The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

  And, of course, the brahmanas who came to the sacrifice of sacrifices were rewarded with gold, silver, precious jewels, and fine silks that surpassed their every expectation. Some munis, old as the very earth, said approvingly that they had never seen such an aswamedha, since the time when Indra, Soma, Yama, and Varuna performed the auspicious sacrifice.

  Into the midst of all that charity, there arrived a dark, tall rishi with two splendid sishyas at his side. Rama and the other munis at the aswamedha yagna received Valmiki with deep reverence. Valmiki did not enter the enclosures of the yagna.

  He accepted the homage and the fruit and savory roots offered him at the entrance. Then he said to the strapping young men who had come with him, and who were obviously twins, “My sons, tomorrow you must go and sing the Ramayana I taught you: sing it in the streets of the yagnashala, sing it before the kings’ dwellings; most of all, sing it before Rama of Ayodhya. And if he asks whose sons you are, only say you are Valmiki’s sishyas.

  “Sing the Ramayana for the great rishis who are performing the aswamedha; play on your vinas and sing twenty cantos every day. Have no care for the wealth the king may offer you; for you are hermits, my pupils living in an asrama, and what will the likes of us do with gold or jewels?”

  Then with the queerest look on his face, he continued very softly, “But honor the king, my children, because it is said he is the father of all who dwell in his kingdom.”

  So said the son of Prachetas, the great Valmiki, and the twins he spoke to were surprised that he repeated every detail many times, especially with regard to how soft or loud their vinas and their voices should be, and what taala they should keep, and where they should look as they sang.

  Those pupils of his were Sita’s sons Lava and Kusa. Valmiki said to them, “Tomorrow is the most important day of your lives. Come now, we will return to our asrama. You must sleep well, because tomorrow you must be fresh and strong.” He laid his hands on their handsome heads, “Yes, tomorrow is the greatest day of your lives.”

  But when they asked why, he would not say. Lava and Kusa slept that night as blissfully as the Aswini Kumaras did when they had Sukra Deva’s blessing. The night passed, and in its last yaama before the sun rose, the twins awoke, bathed, and offered worship to Agni. They arrived at the great hall of the aswamedha, and began singing the Adi Kavya.

  Rama and his brothers, the visiting kings, and the holy rishis heard their inspired song, and they came and sat before the youths as handsome as two gandharvas; they were enraptured by their perfect playing and singing. In that audience were experts of the Puranas and others who knew music, every raga in the world. None of them had heard anything like the Ramayana before. They marveled at its resonance, its lyric beauty, its seamless construction and flow.

  There were noted astrologers in the gathering, and they murmured among themselves that Valmiki had woven the threads of destiny into his poem, adroitly and without flaw. He knew exactly which planets had ruled Rama’s life, when he was born, when Viswamitra arrived in Ayodhya, when Rama broke Siva’s bow and married Sita, and when he was exiled.

  There were famous poets in the sabha, who wondered at the perfection of the Ramayana. It was a poem, it was a song, and it was a treatise on dharma and tapasya. It was a Purana, it was a great epic; it was a love story and a story of war; it was a work of bhakti. Why, it was hardly mortal, and the most perceptive among them already whispered that only Brahma himself could have inspired such an immaculate kavya.

  The rishis were in transport, the people were rapt, as were all the kings: absorbed in the Ramayana they heard and thrilled by the sight of the two singers, who were like beings of a higher world fallen to the earth.

  Only some of the keen-eyed kshatriyas present said to each other, “Look, don’t these youths look familiar?”

  “Don’t they resemble a king we know well?”

  “Why, they are like images of Rama twenty years ago!”

  But Lava and Kusa were clad in valkala and they wore their hair long, in matted jata. The twins sang without pause, and soon all the whispering in the yagnashala died down. The Ramayana was spellbinding. Lava and Kusa sang twenty cantos.

  It was evening when they stopped, and a delighted Rama said to Lakshmana, “Give these two noble young men eighteen thousand gold coins. Give them anything else they need.”

  Lakshmana called Lava and Kusa aside, and offered them the gold. But they refused in some alarm, laughing, “What will we do with all this gold? We live in the forest and eat only roots and fruit.”

