by Alan Garner
And a yellow mane.
And I was It
And it was me
And we ran the stars
And home again.
“Kosko gry! Rommany gry!
Muk man kistur tute knaw!”
And home again.
And home again
To my bed and the fear
That would swallow me
And then I saw
It
Was
“Kosko gry! Rommany gry!
“Muk man kistur tute knaw!”
And the weight of the dream
Was the weight of a game.
I could carry them on my shadow’s light.
Red horse or white,
Breadhorse or me,
We were all the same.
Next day they shouted
At something they saw
In me, or my shadow,
Or maybe the floor,
Until they knew that I’d come to play.
Then
It
Was
“Kosko gry! Rommany gry!
“Muk man kistur tute knaw!”
Alan Garner
Adapted from the Translation of ANANDA K.
COOMARASWAMY
My interest in myth, legend, fairy tale and folk tale has been life-long. And this is where it began.
At the age of seven, in Tamworth, I discovered among my great-grandfather’s books twelve volumes of traditional stories from around the world. The books were not children’s books, and when I went back to them as an adult I was stifled by the pedantry and lack of feeling shown by most of the editors, yet the collective force of the material had come through to me as a child.
In particular, I was changed there and then, and the seed was sown for what I had to be, by a passage from the Hindu epic Ramayana, the complete version of which consists of twenty-four thousand couplets and is three thousand years old. I did not recognise its impact when I read it, but at the closing words I felt my heart stop.
“Thus ends Ramayana, revered by Brahma and made by Valmiki. He that hath no sons shall attain a son by reading even a single verse of Rama’s lay. All sin is washed from those who read or hear it read. He who recites Ramayana should have rich gifts of cows and gold. Long shall he live who reads Ramayana and shall be honoured, with his sons and grandsons, in this world and in Heaven.”
So that was how he’d done it. My great-grandfather had read Ramayana. I could live to be ninety-three, like him. But I had to look to myself. Sons and grandsons were cared for. No mention of great-grandsons. I’d better get going. “All sin is washed from those who read or hear it read.” I could save the world. Or at least I could save Tamworth.
I ran upstairs, opened the front bedroom window of 1, The Leys, sat on the sill, and, like some Hindu muezzin, summoned the people of Tamworth to hear Rama’s lay. I went on till my voice cracked. And my grandmother, wise and wonderful woman, said never a word throughout my daily sustenance of me, Tamworth, world and cosmos.
Now it’s your turn.
A few words may need explanation:
Gandharvas are musical spirits.
Garuda is a divine bird.
Rudra is one of the names of Shiva, who, with Vishnu, is among the greatest of the gods.
Rakshasas, yakshas and asuras are all demons, continually at war with both gods and men.
1. RAMA AND SITA
I
here was once a great and beautiful city called Ayodhya – that is, “Unconquerable” – in the country of Koshala. There all men were righteous and happy, well read and contented, truthful, provided with goods, self-restrained and charitable and full of faith.
Its king was Dasharatha, a man amongst men as the moon amongst the stars. His ministers were such as could keep their counsel and judge of things finely; they were well versed in the arts of policy and ever fair-spoken.
Only one of Dasharatha’s dreams was unfulfilled: he had no son to carry on his line. Because of this, after many vain austerities, he determined at last on the greatest of all offerings – a horse sacrifice; and calling the family priests, he gave all necessary orders for its undertaking. Then he went to the inner rooms of the palace and told his three wives what had been set afoot, whereat their faces shone with joy, like lotus flowers in early spring.
When a year had passed, the horse that had been turned free came back, and the sacrifice was completed, and there was great festivity and gladness. The priest told the king that four sons would be born to him, perpetuators of his race; at which sweet words the king rejoiced exceedingly.
II
Now at this time all the gods were there assembled to receive their share of the offerings made, and being assembled together they approached Brahma, the Creator of the World, with a petition.
“A certain wicked rakshasa named Ravana greatly oppresses us,” they said, “whom we suffer patiently because you have granted him a boon – not to be slain by gandharvas, or yakshas, or rakshasas, or gods. But now his tyranny becomes past endurance, and, O Lord, you should devise some method to destroy him.”
