda, a handsome young yaksha.

  “In time, Tataka gave birth to a boy she named Maricha, whose death will bring you fame one day, Rama.” The prince looked startled at the prediction. Viswamitra continued: “Sunanda died soon after his son was born and Tataka was unhinged with grief. Her hair hanging loose, drunk on forest brew, she went to Agastya’s asrama. With her infant on her hip, she made advances to the great rishi. Agastya, bright as flames, cursed her, ‘Shameless woman! Be a rakshasi as monstrous as your heart is full of darkness. Your beauty will be a thing of the past. You will feed on flesh, and all the creatures of the earth will hate you.’

  “As soon as the curse was pronounced, Tataka’s lissom body was transformed into demon flesh. She fled screaming from Agastya’s asrama. She came to a jungle stream, her heart on fire with weird and unfamiliar lusts. When she looked into the water the face she saw reflected there, glowering back at her, was not her own but a face of terror. It was the face of Tataka the rakshasi, for fear of whom no man and few beasts enter this forest any more.

  “She lives a yojana and a half from here, and drinks the blood of any creature that ventures into this jungle. Her son has grown up and left her. She lives alone, in torment under these trees, baying the moon through chinks in the awning of leaves, and waiting for her savior to come to deliver her.

  “Rama, the prophesy is that you will free Tataka from her curse. Don’t balk at killing her because she is a woman. She is wretched and evil, and you must rid this jungle of her.”

  Rama bowed before Viswamitra and, smiling sweetly, said, “When my father sent us out with you, he told us, ‘Go with him, and obey him in all things as you would obey me.’ Muni, I never disobey my father.”

  Rama flung back his handsome head, black locks brushing his shoulders; raising his bow, he pulled on its string so that the jungle echoed with the virile twanging. A short way before them was a small hillock that thrust itself out from the surrounding entwinement of trees; from here, Viswamitra and the princes heard a puzzled roar. Tataka was amazed that anyone dared enter her forest and announce themselves so foolishly.

  “Aaaaoough?” she roared like a surprised tigress, only louder. She loomed over the hill to see who the fool was. Her face was masked in mud, slime, dried blood, and worse. Her crimson eyes were glazed, her lips drawn back from her fangs in a snarl. Her hair was caked into braids of filth; her hands were raised in threatening claws. Her savage features blotted out a good piece of the sky, and she was not much smaller herself than the hillock she straddled.

  When she saw them, she roared louder. She spoke no words any more, not even to herself, but only made vile noises. She clawed up fistfuls of earth and stones, and flung them down at Viswamitra and the princes. She did a demented dance on her hill, hoping to frighten them into running from her, so she could have the pleasure of chasing them before she caught and ate them. They were just three puny men; that much she could see, even with her faded vision.

  But the oldest of the three raised his hands and chanted a mantra that pierced her black heart like an astra of fire. She roared louder still, and hefted a man-sized boulder to hurl down on them. But then the young one who was dark as a blue lotus raised his bow. With an arrow fiercer than a rishi’s curse, he cut her arm off at the elbow. The boulder fell on her own feet and how she screamed, her great body shuddering. The other fair young warrior strung his bow. Playfully, he cut off her nose and her ears, so black blood spurted from her face. Howling like a storm, she vanished before they could hurt her any more. She had made herself invisible with maya.

  They still heard her raging beyond the crest of the hill, and more rocks and stones came raining down on them as they climbed the slope. But as if she knew her time had come, the fight had gone out of Tataka. Rama and Lakshmana paused halfway up the hillock. They pulled at their bowstrings again, so the rakshasi’s screams were drowned and the earth below them shook. Suddenly Tataka’s screams stopped. She was stricken with a terror she had not felt for an age. She had fainted with that fear and with the pain of her severed parts. Her sorcery grew weak and they saw her again.