  Lakshmana brought the youths back into the yagnashala, and told Rama they had refused the gold. The gathering at the sacrifice fell hushed. Rama was surprised; he had never known a brahmana to refuse gold, wherever he lived.

  Rama asked mildly, “How long is this poem? And where is Valmiki? Why did he compose it, if not for gold?”

  Lava and Kusa replied, “The Ramayana is twenty-four thousand slokas long. It contains a hundred legends. It has six kandas, and it will be sung as long as there are men in the world.”

  For twenty-five days, Lava and Kusa sang the Ramayana for Rama and all the others who had come to his aswamedha yagna. When the singing was over, Rama called for some messengers and said to them, “Go to the Muni Valmiki’s asrama, and if Sita is found to be pure, let her come here to our yagna. Let her take an oath in this yagnashala that she is untainted and that Lava and Kusa are my sons.”

  The messengers came to the muni’s asrama and saw him there, a flame. When they delivered the amazing message from their king, Valmiki said to them quietly, “Rama is Sita’s God. She will come to the yagnashala tomorrow and swear her oath there.”

  The messengers returned with Valmiki’s message. The night passed as slowly as an age, and Rama rose with the sun and entered the yagnashala with his brothers. The brahmanas who were conducting the aswamedha had already gathered around the agni-kunda, the pit where the sacred fire burned: Vasishta, Vamadeva, Jabali, Kashyapa, Viswamitra, Dirghatama, the awesome Durvasa, Pulastya, Shakti, Bhargava, Vamana, Markandeya, Maudgalya, Garga, Chyvana, Sadananda, Bharadvaja, Narada, the ancient Parvata, the peerless Gautama.

  Also present were Sugriva and his vanaras, and Vibheeshana and his rakshasas. A hundred kshatriya kings from all over Bharatavarsha were there, as were thousands of vaisyas and sudras. Indeed, word had flown forth at night that Sita would come to the yagna, and the yagnashala was filled to bursting.

  Finally, when they were seated, they saw the gaunt figure of Valmiki at the entrance to the yagnashala, and behind him was another slight, exquisite figure, and a murmur went up from those present. It was Sita, and she was as beautiful as ever: pure as a smokeless fire. She followed Valmiki even as Sruti does the Lord Brahma. Spontaneously, the sabha raised its voice and called her name, and then hers and Rama’s together, warmly.

  Valmiki came to a halt facing the august crowd at Rama’s aswamedha yagna. A hush fell on the people when they saw he would speak to them. The rishi began, “Rama, you abandoned this Sita, who is purity itself, near my asrama. You were afraid of what the world thought of her and said of her. Why, it seems to me you doubt her yourself, that you ask her to come here and swear an oath.

  “I am Prachetas’s tenth son and I have no memory of ever having told a lie. I say to you, these twins are your sons. I have done tapasya for thousands of years; if what I say now is a lie, may all my punya be taken from me. If Janaka’s daughter Maithili has sinned let my very soul perish within me.

  “But why do I speak for her? Sita can speak for herself.”

  Rama sat as still as stone and his eyes never left Sita’s face, not even to blink. He folded his hands to Valmiki and said, “Muni, I never doubted Sita’s purity. I beg you, do not accuse me of a sin I never committed, to add to the one that I did. Indeed, I did banish my queen for fear of what the people were saying about her. But then, my lord, I am a king, and my first and final dharma is toward my people. It would never have done for them to have doubted th
eir king, for even a moment: that he was weak and took back a tainted woman.

  “Valmiki, I have no doubt Lava and Kusa are my sons. I knew it as soon as I saw them. Let all those gathered here for the aswamedha have no doubt about my love not only for my sons, but for my wife as well, this precious Sita. I beg her to forgive me for the anguish I have caused her, and now, for the sake of our sons’ future, to swear her oath before this sabha of rishis and kings and also the people who doubted her.”

  Sita wore a brown garment of valkala, and she stood before that sabha of the greatest men in the world with folded hands. She stood perfectly still and hers was a resonant stillness. Suddenly Vayu blew a towering gust through that place, a supernatural wind, such as he used to in the krita yuga. His airs were bright with flecks of light and he seemed to enfold Sita in his grace.

  Never raising her face in the presence of all those kings and sages, Sita began to speak. She spoke softly, but her voice was as strong as the timeless wind.