To them Brahma replied: “That evil rakshasa disdained to ask from me immunity from the attack of men: by man only he may and shall be slain.”
Thereat the gods rejoiced. At that moment there arrived the great God Vishnu, clad in yellow robes, bearing mace and discus and conch. Him the gods reverenced, and prayed him to take birth as the four sons of King Dasharatha for the destruction of the wily and irrepressible Ravana.
Then Vishnu, that one of the lotus eyes, making of himself four beings, chose Dasharatha for his father, and disappeared. In a strange form, like a flaming tiger, he reappeared in Dasharatha’s sacrificial fire and, greeting him, named himself as the messenger of God.
“Do you, O tiger amongst men,” said Vishnu, “accept this divine rice and milk, and share it amongst your wives.”
Then Dasharatha, overjoyed, carried the divine food and gave a portion of it to Kaushalya, his first wife, and another portion to Sumitra, his second wife, and another to Kaikeyi, his third wife, and then the fourth portion to Sumitra again. In due time four sons were born to them, sharing the self of Vishnu – from Kaushalya, Rama; from Kaikeyi, Bharata; and from Sumitra, Lakshman and Satrughna.
Meanwhile the gods created mighty monkey-hosts, brave and wise and swift, shape-shifters, hardly to be slain, to be the helpers of the heroic Vishnu in the battle with the rakshasas.
The four sons of Dasharatha grew up to early manhood, excelling all in bravery and virtue. Rama especially became the idol of the people and the favourite of his father. Learned in the arts, he was no less expert in the science of elephants. Lakshman devoted himself to his brother Rama’s service, so that the two were together always. Like a faithful shadow Lakshman followed Rama, sharing with him everything that was his own, and guarding him when he went abroad to exercise or hunt. So it was until Rama reached the age of sixteen.
III
Now a priest came to Rama and told him that Janaka, Raja of Mithila, was about to celebrate a great sacrifice.
“Thither,” he said, “we shall repair. And you, O tiger amongst men, shall go with us, and there behold a wonderful and marvellous bow. This great bow the gods gave long ago to Janaka’s ancestors; and neither gods nor gandharvas nor asuras nor rakshasas nor men have might to string it, though kings and princes have tried. That bow is worshipped as a god. The bow and Janaka’s great sacrifice you shall behold.”
So they set out for Janaka’s palace. A cool breeze, delighted at the sight of Rama, fanned their faces, and flowers rained down upon them from the sky. The two brothers, carrying their swords, wearing splendid jewels and gloves of lizard skin upon their fingers, followed the priest like glorious flames, making him bright with the reflection of their own radiance.
Janaka welcomed them with much honour, and appointed them to seats according to their rank. He asked the priest who those brothers might be that walked amongst men like lions or elephants, godlike and goodly to be
seen.
Next day Janaka summoned the brothers to see the bow. First he told them how that bow had been given by the gods, then he said: “I have a daughter, Sita, not born of men, but sprung from the furrow as I ploughed the field and hallowed it. On him who bends the bow I will bestow my daughter. Kings and princes have tried and failed to bend it. Now I shall reveal the bow to you, and if Rama bends it, I shall give him my daughter Sita.”
Then the great bow was brought forth upon an eight-wheeled cart drawn by five thousand tall men. Rama took the bow from its case and strove to bend it. It yielded easily, and he strung and drew it till at last it snapped in two with the sound of an earthquake or a thunder clap.
Then Janaka praised Rama and gave orders for the marriage to be prepared, and sent messengers to the city of Ayodhya to invite Dasharatha to his son’s wedding, to give his blessing and consent.
Thereafter the two kings met, and Janaka bestowed Sita upon Rama, and his second daughter on Lakshman. And wives were found for the other brothers, and having thus won honour, wealth and noble brides, those four best of men dwelt at Ayodhya, serving their father.
