by Ramesh Menon
Sita described how Rama broke Siva’s bow while she watched him from her window. She spoke of Dasaratha’s arrival and her wedding. She described the advent of terrible Parasurama, and the joy of returning to Ayodhya. But she said nothing about Kaikeyi, nor their exile, as if these were not worth speaking about. Anasuya smiled and smiled as she listened to the younger woman’s melodious voice.
When Sita had finished, the yogini hugged her. “How soft and lovely your voice is. I wanted to hear about your wedding, and now I have heard about it from you.”
Night was falling over the forest and Atri’s rishis were returning from the river with their kamandalus in their hands. The fires which lit that hermitage were like the flames on a dove’s breast; but all around them, the brooding jungle was absolutely dark. The tame deer had fallen asleep beside the munis’ huts, and some even within them. The stars in the sky shone like God’s ornaments.
Anasuya said to Sita, “Go to your husband now. He will be pleased to see you as you are.”
Like Lakshmi, Sita went to Rama, bashfully; and how his eyes shone when he saw her wearing Anasuya’s silks and fragrant with her unworldly perfume. Rama knew Anasuya had blessed Sita.
* * *
They spent that night in Atri’s asrama, and early the next morning they came before the great sage. Touching his feet, they took their leave of him. Some of the other rishis brought them to the edge of the jungle, to a trail that wandered into it.
They warned, “Always be on your guard, Kshatriyas. The jungle is full of rakshasas who love nothing better than human flesh. Keep your bows in your hands and don’t stray from the path of the munis.”
Those hermits also blessed them. Then, as the sun does a bank of dark clouds, Rama entered the Dandaka vana.
3. Deeper into the jungle
The Dandaka vana was another, primeval world. Everywhere they saw rishis’ asramas. Darbha grass grew profusely, as if just for the hermits, and fruit and flowers that munis love. All the forest, at least beside the rishis’ path, was alive with a sacred aura. As they made their way, they heard the chanting of the Vedas around them: as if it was the very air of this place.
Often a sparkling rillet would gush across the path, and they would cross it by stepping on the large stones in the flow. Now and again they would come upon a clearing with a charmed pool or lake with reverberant lotuses on its water, and its banks tangled with plants that belonged to a more primitive time of the earth. Purple and scarlet, violet and golden, they thrust elaborate tendrils and phallic stamens from feminine cups and leaves. It was an enchanted dimension, the heart of the jungle, and it grew stranger as they penetrated deep into it along the hermits’ trail.
Sometimes, herds of deer stood staring at them, fragile and quivering. The princes walked on in wonder, through some zones of the vana where rishis’ asramas were not far from the trail, and others devoid of any sign of men save the path at their feet. They walked until evening, when they arrived at the edge of a clearing and saw a sprawling asrama. As the kshatriyas stood unstringing their bows, the very oldest rishi of the Dandaka vana came forward to greet them.
“Welcome, prince of dharma. Rama of Ayodhya, your fame travels before you.”
That hermit and his fellows gathered round to stare at the blue prince. The eldest muni seemed satisfied with what he saw, and cried, “Welcome, Protector of the world, who are worthy of our worship!”
They fed the wayfarers with dark roots that were like none they had tasted, and uncommon maroon and crimson fruit, which weren’t any they knew, but their flesh was succulent and delicious. They spent the night with the rishis and discovered that these hermits were children of the forest who hardly belonged to the world of men. All night they kept their fires burning. Around them wolves howled, and once or twice a prowling tiger shattered the numinous silence with his roar.
The next day the princes rose early and went on, for some power seemed to call them deeper into the jungle. To take with them, the forest rishis gave them sweet, dark jungle honey from black bees, so thick that it was nearly solid.
On they pressed and the jungle grew stranger and stranger around them; it was another domain of time. The path still snaked on ahead, interminably. The trees were unfamiliar, with brooding presences. Creepers entwined them like parasitic lovers and climbed a hundred hands above, reaching for the sun. The birds in the branches were unknown; though their plumage was often breathtakingly colorful, they screeched weirdly rather than sang. All this jungle was an oppressive place, so unlike Chitrakuta.
