The Ramayana

by Valmiki

  Rāma was thrilled with Lakṣmaṇa’s determination. ‘Come, let us go quickly and say goodbye to all our friends,’ he said. ‘The two divine bows that strike terror into the hearts of all that see them, those that Varuṇa himself gave to Janaka at the time of the sacrifice, as well as the two impenetrable coats of mail, the inexhaustible quiver of arrows and the two gold-hilted swords that shine like the sun—fetch them all from our teacher’s house where they are stored and worshipped.’

  Lakṣmaṇa did as he was instructed and brought the divine weapons, adorned with flowers, back to Rāma. ‘You have arrived just when I needed you,’ said Rāma. ‘Together we must give away all our wealth and our possessions to the best of brahmins who live in the city and honour their teachers as well as all our retainers. Call for Vasiṣṭha’s son, the noble Sujanya. I will honour him and the other brahmins and then leave for the forest.’

  When the two princes and Sītā had given away all their possessions, they went together to see the king. Sītā had decorated the weapons with flowers and they blazed with splendour as the princes carried them through the main streets of the town. All the wealthy citizens climbed to their terraces to watch, their hearts heavy with despair. The streets were filled with people who had come to see Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. When they saw Rāma walking through the streets, no royal canopy above his head, they were saddened and spoke among themselves.

  ‘Ah! This man who used to lead the four-divisioned army now walks alone with only Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa behind him!’

  ‘This man has enjoyed all material comforts and has fulfilled the wishes of other men. But he is so rooted in dharma that he cannot make a liar of his father!’

  ‘It used to be that even the birds could not see Sītā! Now she walks in the streets stared at by all the common people!’

  ‘Sītā is used to rare unguents and the finest sandal paste. She will grow pale in the rain and the cold!’

  ‘Daśaratha is behaving like a man possessed! Otherwise he would never have banished his favourite son! Even a worthless son is not exiled. How could he do this to a son who has conquered the world through his conduct alone?’

  ‘We, too, shall follow Rāma, with our wives and our families, like Lakṣmaṇa has done! We shall abandon our homes and our gardens and our fields and follow Rāma to share in his joys and sorrows!’

  ‘Let Kaikeyī have our empty homes which have been stripped of their wealth and grains and material stocks, whose desolate courtyards have been covered with dust and abandoned by the gods!’

  ‘The forest will be the city for us because Rāma will be there. This abandoned city shall turn into a desolate wasteland!’

  Rāma heard these and many other similar remarks but his mind remained calm. He saw the woebegone faces of his retainers but he smiled and walked on, eager to see his father and carry out his command. Though he was anxious to depart for the forest, Rāma did not enter his father’s palace immediately. ‘Tell the king that I am here!’ he said to Sumantra.

  Sadly, Sumantra went to announce Rāma’s arrival. He saw the grieving king sighing heavily. ‘Sire, your son has given away all his wealth to brahmins and to his courtiers. Rāma has said goodbye to all his friends. Now he waits at the door to see you,’ said Sumantra with his palms joined and his head bowed. ‘Be pleased to grant him audience! Shining with his royal virtues like the blazing sun, he is ready to go to the forest.’

  The righteous and honourable king, whose heart was as deep as the ocean and as vast as space, said, ‘Sumantra, summon all my wives who live in this palace. I wish to see Rāma with all of them here!’ Sumantra went into the inner apartments and announced to the women there that the king had sent for them. There were three hundred and fifty virtuous women in Kausalyā’s attendance and all of them, their eyes red from crying, went into Daśaratha’s chambers. ‘Sumantra! Bring in my son!’ said the king as he saw them approaching.

  Sumantra led Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā into the king’s presence. Daśaratha rose when he saw his son and moved quickly towards him. But before he could reach Rāma, he sank to the floor in a faint. The palace was filled with the wailing of hundreds of women mixed with the jingling of their ornaments. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa ran towards the fallen king and lifted him in their arms. Weeping, they laid him on the couch with Sītā’s help. After a few moments, the king recovered consciousness.