IV
So it passed for a while, until one of Dasharatha’s wives grew jealous of the love that all people gave to Rama, and she plotted discord. Then Rama went into exile with his wife Sita and his brother Lakshman, and they dwelt in the forest, for Rama would not allow himself to be a cause of strife. They lived as paupers in a dark hut, but the light of the two brothers which shone from their brows made the hut more joyous for Sita than marble or silks or fountains or peacocks. And they journeyed through the forest for ten years, doing good, and quelling evil where they found it.
At last they found a green lawn beside a river, whose waters swarmed with fowl, throngs of deer lived on its banks, and the hills were covered with good trees and flowers and herbs. There Lakshman built a spacious bamboo house, well-thatched with leaves and with a well-smoothed floor. Thither the giant vulture Jatayu came and pledged friendship; and Rama, Sita and Lakshman were contented, like the gods in heaven.
Now Rama was with Sita, talking to Lakshman, when there came by a fearful and hideous demon, the sister of Ravana, that terrible rakshasa for whose destruction the great God Vishnu had made himself be born. When she saw Rama, the she-demon desired him; but he refused her. She turned to Lakshman; but he would not speak to her. In fury and jealousy, the demon sprang at Sita, but Lakshman took his sword and cut off the foul nose and ears, and she fled away bleeding, till she met another demon brother of hers.
This demon’s anger at his sister’s maiming was like hailstones, and he sent fourteen rakshasas to slay Rama and Lakshman and Sita, and to bring their blood for his sister to drink. But Rama slew all fourteen with his arrows.
Then the demon was indeed furious, and set out himself with fourteen thousand rakshasas, every one a shape-shifter, horrible, proud as lions, big of mouth, courageous, delighting in cruelty.
As this host drove on, many evil omens befell; but the host was blind to defeat, and not to be turned aside from what seemed a small matter – to slay two men and a woman.
Rama, perceiving the oncoming host, sent Lakshman with Sita to a secret cave, and cast on his mail, for he would fight alone; and all the gods and spirits of the air and creatures of heaven came to behold the battle.
The rakshasas drove on like a sea, or heavy clouds, and showered their weapons upon Rama, so that the woodgods were afraid and fled away. But Rama was not afraid, and troubled the rakshasas with his marrow-piercing shafts, so that they fled to their captain for protection. He rallied them, and they came on again, discharging volleys of uprooted trees and boulders.
It was in vain; for Rama, alone and fighting on foot, slew all the fourteen thousand terrible rakshasas and stood face to face with the leader himself.
A dreadful battle was theirs, as if between a lion and an elephant; the air was dark with flying shafts. At last a fiery arrow, discharged by Rama, consumed the demon. Then the gods, well pleased, showered blossoms upon Rama, and departed. And Sita and Lakshman came forth from the cave.
V
But news of the destruction of the rakshasas was brought to the great Ravana, and he who brought the news advised Ravana to vanquish Rama by carrying Sita away. Ravana approved this plan, and sought out the crafty rakshasa Maricha to further his ends. But Maricha advised Ravana to stay his hand from attempting the impossible, and Ravana, being persuaded for that time, went home to his fortress of Lanka.
Twenty arms and ten heads had Ravana: he sat on his golden throne like a flaming fire fed with sacrificial offerings. He was scarred with the marks of many wounds received in battle with the gods; of royal mien and gorgeously apparelled was that puissant and cruel rakshasa.
His wont was to destroy the sacrifices of holy men and to possess the wives of others – not to be slain by gods or ghosts or birds or serpents. Yet when his sister came to him without nose or ears, and told him of Rama and Sita, and taunted him for unkingly ways in that he took no revenge for the slaughter of his subjects and his brother, and when this demon urged him to bring away Sita and make her his wife, he took his chariot and fared along by the sea to a great forest to consult again with the crafty Maricha.
Maricha counselled Ravana not to meddle with Rama.
“You would get off easily,” he said, “if Rama, once angered, left a single rakshasa alive, or held his hand from destroying the city fortress of Lanka.”
But Ravana was vainglorious, and boasted that Rama would be an easy prey. He blamed Maricha for ill-will towards himself, and threatened him with death. Then Maricha out of fear consented, though he looked for no less than death from Rama when they should meet again. Then Ravana was pleased, and, taking Maricha in his chariot, set out for Rama’s hermitage, explaining how Sita should be stolen by a ruse.