Suddenly a great fear, a thing of sheer instinct, lanced through them. Lakshmana, who led the way, stopped still and pulled an arrow from his quiver. Sita cried out softly and clung to Rama. Rama also drew a shaft and set it loosely to his bowstring.
A rank purulence hung on the air and a deafening silence engulfed them. As they stood motionless, they heard stertorous breathing ahead; next moment, a dreadful being appeared before them, blocking the path. A tigerskin was wrapped loosely around his waist. Slanted crimson eyes glittered in his slavering face; a blood drinker’s fangs showed in his lipless mouth. He held a crude trisula in his hand on which the remains of his last three hunts were impaled, putrefied and flyblown. He was a rakshasa, twenty feet tall.
Before they could recover from the shock of seeing him, with a giant stride he was on them. He snatched Sita up and held her close, hissing like a monstrous lizard. In a reptile’s voice, but in a tongue of men, he cried, “Fate has decided you will have short lives. For I am Viradha, king of this jungle.”
He peered at them shortsightedly. “You are oddly familiar, but I don’t know who you are. You are dressed like rishis, and you must be depraved munis to be in the jungle with a luscious woman. A disgrace to the valkala you wear. But I will drink your blood now, and make your woman my wife. You can see she will be happy with me!”
He fondled himself obscenely. Sita trembled in the devil’s clutch and Rama dared not move because the rakshasa held her. But Lakshmana said defiantly, “Evil one, you are foolish to have crossed our path. You don’t know who we are; but you will die at our hands today.”
Viradha cried, “Tell me who you are! What are you doing in the heart of the Dandaka vana?”
Softly Rama said, “We are kshatriyas from the House of Ikshvaku. But tell us more about yourself, magnificent one.”
The rakshasa laughed, a shrill, feminine sound; and Sita shut her eyes in terror. Viradha said smugly, “I am the son of Jaya and Satahrada. With Brahma’s boon, I am invincible to every weapon in heaven and earth. Your puny arrows and your little swords cannot kill me, my strange princes. And I will slake my thirst with your blue blood today.”
Quick as thoughts, Rama shot him with seven arrows, eagle-feathered and tipped with gold. Those shafts burned like fire. They pierced the rakshasa’s hide and he screamed. But instead of killing him, the arrows fell out of him like burned twigs, smoking. With a tree-shaking roar, Viradha dropped Sita. Rushing at Rama and Lakshmana, he seized them up like babies in his massive arms and ran roaring into the heavy jungle.
Sita wailed, “Don’t leave me!”
Lakshmana drew his sword and hewed off Viradha’s left arm, and Rama the right; the monster’s screams were like those of an army being slaughtered. Black blood spouting from him, he dropped them and fell on the ground. They struck him deep with their swords. But he only screamed and cursed them; he would not die.
Rama cried, “Weapons cannot kill him. Strangle him instead.”
They held Viradha down together and fastened four hands around his thick throat. The rakshasa twisted this way and that. But the kshatriyas were strong, and slowly the demon’s eyes rolled up in their sockets. As he died, his forked tongue lolled out of his black mouth.
As soon as life left his immense body, there was a flash of light and a splendid gandharva stood before the princes. His hands folded, and dazzling the trees with his luster, he said in an exquisite voice, “You are Kausalya’s son Rama, the
savior. And your brother is the noble Lakshmana. My name is Tumburu and, as you see, I am a gandharva. Many years ago, my lord Kubera, guardian of the nine treasures, cursed me to be born a rakshasa. I begged him to take back his curse, but he said, ‘Dasaratha’s son Rama will kill you one day, and then you will be free of your fiend’s body and return to Devaloka.’
“For centuries I have waited for you to come. I have waited so long, I forgot who I was and believed myself to be just Viradha.”
Again the marvelous being bowed to Rama. He said, “A yojana and a half from here is the Rishi Sharabhanga’s asrama. Go to him, Kshatriyas, and seek his blessing. As for my rakshasa’s body, I cannot touch it myself. But if you bury it under the ground it will molder in peace and be earth again. And I can return to my home in the sky.”