  But up she leaped. Hadn’t she drunk the blood of a hundred young fools like these? She pulled up a tree with her good hand and came lumbering over the hilltop. She loomed over them, screeching raw abuse. But Rama waited with an arrow fitted to his bow and the string drawn to his ear. As she plunged at them, he dropped onto a knee and shot her through her heart. With a sigh, she fell; like a strange avalanche, she rolled down the hill until she came to rest at Viswamitra’s feet. They saw her rakshasi’s form had changed in death. She was beautiful again and had a smile of pure release upon her face.

  There was a flash of light throughout that forest when Tataka died: a light of the Devas. An unearthly voice, an asariri, spoke to Viswamitra. “We bless you, Brahmarishi, for bringing Dasaratha’s brilliant sons to make this place clean again. Fare you well on your journey. And fare you well on all your journeys, Rama, for there are many before you.”

  The light was gone. Viswamitra said quietly, “Indra.”

  The rishi saw the youths had knelt at his feet for his blessing. He raised them up gently and, now, proudly as well. Though he had always known who these princes were, where was the proof of their stunning valor before they killed Tataka? In some satisfaction, Viswamitra settled for the night in the heart of that jungle, with Rama and Lakshmana beside him. As they slept they felt an uncommon breeze flow in sweet currents through the trees above them, as if those ancients were being awakened from a long nightmare. The princes drifted off along the river of dreams, and they fancied they felt the hearts of the old trees respond to that fresh draft in a thousand springs they had suppressed from Tataka’s overweening evil.

  * * *

  When they awoke, to the joyful songs of birds in the trees above them, they saw their dream had been just a shade of the truth. All around them was the gushing outflow of a long-withheld spring! A riot of flowers of ten vasanthas hung from the trees in every imaginable color: champaka, asoka, punnaga, and delicate mallika blossomed overnight at Tataka’s death. The air was no longer dank and purulent, but crisp and sweet with a thousand ineffable scents.

  Birds gave excited throat to their deliverance. Deer walked shyly up to the princes and the rishi, and nuzzled their faces in their hands. They saw the canopy above was, in fact, far from opaque; today fingers of sunlight reached down to the floor of the forest. While the rakshasi was alive, even the sun had avoided her lair. The mango trees, palasas, and palms were heavy with fruit, ripened in a night, in supernatural abundance. The jungle celebrated more than the death of Tataka. It was ecstatic at the advent of Rama, who had slept under its branches.

  As the princes went on their way, they saw the vana was strewn with a richness of clear pools and forest streams chatting through curving aisles of trees, and jungle paths revealed. Life had returned to the provinc
e of death, and celebration was everywhere. Even Viswamitra seemed moved. His eyes strayed from Rama’s face to the miracle in the jungle around them, and then back to the prince’s dark features. Abruptly, he raised a hand for them to stop. He said, “I am so pleased, I must give you a gift today.”

  Rama said, “But you have already blessed us; what gift could be greater than that?”

  Viswamitra replied, “For two young kshatriyas on the threshold of life, the gift of devastras. They will help you someday against enemies far greater than Tataka. These are weapons only the restrained should have, and you, Rama, are born so. Now I am sure of who you are; no one else could have killed Tataka. Come, sit here with me.”

  When Rama sat, facing the east, Viswamitra taught him the mantras to summon the occult weapons. The rishi himself had the astras from Siva, long ago, when he was still a king and had need of them. When Rama spoke the secret mantras, the lords of the astras appeared before him. They were neither in this world nor yet in the next: they stood between realms, their bodies of pristine light. The eyes of some were turquoise flames; others had locks of green tongues of fire.

  They said to Rama, “Now we are your slaves; we will do your bidding, whenever you want.”

  Rama said to them, “Dwell in my mind, until I have need of you.”

  They melted into him, and he glowed more than ever. Viswamitra said to Rama, “To teach what you have learned is to learn it twice over. Even if your brother had none of the greatness he bears so humbly, he would deserve to have the astras just for his love of you. Devotion like his is not of this world. Rama, share what I have taught you with Lakshmana.”

  Rama taught his brother the mantras, and the Gods of the weapons appeared before Lakshmana as well. He, too, had them enter his spirit in splendid forms.