The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

  Rama said softly, “My lord, I have been happy in the Dandaka vana. My exile has not been an ordeal, but a joy. How else would I have met all the holy men I have during these years, and learned what I have from them? But I don’t think my father owes any honor he has to me. He earned his place in heaven with a virtuous life.”

  As he thought of Dasaratha, Rama’s face was briefly clouded by sorrow. But he put aside those sad reflections and said, “We seek a quiet place to live in, these last years we have left in the jungle. Can you help us, Muni?”

  Agastya thought a moment, then said brightly, “Do you know the true story of this jungle called the Dandaka? In ancient times, Dandaka was your own ancestor; he was Ikshvaku’s brother. He abandoned this land of his because Sukracharya, the Asura guru, cursed it. It was no forest then and such blight came to this kingdom that for five hundred yojanas, even down to the Vindhya mountains, it was a desolation.

  “In the days when man and beast had fled the cursed land, a jungle sprang up here by dark sorcery: though no clouds would gather in the sky or even the wind blow through this place. No rishi dared build his asrama here because this forest was a home of evil, where only rakshasas lived. No Devas or gandharvas came here for fear.

  “One day, I wandered down from the Himalaya and fate brought me to this place. I was the first man to enter the Dandaka vana in an age, and the rain followed me and the wind, unleashed; we had a storm like the deluge. Bolts of lightning fell from the sky, immolating many of the rakshasas, and it rained for ten days without let. How the parched earth welcomed my coming.

  “Fell diseases, Yama’s messengers, thrived in this forest. But I stilled them with mantras, and I burned the flesh-eating plants that grew at night’s heart with fire from my mind. I had carried blessed seeds from Himavan with me; I scattered them through the endless darkness. Noble trees sprang up here, and bore flowers and fruit. At my tapasya, the rivers of the earth flowed back through the Dandaka vana; lakes and pools formed, with lotuses floating on their waters again, and swans.

  “When they heard the old forest was transformed, the rishis came back. But the curse of Sukra had not been exorcised entirely. Parts of the jungle were still fastnesses of evil and not all the rakshasas had gone away. For many years, they were quiet. But Rama, since the day you arrived on Chitrakuta, a madness seems to grip them. By sun and moon, they come out of their lairs to hunt our people. As if the devils know their time is short and want to indulge themselves while they are still alive.

  “Sukra’s curse on this place was removed when your eyes first fell upon it. I have heard that in the east, where you lived for ten years, there are no rakshasas left. But rid us also of the demons in the south. Fate has sent you to us for this.”

  Rama inclined his head gravely, to say he would do as the muni asked. Now Agastya looked at Sita, and said warmly, “What a rare woman your wife is. Poets speak of women’s natures as being as fickle as lightning: when their men are favored by fortune they are happy to be their wives. But as soon as their husbands fall on hard times, they abandon them. But not so this jewel of Mithila. Care for her always, Kshatriya; she is a pativrata, a goddess among women.”

  Sita blushed; her eyes filled with proud tears.

  Rama said, “We are moved by your love, my lord. If you will tell us of a place beside a river where we can live, I will clear the jungle of its rakshasas. Sita will be happiest if we are also near some flowering trees.”

  For just a moment Agastya paused to think, before he said, “Two yojanas from here, near the Godavari, is Panchavati. It has a wealth of fruit trees and savory roots; it has herds of gentle deer. I would love nothing better than to have you spend the rest of your exile with me. But it is not to be. Great events have been conceived in time’s womb and wait to be born into the world. To Panchavati you must go, Rama; your destiny awaits you there.”

  Agastya’s lofty brow was knit at what he saw lay in store for the prince. He shook his head to clear it of that vision, and said somberly, “Yes, Panchavati is truly beautiful and quiet; just the place for you to build an asrama. Do you see that wood of madhuka trees, which stretches almost to the horizon? Pass through it and you will come to a lofty nyagrodha. From the nyagrodha, you must climb north. Panchavati is not far. Spend the rest of your exile there.”

  Rama rose and touched Agastya’s feet; and Lakshmana and Sita after him. They made a pradakshina around the shining weapons he had given them. Then, picking them up and taking the rishi’s blessing with them, they walked away in the direction he had indicated.