Now Sita came flying there, sobbing and frantic. She saw Rama and Lakshmana alive and safe, and ran to them. Then she saw the gandharva and he bowed to her. They dug a pit deep enough to contain the swollen corpse of Viradha. They threw his arms in after his body, and his trident, and covered it all with earth and stamped on it. Bowing for the last time, Tumburu vanished in a blur of light. He went whistling like a tree full of birds, for the gandharva elves are the minstrels of Devaloka.
Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana set off in the direction Tumburu had indicated, toward Sharabhanga’s asrama. They came to a clear stream, in which the princes washed Viradha’s blood from themselves. They ate some of the invigorating honey the wild rishis had given them, and pressed on. They had no wish to spend the night alone in this jungle, at the mercy of its more dangerous denizens.
4. Sharabhanga
The sun was sinking in the west when they saw a clearing in the thick jungle ahead of them, and at its heart the wood fires of Sharabhanga’s asrama. Just behind the last line of trees, Lakshmana stopped abruptly. Rama and Sita came up beside him and they gasped. Out of the sky a shining chariot flew down, drawn by unearthly horses whose manes were blue flames.
Noiselessly it landed in the clearing; not even the horses’ hooves or the chariot wheels ever touched the ground. From that chariot stepped a king whose lambency rivaled the setting sun’s. He was tall and wore ornaments that seemed made of blinding starlight. His silks were of colors beyond the rainbow’s and flapped fluorescent in the evening breeze. Regally he stepped out of his amazing craft and his feet did not touch the ground!
As the princes and Sita watched from hiding, he paused in his stride for a moment, as if he sensed he was being observed. Then he went briskly into Sharabhanga’s asrama, followed by the others who had come with him, all of them resplendent.
Rama breathed, “Indra!”
They stood staring at the unearthly chariot. The horses seemed to be made more of green light than flesh and blood. Then Rama could not bear it any more. He said to Lakshmana, “Wait here for me, I will be back in a moment.”
But before he could step out from the trees, Indra and his Devas emerged from the asrama, crossed to their chariot, and flashed up into the sky at a speed that defied imagining. Rama stood rooted, gazing after the trail the chariot left, as it dwindled in a moment and vanished. The prince’s cry, hailing great Indra, froze in his throat. Neither did he hear the Deva king say to his companions, “That was Rama of Ayodhya. But we must not meet until the purpose of his birth is fulfilled.”
Something deep stirred in Rama and he smiled wryly at Sita and Lakshmana, as they also came out into the clearing to watch the chariot’s trail dissolve into the sunset.
They walked into Sharabhanga’s asrama. To their surprise, they found they were already expected and a welcome awaited them. Sharabhanga came to embrace the kshatriyas. Rama asked him, “My lord, who was he who just left your asrama?”
That ancient one smiled as he led them to where fine darbhasanas had been set out for his guests. Holding Rama’s hand lovingly in his gnarled ones, Sharabhanga said, “That was Indra come to take me to Brahmaloka, for my tapasya is ripe and moksha near.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. He squeezed Rama’s hand and continued, “But I heard you had come to the Dandaka vana. I said to Indra, ‘I must see Rama before I go with you to Brahmaloka.’ And I will go happily, now that I have seen you, touched you, and spoken to you.”
He laughed delightedly, putting his arms around the prince and hugging him. His manner was so lively he might have been a man of Rama’s own age; Rama felt quite overwhelmed with affection. When they sat on the grass thrones Sharabhanga had laid out for them, suddenly the sage leaned forward and said earnestly, “Rama, I have a lifetime’s tapasya. Take it from me as a gift.”
But Rama laughed, “I will have to earn your tapasya then, Maharishi, and I don’t know if I can. Besides, I do not seek other worlds just now, only a home in the Dandaka vana where Sita, Lakshmana, and I can live.”
The old one could not take his eyes off the dark kshatriya. He laughed happily at Rama’s reply. “Not far from here is Sutheekshna’s asrama. He will find a place for you to live in. Go west along the pathway of the rishis and you will come to the Mandakini. Walk on against her flow, and you will arrive in a gentle land fed by a score of streams. A colorful forest grows on the river’s bank, and you will see boats upon the water, laden with flowers. Cross the river and you will reach Sutheekshna’s asrama.”