  “If I have never loved any man but Rama, even in my mind, if I have worshipped him as my only God, in my heart, my words, and my deeds, may my mother Bhumi Devi, who brought me into this world, now receive me back into herself. For all my life’s purposes are accomplished and I do not want to live in this world any more.”

  A perfect silence had fallen; no one stirred. Even the wind had grown still. Then a crack of thunder erupted in that sabha. The earth at Sita’s feet parted and a golden, unearthly throne rose from it, borne on the heads of five awesome nagas with blinding jewels in their hoods. On that throne sat a Goddess, and she was Madhavi, Medha: incomparable Bhumi Devi, the Earth herself. The green of the world’s forests was in her hair and hands, the blue of the seven seas was upon her breasts. Her skin was the soft smooth brown of the sacred earth.

  She, the mother, took her daughter’s hands and drew Sita up to sit beside her on her fabulous throne. A petal rain of flowers of light, bearing heaven’s scents, fell from the sky. Slowly, as the sabha watched, not a man moving, the wonderful throne sank into the earth again, and the ground closed over it, as if none of this had happened, as if the perfect Sita had never lived in this tainted world of men, ever.

  Peal after peal of thunder echoed on high and it seemed the very sky would break in a thousand pieces. All the earth was still, dazed. Then silence, a complete silence, held the Naimisa vana. Just a single sound broke the deep silence, the sound of Rama sobbing.

  At last he grew very still and his eyes turned red. The gentle Rama roared, “Bhumi Devi, give my Sita back to me, or I will break you open with my astras. Or open yourself to me, let me go down into Patala and live beside my love.”

  The Earth made no reply. Rama was furious. “I will level your mountains and dry up your seas. Your forest shall burn and all your creatures perish!”

  Rama reached for his bow, the Kodanda, and the Earth shuddered in fear. He was a God again, just as he had been in the Dandaka vana, when he found Sita missing from their asrama. Then Lakshmana had calmed his brother, but now he was implacable. Rama was about to summon a great astra in his rage, when suddenly light filled that yagnashala, dazzling, unearthly light.

  Brahma spoke out of that light to Rama: “Calm yourself, Rama. Sita is in Nagaloka, with her mother. You will find her again, after this life. If you want to know the future, listen to the rest of the Ramayana, its Uttara Kanda. I gave the Adi Kavya to Valmiki. The Uttara Kanda is prescient, and no one but you must hear, yet, what it contains.”

  The light vanished and Brahma with it. Rama sat like a great fire put out. Slowly, as if heavier age than he could bear was upon him, he rose, and said to Valmiki, “Tomorrow I will hear the rest of the Uttara Kanda of your kavya. Give me leave until then, Muni, I feel tired.”

  He took Lava and Kusa by the hand and led them to his apartment. The father and his sons sat all that night in silence. Even the sacred forest around them seemed eerily quiet and absorbed in just one thought: of her who had left the world this day, she, the perfect one.

  39. The Uttara Kanda

  The next morning, at dawn, Rama broke his silence, and said to Lava and Kusa, “Now sing the Uttara Kanda to me. I want to know what the future holds.”

  Plucking on their vinas, their voices matched perfectly, the twins sang the Uttara Kanda. They sang with the grief of losing their mother, and their song was more beautiful than ever. They sang the Northern Kanda, and they came to the part of the Ramayana where Sita went down into Nagaloka on her mother, Bhumi Devi’s, throne. As Rama listened absorbed, they sang on, now of the future.

  Lava and Kusa sang that after Sita left the world, Rama completed the aswamedha yagna and gave lavish gifts to those who came to attend his horse sacrifice. Then he returned to Ayodhya. He kept his kanchana Sita, her golden image, with him. Never did he so much as look at another woman. In his time, to expiate what he saw as his unforgivable sin, he performed ten thousand aswamedha yagnas, one for every year of his kingship, and he felt these were too few. Always Sita’s golden image was beside him, on his throne, as if she sat in her rightful place again at those ten thousand sacrifices, and blessed the earth and her husband at every one.

  The reign of Dasaratha’s son Rama was a perfect one. Truly, Vishnu Narayana, the Blue One himself, had come down into the world as a man, to sit upon the ancient throne of the Sun in Ayodhya. He was Lord of the earth, and all the races of men and beasts obeyed him. His grace flowed through the land of Bharatavarsha like a river, and the hearts of all creatures flowed pure.