  8. A friend in the wilderness

  Through the interminable wood of madhuka trees walked Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita. At last, coming out from under, its green ceiling, they found themselves at the foot of a hill. Between themselves and its gradual slope grew an immense nyagrodha, its branches falling in screens of aerial roots around its stupendous trunk. It was old and knotted, perhaps even a survivor of Sukra’s curse. Few leaves adorned its branches in this season, and the princes saw a gigantic eagle perched on the tree, preening himself.

  Drawing an arrow, Lakshmana whispered, “A rakshasa waiting for us. What a surprise he is going to get.”

  But Rama restrained him, and cried up to the bird in a friendly voice, “Who are you, great one?”

  The eagle peered down at them, then he looked away; and then he looked at them again. Abruptly, giving throat to excited cries, he broke into a little dance on his branch, until he said in perfect human speech, “Children of Ayodhya, I am a friend of your father’s!”

  Rama sat down under the tree. To Lakshmana’s dismay, he undid his sword and quiver and laid them on the ground. The great bird flapped down majestically and settled near Rama; Lakshmana stood tense, his bow strung and ready. The eagle was as tall as Rama. He was old, and descended from the pristine race of Garuda. Rama sat smiling and admiring him: his golden plumage, his snow-white cap feathers, his beak curved like a scimitar and talons like daggers. His expression was haughty as he looked askance at Lakshmana out of flashing green eyes, as if to say, “Fool! Am I not too noble to be a rakshasa?”

  Rama said respectfully, “Mighty one, tell me about yourself.”

  The splendid bird said in his uncannily human voice, “Brahma’s grandson Kashyapa Prajapati had many daughters. One of them was Shyeni. Vinata had two sons, eagles of light. One is Aruna, the sun’s sarathy, and the other is Garuda, on whom Vishnu rides. Incandescent Aruna married Shyeni, and two sons were born to them: Sampati the older and Jatayu the younger. I, Rama of Ayodhya, am Jatayu.

  “My prince, the forest you are going toward is an evil place. If you allow me, I will stay with you and be your guardian. When you go out to hunt with Lakshmana, I will watch over Sita.”

  The bird glanced at Lakshmana, who had not yet returned his arrow to its quiver. Jatayu said dryly, “With my life if need be.”

  Rama embraced Jatayu. “My father often spoke of you: how you and he hunted together and fought the war against the Asuras. I am so happy to meet you, noble Jatayu. I accept your offer gratefully; I am flattered you will be our companion.”

  When he heard that Dasaratha had spoken of Jatayu before, Lakshmana thrust his arrow back into its quiver. He folded his hands to the eagle, who inclined his head imperiously at him. They set off together and Rama wondered if, when he sent them this way, Agastya had known Jatayu would be waiting for them at the nyagrodha. The eagle flew along above them and they followed, on a course he seemed to know well.

  Rama said to Lakshmana, “Our father used to tell me that Jatayu is a great warrior. He always spoke warmly of him, like a brother; as I hardly heard him speak of anyone else.”

  When they had climbed a way, and the air was cooler, Jatayu glided down to the ground. The Godavari flowed near this sylvan place, and it was rich with apple, peach, and pear trees, and darbha grass grew everywhere. They found a natural clearing, fringed with pine, with an auspicious feeling about it, and decided to build their asrama there. A smal
l stream, a tributary of the river, flowed through this clearing and a fine breeze carried the scent of the lotuses that floated upon its water. Away on the shoulder of the mountain, they saw herds of deer; nearer them, peacocks strutted with their tails unfurled in nitid emerald and turquoise. Sita pointed and there was a herd of elephant, etched in stolid gray against the verdure of the slope.

  Lakshmana, the expert woodsman, built them a kutila. He bathed in the Godavari and fetched lotuses from the river. He offered the flowers to the gods of the jungle and chanted the mantras for keeping evil away. Some hours later, he came to Rama and Sita and said the dwelling was ready. Rama admired the sturdy and elegant workmanship. Suddenly, he was so moved by the little hut of logs that Rama was in tears.

  Hugging Lakshmana, he said, “You do so much for me and all I can reward you with is an embrace. My father may be dead, but his spirit is always before me: in you, my brother, who look after me like a father!”

  Lakshmana blushed crimson, and Jatayu and Sita smiled to see him.