Maricha, obedient to Ravana, assumed the form of a golden deer and ranged about the wood near Rama’s house: its horns were like twin jewels, its face was piebald, its ears like two blue lotus flowers, its sleek sides soft as the petals of a flower, its hoofs as black as jet, its haunches slender, its lifted tail of every colour from the rainbow – a deer-form such as this he took! His back was starred with gold and silver, and he ranged about the forest lawns to be noticed by Sita.
And when she saw him she was astonished and delighted, and called to Rama and Lakshman, and begged Rama to catch or kill the deer for her, and she urged him to the chase. Rama too was fascinated by the splendid deer. He would not heed Lakshman’s warning that it must be a rakshasa disguised.
“All the more, then, must I slay it,” said Rama, “but do you watch over Sita, staying here with the good vulture Jatayu. I shall be back again in a very little while, bringing the deer-skin with me.”
Now vanishing, now coming near, the magic beast led Rama far away, until he was wearied out and sank upon the ground under a shady tree; then it appeared again, surrounded by other deer, and bounded away. But Rama drew his bow and loosed an arrow that pierced its breast, so that it sprang high into the air and fell moaning on the earth.
Then Maricha, on the point of death, assumed his own shape, and remembering Ravana’s command, he bethought him how to draw Lakshman away from Sita, and he called aloud with Rama’s voice, “Ah, Sita! Ah, Lakshman!”
At the sound of that awful cry Rama was struck with nameless fear, and hurried back to his house by the river, leaving Maricha dead.
Now Sita heard that cry, and urged Lakshman to go to Rama’s help, upbraiding him with bitter words; for he knew Rama to be unconquerable, and himself was pledged to guard Sita from all danger.
But she called him a monster of wickedness, and said that he cared nothing for Rama, but desired herself; and he might not endure those words, and though many an ill omen warned him, she forced him to go in search of Rama. So he bowed to her and went away, but often turning back to glance at Sita, fearing for her safety.
Now Ravana assumed the shape of a wandering man; carrying a sta
ff and a beggar’s bowl, he came towards Sita waiting all alone for Rama to come back. The forest knew him: the very trees stayed still, the wind dropped, the river flowed more slowly for fear. But he came close to Sita, and gazed upon her, and was filled with evil longings; and he addressed her, praising her beauty, and asked her to leave that dangerous forest and go with him to dwell in palaces and gardens.
But she, thinking him a holy man and her guest, gave him food and water, and answered that she was Rama’s wife, and told the story of their love; and she asked his name and kin. Then he named his name Ravana, and besought her to be his wife, and offered her palaces, and servants and gardens. But she grew angry, and answered him.
“I am the servant of Rama,” said Sita, “lion amongst men, immovable as any mountain, vast as the mighty ocean. Would you draw the teeth from a lion’s mouth, or swim the sea with a heavy stone about your neck? As well might you seek Sun or Moon as me! Little like is Rama unto you, but different as is a lion from a jackal, an elephant from a cat, the ocean from a tiny stream, or gold from iron. If you take me, the wife of Rama, your death is certain, and I shall surely die.”
And she shook with fear, as a plantain tree is shaken by the wind.
But Ravana’s yellow eyes grew red with anger and the peaceful face changed, and he took his own horrid shape, ten-faced, and twenty-armed; he seized that gentle thing by the hair and limbs, and sprang into his golden ass-drawn chariot, and rose up into the sky. But she cried aloud to Lakshman and to Rama.
“And O you forest and flowery trees,” she cried, “and you, our river, and woodland gods, and deer, and birds, I conjure you to tell my lord that Ravana has stolen me away.”
Then she saw the great vulture Jatayu on a tree, and prayed him for help. He woke from sleep and, seeing Ravana and Sita, spoke soft words to the rakshasa, advising him to leave his evil course.
“Rama will avenge the wrong with death,” said Jatayu, “and while I live you shall not take away the virtuous Sita, but I shall fight with you and fling you from your chariot.”