  Rāma spoke gently to his grieving father. ‘Great king, you are the lord of us all. Put an end to your grief. I ask for your permission to leave for the Daṇḍaka forest. Look kindly upon me! Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa insist on accompanying me though I have tried hard to dissuade them. Give all three of us your permission to leave.’ Ram waited with his palms joined, for the king’s response.

  ‘Rāma, I have been trapped by Kaikeyī’s boons. Take over as king of Ayodhyā today and have me arrested!’ cried the king. Rāma, the best among all righteous men, replied calmly. ‘Sir, you shall rule the earth a thousand years and I shall live in the forest. I cannot be the cause of your dishonour!’

  ‘Go in peace my child! Free from fear, may you always walk along paths that are pleasant! Return home when you have won fame and glory!’ said Daśaratha. ‘But look, it is already evening. Do not leave today. Stay here this one night so that your mother and I can gaze at you to our heart’s content and fulfil your every desire. Leave in the morning!’

  ‘Tomorrow, who will offer me the things that I can get today,’ said Rāma sadly. ‘It is best if I leave immediately. Let Bharata have all that I leave behind—the earth, this kingdom with all its citizens, its abundant wealth and grain. Hold back your tears and calm yourself, like the ocean which does not allow itself to be agitated.

  ‘I desire neither the kingdom nor happiness, not even Sītā. I wish only that your honour be maintained. Give this city and all that I have renounced to Bharata and I shall live in the forest. Let Bharata rule this earth covered with mountains and valleys, cities and forests and well-guarded frontiers. I am not interested in worldly pleasures or in desire, or even in those that are dear to me. Do not grieve on my account. I cannot have the kingdom, with all this wealth and happiness, at the cost of your honour. I shall be happy in the forest, living on roots and fruits and enjoying the rivers and streams and the different kinds of flowers. Do not be agitated.

  ‘I consent to everything being given to Bharata. Bring me simple clothes and two baskets and two spades, for I must live in the forest for fourteen years’

  Kaikeyī went herself to fetch the clothes and she said boldly to Rāma in front of everyone, ‘Here! Put these on!’ Rāma took the clothes from her and taking off his fine garments, dressed himself in the ascetic’s robes. Lakṣmaṇa did the same but Sītā, who was used to the most delicate fabrics, looked at the robes in terror, the way a doe looks at a tiger. She took the clothes from the wicked Kaikeyī and turned to her husband who stood there, handsome as a gandharva, and asked timidly, ‘How do the ascetics wear these?’ Holding the clothes up to her throat, the princess stood there in utter confusion. Rāma quickly fastened the clothes over her silken garments. All the people who had gathered there were incensed when they saw how helpless and vulnerable Sītā was and they murmured against the king.

  ‘Kaikeyī, Sītā does not deserve to wear these clothes,’ sighed the king. ‘Wretched woman! Is it not enough that Rāma has been banished? Why do you add to your crimes with more and more vile behaviour?’ and he hung his head in shame.

  ‘My mother, the righteous Kausalyā, is known for her virtues and she is free of petty jealousies,’ said Rāma to his father. ‘She is old now and she has never criticized you. She will drown in an ocean of sorrow when I have gone. Please treat her better than you have before. Be good to my mother who shall be pining for me, so that she does not die of grief while I am in the forest!’

  Righteous Rāma joined his palms and honoured his mother. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘do not be unhappy. Look after my father. My exile into the forest shall end very
soon. These fourteen years shall pass like a single night that you have slept through. Soon, you shall see me here again, surrounded by my friends, having done my duty.’

  Then Rāma turned to his three hundred and fifty other mothers. ‘Forgive me if I have ever spoken harshly to you or unintentionally hurt you in the course of our living together so closely. I now ask your permission to leave.’ Daśaratha’s distressed wives began to wail like kraunca birds and the house that used be filled with the thunder of celebratory drums was now filled with wailing and crying because of the terrible tragedy that had descended upon it.

  Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā joined their palms and honoured the king sadly. Dulled by grief, they bid their mothers goodbye and touched their feet. Sumantra, who was courteous by nature and familiar with court ritual, spoke to Rāma as Mātali would to Indra. ‘May good fortune go with you, prince!’ he said humbly. ‘Climb into the chariot and I will take you wherever you want to go! Today is the first day of your fourteen-year exile as decreed by the queen!’