  * * *

  They lived happily in that asrama for some moons. Sita quickly made friends with all the birds, rabbits, and deer for yojanas around. She would talk to them just as if they were human friends; and they seemed to know exactly what she said. After she whispered to them, the deer would run off to the river and bring back lotuses in their teeth: flowers that were just the shade of blue she wanted for her worship, or for a wildflower garland to drape around Rama. All kinds of birds came and perched on her window, warbling to her in their lively tongues, bringing news from the corners of the forest. Or so she said, and Rama had no reason to doubt her.

  Once during hemanta, autumn, the brothers went early in the morning to bathe in the cold waters of the Godavari. Braced and shivering, Lakshmana said, “Bharata must be bathing in the Sarayu and thinking of us.” He grew wistful. “Such a noble brother we have, Rama: dark like you, selfless like you. Men are meant to take after their mothers. But not Bharata. He doesn’t have anything of that evil…”

  Rama laid his fingers across Lakshmana’s lips. “Speak no evil of anyone at this hour, least of all our mother. As for Bharata, how often I think of him, and how much he loves me. I still see his face before my eyes: my padukas on his head, tears streaming down his face. How I long to be back in Ayodhya with my mothers and my brothers.”

  On their way back from the river, they spoke about the old days, about Dasaratha, and the four of them when they were children. The time they spent in Panchavati was contented and peaceful. But fate stalked them nearer with each moment that passed, and evil lurked round the corner of the bright days.

  9. A battle at Panchavati

  The princes and Sita fell into a pleasant routine. They would wake up early each morning, go to the river, bathe, and worship the rising sun. Rama and Sita would walk back, hand in hand, while Lakshmana followed with the water pot. They wandered through the surrounding forests, exploring them, enjoying them. Or they basked in the sun all day long, living for the green moment, while deer laid their heads in Sita’s lap and peacocks ate out of her hands.

  But one day, evil arrived in their lives, announcing itself comically. Surpanaka, the rakshasi, arrived in Panchavati. She was the spoiled sister of the Emperor of evil who lived on the distant island of Lanka, while his power spread from his throne like a great sickness through the world. Brought by fate, Surpanaka, on her hunt, came to the grove in Panchavati. She scented humans in the asrama. She saw Rama from behind a tree and she was smitten.

  She looked at him; she turned and looked again. Her heart stood still at his unearthly beauty. She had never seen anyone like him. Surpanaka wanted him for herself. She longed to run her fingers through the tangled mass of his hair; she yearned to stroke his face and clasp him tightly in her arms. She wondered who this was: handsome as Kamadeva, and as dark and blue.

  Surpanaka was as ugly a rakshasi as ever lived. She was old with sin and years of devouring human flesh. She was bloated and misshapen; her voice was a harsh croak; her hair was a dirty copper; her eyes were tiny, cunning, and cruel. She was fanged and altogether hideous, but she was a mistress of maya. She could change her form as she liked, though she could not change the evil in her soul.

  With just a thought she turned herself into an apsaralike beauty. Ravishing now, she came up to the princes. She ignored Lakshmana and Sita but, fluttering her lashes at him, swaying her hips and bending low so he could see her cleavage, she said seductively to Rama, “Who are you, stranger? How have you come to this home of rakshasas, when obviously you are no rakshasa yourself?”

  Rama looked into her eyes and knew what she was. He said, “I am Dasaratha’s son Rama, and I have come to live in the jungle for fourteen years. These are my brother Lakshmana and my wife Sita. And who are you? You seem to belong here, for you are a rakshasi I think.”

  She blushed; she tittered. She said, “I am no ordinary rakshasi, Rama, but your equal in pedigree. I am Surpanaka. Ravana of Lanka, Emperor of the world, is my brother. I live in Janasthana with my cousins Khara and Dushana. I have two more brothers, who are in Lanka with Ravana: Kumbhakarna who sleeps all year, and Vibheeshana who is so full of dharma that he is hardly a rakshasa.”

  She smiled at him again. “But all that is beside the point, my delectable prince. Fate brought me here, and the moment I saw you, I knew I must have you for my husband. You are the most handsome man I ever set eyes on; I have maya and I can be as beautiful as you want. I am powerful, Rama, I will look after you. We are meant for each other. What can this pale Sita do for you? She, at best, is fit to be my morning meal!” And she laughed uproariously at her joke.