He stared and stared, as if his eyes could never see enough of Rama’s face. Only that rishi knew whom he saw in the prince’s face; and light there that had shone before the world was made. Sharabhanga sat rapt and silent for a long time, gazing. Except for a great love, Rama himself knew little else of what the rishi’s fascination meant. That sage smiled again, and he sighed with the contentment of one whose very soul was full. He clasped Rama’s hand again and kissed it fervently.
He said, “One favor from you, my gracious prince! I know who you are, and, somehow, I think, better than you yourself do yet. And that is the way of the Avataras. But now, Rama, watch me with your loving eyes and let that be my final blessing as I shed this body of mine as a snake does its old skin.”
Before Rama could protest, Sharabhanga, excited as a boy, had his disciples build him a pyre. He poured oblations on to it, chanting resonant mantras. Then, his eyes never leaving Rama’s face, his palms folded to him, that rishi walked into the flames. Sita gave a small scream. But he was so calm, as if the fire did not burn him at all. As they watched, the fire licked Sharabhanga’s body to ashes.
They stood spellbound: Rama at strange, rich peace, for reasons he understood only dimly. When the fire died down, Sharabhanga rose from its ashes, youthful again. His limbs were coruscant and the same smile was on his lips. He bowed deeply to Rama; then, borne on a spirit wind, he rose straight into eternal Brahmaloka. Petal rain fell out of the realm of the Gods at Sharabhanga’s ascension.
The other rishis gathered around Rama. One of the eldest of them, their spokesman, said, “Rama, we live in this forest in terror. The rakshasas hunt us for food and for sport; and with each day, their evil grows apace.”
They led Rama to a grotesque memorial to the fear that stalked their lives. At the heart of the asrama, they had heaped a pale mound as tall as five men. The rishi said grimly, “These are the bones of our brothers who have been killed and devoured. Not the asramas on the banks of the Pampa, not those by the Mandakini, nor yet the ones built on the slopes of Chitrakuta are safe. We heard you had come to the Dandaka vana. We heard you are the savior and we thought our long prayers had been answered. Fear haunts us, Rama. We are not free from it asleep or awake, not even in dhyana. Will you help us? You are our only hope.”
Rama said quietly, “I give you my word, Lakshmana and I will do our best to rid your forest of its rakshasas. We shall be your hunters.”
The rishis blessed them. They spent the night there, and the next day some of the hermits came out to show them the way to Sutheekshna’s asrama. When the munis turned back, the exiles walked for a way through dense jungle, until they found themselves on the banks of their old friend the Mandakini.
They tracked the river upstream, pausing now and then to gaze at a crystal pool full of black lotuses or at some other vivid flower that grew shyly in the deepest thicket, as if being seen by the eyes of strangers would wither its beauty.
The jungle was exotic, full of trees that exuded the most unusual auras and stood laden with blooms of extraordinary shapes and pungent and heady scents. There were spear blossoms and those that looked uncannily like men’s heads. There were crimson plants, with perfectly formed sivalingas outthrust from yonic leaf cups.
The farther they went, the brighter and more unfamiliar were the birds in the branches. The monkeys no longer swung above them in troops but were lone and colorful, with faces like painted masks. Once a glimmering leopard stared down at them from a branch that overhung the path.
Lakshmana raised his bow, but Rama touched his arm and said, “This is his home; we are the visitors here. Look how handsome he is!” Green eyes flashing, a snarl on his lips, the leopard vanished without rustling the leaves.
They came to a valley of flowers that took their breath away. The trees were magenta and yellow, pink and white, purple and orange, as far as the eye could see, in a candescent blessing upon the earth. Scents from dreams hung in the air in this wonderland, and they saw boats moored on the Mandakini, brimming with flowers.
Ahead of them a mountain loomed, dark as twilight, and the valley of flowers lay in its shadow. Now some rishis stepped out of the trees on the far bank and hailed them across the river: “We hid because we thought you were rakshasas. We will bring a boat across for you.”
Sutheekshna’s friendly sannyasis ferried Rama’s party across the Mandakini, and they arrived in that legendary muni’s asrama.