  Sītā, adorned by the many jewels that Daśaratha had given her, climbed into the shining chariot with a happy heart. The two brothers loaded the chariot with their divine weapons and the coats of mail which had been wrapped in animal skins. Sumantra made sure that all three of them were in the chariot and then, steeling himself against the grief which threatened to overwhelm him, goaded the horses which were as swift as the wind.

  Chapter Seven

  As Rāma drove out of Ayodhyā for his long stay in the forest, the city was filled with the sounds of horses’ trappings jingling, of elephants trumpeting, of agitated people. The sounds swelled and reverberated as the entire city, old and young, ran behind Rāma’s chariot as they would run towards water in the parched months of the summer. They clung to the chariot’s back and sides, their faces turned to Rāma as their tears streaked the earth. ‘Charioteer, rein in the horses,’ they cried. ‘Drive slowly so that we can gaze at Rāma for a little longer. We will not see him again for many years!’

  The king stepped out of his palace surrounded by sorrowing women. ‘Let me see my beloved son!’ he cried. The wailing of the king’s women filled the air like that of female elephants when their mate has been captured. And the mighty Ikṣvāku Daśaratha, both father and king, his face was clouded like the moon during an eclipse.

  A huge tumult arose behind Rāma as the people saw the king fall to the ground in his grief. Some of the people called out to Rāma, others wept aloud for his mother as they joined in the lamentations of the palace women. Rāma turned around and saw his grieving parents following him down the road on foot. Bound by the noose of dharma, Rāma dared not look at his mother’s face. Rāma could not bear to see his aged parents’ grief and he urged Sumantra to go faster. Weeping, Kausalyā ran behind the chariot, stumbling and falling, calling out to Rāma, Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa.

  ‘Stop!’ cried the king, ‘Faster! Faster!’ cried Rāma, and Sumantra felt as if he were trapped between the two giant wheels of the chariot. ‘If the king should censure you for not stopping,’ said Rāma, ‘tell him that you did not prolong the agony of this moment of parting.’ Sumantra announced Rāma’s farewell to the citizens and though the horses were already flying like the wind, he spurred them on even faster. The king’s retainers fell back but the townspeople did not consider that option for a moment. The ministers told the king that it was inauspicious to follow the one whose return was eagerly awaited. Daśaratha heard their wise words and stopped, bathed in sweat, as he looked longingly after his disappearing son.

  Daśaratha gazed at the road as long as the dust from Rāma’s chariot was visible, unable to tear his eyes away. He seemed to grow taller as he stood on his toes and strained to catch a last glimpse of his son. When even the dust from Rāma’s receding chariot had disappeared, the mighty Ikṣvāku fell to the earth in his grief.

  Kausalyā came and took his right arm to lead him away and Kaikeyī, who loved Bharata best, took his left arm. Even though the king was engulfed by sorrow, he was rich in dharma and retained his natural courtesies. ‘Do not touch me, you wicked creature!’ he cried to Kaikeyī. ‘I never wish to set eyes on you again! Henceforth, you are neither my wife nor even a member of my family! You and your circle of friends and dependents are nothing to me and I am nothing to them. You have renounced dharma and seek only material prosperity and so I renounce you! Now and for all the lives to come, I reject that hand of yours that I took in marriage. And if Bharata is pleased that he has received an undivided kingdom, then let no offering that he makes for my welfare be efficacious!’

  Grieving Kausalyā lifted the king who was covered with dust from the road and turned back towards the palace. When Daśaratha thought of his son, headed for the forest to live the life of an ascetic, his grief scorched him as if he touched fire or raised his hand against an innocent brahmin. Again and again, he turned to look at the chariot’s tracks and his face clouded over like the sun during an eclipse. He wailed aloud as his thoughts turned to his beloved Rāma.

  When he felt that Rāma had probably crossed the city limits, he sighed. ‘I can see the tracks of the chariot that carried my son away but I can no longer see my son! Who knows where he will sleep tonight, sheltering by the roots of some tree or other, a log or a stone for his pillow. And when he awakes, his body covered with dust, he will sigh like a great tusker. And the forest animals will see Rāma going forth, alone and unprotected, even though he is the lord of the earth. Ah Kaikeyī! Your desires shall be fulfilled. Live in this kingdom as a widow, for I cannot bear to live without my son!’