  Rama said, “Exquisite Surpanaka, I am a married man and I love this pale Sita of mine. I don’t think a great princess like you could bear to be my second wife. But my brother Lakshmana is alone. He is younger and fairer than I am. He will make the perfect husband for you. Marry him and you will have him all to yourself.”

  Surpanaka turned to Lakshmana. She saw he was handsome and strong, too; she saw the muscles rippling on his arms and his chest. She switched her attentions to him. Caressing the younger prince’s face, the rakshasi said, “Lakshmana, we shall be happy together in the Dandaka vana. Let us be married, charming Kshatriya. Ah, you are so sweet; let us be lovers!”

  But Lakshmana protested, “I am only my brother’s man. How will a princess like you be happy married to a mere servant? You should coax my brother a little more; persuade him with your maya sakti: better that you be his second wife than my only one. Woo him, lovely Surpanaka; he will leave his pale princess for you.”

  Surpanaka saw the wisdom of what Lakshmana said. She turned back to Rama. “You spurn me for this limp hag of yours. I will eat her and then we can be happy together.”

  With a roar, she rushed at Sita. Just in time, Rama sprang up and caught her. Quick as thinking, Lakshmana drew his sword and cut off her ears and her nose, so dark blood spouted from her. Screaming in shock, a demoness again, Surpanaka fled into the forest. The brothers dissolved in mirth. But Sita trembled. Though she said nothing of it, she had a powerful premonition of evil: as if, already, upon a distant throne she sensed a malevolent emperor, a terrible Being who turned his baleful gaze on them across vast spaces.

  * * *

  Howling like a storm, Surpanaka fled through the Dandaka vana. Birds and beasts scattered at her passage. Clutching her face she went, roaring and shrieking; while blood gushed through her claws and splashed onto her thick feet. Through the dim jungle she flew, all the way to Janasthana, the city of rakshasas. She fell in a heap before her cousin Khara, demon king of the forest.

  When he saw what had happened to her, Khara roared louder than she did. Like some great serpent, he hissed, “Who has done this to you? Who courts his death so fondly? Who has tied a noose around his own neck? I will drink his blood today, and vultures and kites shall have his carcass to feed on. Tell me, Surpanaka, which Deva or Daitya has been such a fool?”

  Surpanak
a sobbed inconsolably for a while. Servants washed her wounds and stopped the flow of blood with poultices of herbs and leaves. Then, her green eyes flashing, she said, “Haven’t you heard of the three strangers who live in Panchavati?” Her face grew dreamy. “Two are princes, handsome as if all the nobility of kshatriya kind has been gathered just in them. Their limbs are strong and graceful; their eyes are long as lotus petals. Their skins are bronzed, as if they have lived in the open for many years. They wear valkala and jata, like rishis, but say they are sons of Dasaratha of Ayodhya. Oh Khara, they are as enchanting as gandharvas. They have wonderful weapons with them and seem to be great archers. They are called Rama and Lakshmana.”

  Her face grew dark; a spasm of hatred twisted her coarse features. “Then, there is she. She wears no bark, but fine silks and ornaments not of the earth: diamonds and rubies the like of which I have never seen. Because of her, the friendly princes maimed me. Help me, Khara: I want to drink their blood!”

  Khara sent for fourteen of his fiercest rakshasas. He said to them, “Go to Panchavati and kill the three humans you find there. Surpanaka wants to drink their blood.”

  With Surpanaka showing them the way, these rakshasas went to Rama’s asrama. They came like rain clouds chased by the wind. When Rama saw them, he said softly to Lakshmana, “Watch Sita. It seems I have a battle to fight.”

  Fitting an arrow to his bow, he stood waiting. Rama hailed the rakshasas: “Why do you come armed with tridents and swords? We are kshatriyas living here in peace. We wish no one any harm.”

  The rakshasas leered, “We have come to drink your blood and have your woman.”

  Rama said, “I have heard the rishis of the jungle have no peace because of you. Look, here is the bow of Varuna raised against you. If you value your lives, fly!”

  He stamped his foot as if he were chasing away some dogs. But those mountainous rakshasas roared like thunder. They rushed at the prince, casting their trisulas at him. He was so quick none of them saw Rama’s hands move; but they saw his arrows smash their tridents in shards. Next moment, they themselves lay dead, their bodies turning to ashes with the heat of the serpentine narachas with which he had shot them. For a bowman like Rama, this was child’s play.