  Kaale varshatu parjannyam: the rains came on time, the harvest was always good, and the four quarters shone clear. The people in villages, in towns, and in cities had plenty and more to eat. No disease came among them and they never died before the ripeness of age was upon them. No war or other natural calamity, no flood, earthquake, or drought, visited the holy land.

  When some blessed years had passed after the first aswamedha in the Naimisa vana, the queen Kausalya passed on from the world. After a very short lapse of time, even as if they could not live on without her, Sumitra and Kaikeyi followed. And all three were with Dasaratha again, in Swarga.

  Rama, with his brothers and his sons at his side, ruled on, and dharma flowered in Bharatavarsha, as it never had before, at least in that yuga. One day, the king of Kekaya, old Asvapati’s son Yudhajit, sent his guru, Angiras’s son Gargya, to Rama’s court. Yudhajit sent ten thousand horses and many caskets of gold and jewels. Rama went out of his city to meet Gargya.

  When the gifts had been received and the brahmana honored, they sat together in the sabha of the Ikshvakus. Rama asked Gargya, “Holy one, why has my uncle sent you now? Is there some special reason?”

  Gargya said, “Rama, King Yudhajit, your uncle, sends you word of the most beautiful land that borders his own kingdom. But gandharvas rule the unequaled country and they will not let any man enter it. Yudhajit asks if you would care to take that land from the three million sons of Sailusa, and make the city at its heart your own.”

  Rama said, “Brahmana, my brother Bharata will go and vanquish Sailusa and his sons. Bharata’s sons, Taksha and Pushkala, will found their own cities in that country, and rule as kings. Once his task is accomplished, Bharata will return to me.”

  Soon, Rama had Taksha and Pushkala consecrated as kings in his sabha and drenched in the waters of abhisheka. Then, setting Angiras’s son Gargya at the head of his army, and with his own sons at his sides, Bharata set out for Kekaya. It is told that there were flesh eaters in that army, thirsty for gandharva blood, and rakshasas and bhutas, lions, tigers, great reekshas, and teeming flocks of birds of prey and carrion flying above these.

  For a month and a half, Bharata marched with his dreadful aksauhinis and finally arrived in Yudhajit’s capital. Yudhajit joined his own legions to the forces of Ayodhya, and they marched together to the gandharva city hidden in the heart of the jungle. It was a peerless country, with great and ancient trees growing thickly, laden with incomparable flowers and luscious fr
uit.

  Arriving at the city of the elves, Yudhajit and Bharata raised their war conches and blew a resounding blast of challenge. Like an army out of a dream, the gandharvas issued from their gates. They were taller than any men of the earth by a head, slender and altogether marvelous. They carried silver bows and were quicksilver archers. A pitched battle ensued and lasted seven days. Blood flowed in rivulets, floating bows and swords that had fallen from nerveless hands, and limbs and heads severed from their owners’ bodies, and corpses.

  Finally, Bharata saw his soldiers die on every side, and in fury loosed the astra called the samvarta at the gandharva host. Three million gandharvas perished in a moment, burned to ashes by that missile. Asvapati’s son, Kaikeyi’s brother Yudhajit, founded two cities in that beautiful wilderness. He made Bharata’s son Taksha the king of Takshasila, and his other son, Pushkala, king of Pushkalavati.

  When the cities had been built, with great avenues flanked by trees, with resplendent palaces and mansions and sprawling gardens, and when Bharata saw his sons had settled to the task of being rulers, he returned to Rama in Ayodhya.

  Rama said to Lakshmana, “Saumitra, your sons Angada and Chandraketu are grown men now. Find them also kingdoms to rule, where they can live in peace and fulfill the four asramas.”

  It was Bharata who answered him, “The land of Karupatha is an auspicious country. Let Angada found a city there. And for our wrestler, Chandraketu, let us found another city and call it Chandrakanta.”

  So it came to pass; and those princes also had fine kingdoms to rule: Angada the archer in the north and Chandraketu in the west. Both were crowned in Ayodhya. Lakshmana went with Angada to help him establish his kingdom, and Bharata went with Chandraketu. In a year, Lakshmana returned to Ayodhya, and Bharata came home some months later.