  The king wept in front of all the people that had gathered and as he re-entered the city, he saw that all of Ayodhyā mourned for Rāma. The streets were deserted, the houses were empty and the shops and temples were silent. The distraught king went into his palace like the sun sinking into the ocean. But his home was empty without Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā. ‘Take me quickly to the apartments of Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother,’ he said to his attendants. When he reached there, he lay down on the bed but his mind was restless and tortured. ‘Oh Rāma!’ he cried. ‘You have abandoned me! Lucky are those who shall live until Rāma returns. They shall embrace each other when they see him! Kausalyā, touch me. I cannot see you. My eyes which followed Rāma have not yet returned to me!’ Kausalyā sat beside the grieving king and wept softly.

  As the mighty Rāma proceeded towards the forest, he was followed by the people of Ayodhyā. Even though the king had been persuaded to return by his well-wishers, the people continued to follow the chariot, since they loved virtuous Rāma. He was as dear to them as the full moon. They begged Rāma to come back but he was determined to fulfil his father’s promise and maintain his resolve to go to the forest.

  Rāma spoke to his people with deep affection, as a father would to his children. ‘All the love that the people of Ayodhyā have for me, let them give that and more to Bharata. That would make me very happy. Kaikeyī’s Bharata is a generous man and he shall do all that is necessary for your happiness and prosperity. Though he is young in years, he is old in wisdom. He is gentle but firm and he is amply endowed with all the virtues. He will make a good ruler and keep all your fears at bay. He has been chosen as the crown prince and all of us must respect the king’s decision. If you want to make me happy, you must behave such that the king has nothing to worry about while I am in the forest.’ But the more Rāma argued in favour of dharma, the more the people urged him to be king.

  Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa seemed to draw the wretched, weeping people of Ayodhyā with them, keeping them bound by the strength of their virtues. Even the old brahmins, rich in age and wisdom, called out from afar, their heads trembling with the weight of years. ‘O thoroughbred horses that carry Rāma away, turn back! Go no further! Do what is right for your master and bring him back into the city instead of carrying him into the dense forest.’

  Rāma dismounted at once when he saw the old brahmins. His compassionate heart could not bear
to see the old men on foot as he rode in his chariot. He began to walk to the forest with small strides, Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa by his side. Seeing that Rāma was continuing his journey, the brahmins called out, ‘Rāma, with our hair white as a swan’s wing, our ancient bodies covered with dust, we beg you to turn back! Even inanimate beings are devoted to you. Show your love for those that love you! These trees would follow you if they were not prevented from doing so by their roots. They cry out to you as the winds blow through their branches. Birds sit silent without eating a single thing and plead with you, who have compassion for all creatures.’

  As the brahmins called to Rāma in their anguish, the river Tamasā appeared, as if to prevent Rāma from going any further. When they reached the pleasant banks of the river, Rāma looked over at Sītā and said to Lakṣmaṇa, ‘This is the first night of our lives in the forest. Both of you must have no regrets about your decision. These silent woods are now filled with the cries of birds and animals as they return to their homes for the night. In Ayodhyā tonight, I have no doubt that the citizens will be in mourning over our departure. I am also sure that noble Bharata will be consoling my mother and father with kind words that are filled with artha, dharma and kāma. I remind myself of Bharata’s gentleness and so I do not grieve for my mother and father. Neither must you, Lakṣmaṇa! You did the right thing by coming with me for otherwise I would have had to seek help for Sītā’s protection.

  ‘Tonight I shall drink only water,’ continued Rāma. ‘I prefer to abstain from all the food the forest has to offer.’ Then Rāma told Sumantra to look after the horses. Since the sun was setting, Sumantra tethered the horses and after making sure that they had enough to eat, returned to the group. As night fell, Sumantra performed the evening rituals and helped Lakṣmaṇa make a bed for Rāma in a grove of trees. Rāma lay down with Sītā and when Lakṣmaṇa saw that they were asleep, he began to recount Rāma’s many virtues to Sumantra who was keeping watch.