RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (38 page)

Yama glanced at Rama who shrugged and said, “You heard the other Rama say to Lord Shiva that he intends to stay on the mortal plane to continue fighting for dharma against the forces of adharma. He even uses dharma as his excuse for banishing Sita!”

She pursed her lips at that, but said nothing.

Rama went on. “But in fact, that itself is part of Ravana’s plan. To compel Vishnudeva to stay upon the mortal realm, taking avatar after avatar, amsa after amsa, in a never-ending, futile struggle to root out adharma from the world forever.”

“And?” she asked. “What is so wrong with that?”

“It is an impossible task. Ravana has ensured that adharma will always exist. By permitting Rama to destroy him and wipe out all asuras, he has forced the Balance to shift in immense, unpredictable ways.”

“Unpredictable,” Yama said, “except to him. For he planned it that way. By ensuring the obliteration of the asura races, he compels the law of Balance to pervert mortals themselves into warring with one another.

Thus he forces innocent, naively honourable beings into becoming rakshasas and monsters and preying on their own kind. That is the real vengeance of Ravana, to turn man against man, brother against brother, from this day, until all time to come. It begins now, and soon it continues through an endless series of wars, reaching one great peak when all the Arya nations go to war against one another, taking sides in a great epic yuddh that will be known in future times as the Maha Bharata.”

Sita was about to ask when this maha yuddh was going to take place, sceptically, since she could not conceive of any age when the Aryas themselves warred against one another. Before she could speak, the ground beneath her feet shuddered. It was not like the earlier sensation, when it had seemed like an imminent earthquake, this was a single massive shudder, like they were standing upon some wooden surface that had been struck with a great object and the surface itself was shaken. Even Hanuman reached up and grabbed hold of a branch instinctively, which told her how intense the shock must have been. Rama and Yamadev both reeled but clung onto the trunk of the sala tree, Rama also grabbing hold of a hanging vine, his bicep knotting.

“What—?” she started to stay. And then her words were snatched away by a gust of wind so powerful, it felt like her very breath was being sucked out of her lungs. She tried to scream but of course that only deprived her of the last air she had. She felt her entire body buffeted from behind by a blasting force so intense, it felt like the fabric of her garment was being driven
into
her skin; she could actually feel the grain of the cloth boring its way into her pores. She was flung flat upon the ground, mouth filling with dirt and dried leaves, nostrils plugged with dirt as well, choking her.

Above the roaring of the wind, there spoke a voice so great it sounded like an unimaginably great metal object shrieking as it scraped against another great metal object – like a giant sword locked against another giant sword in combat. She had never heard such a sound before, nor anything else this loud. It reduced her to nothingness, to feeling like she was little more than dirt herself. An insignificant tiny being in a terribly large and hostile universe. Whatever the source of that voice, it was beyond her ken or comprehension. It was as if Infinity itself spoke.

“YOU DARE!”
said this terrible voice, the metal-shrieking intensity unbearable.
“IMPUDENT MORTALS! A VANAR? AND YOU, YAMADEV? I EXPECTED BETTER OF YOU.”

From where she lay, face-down upon the ground, choking on dust, driven by wind so great it felt like an elephant lying upon her back, Sita could neither see nor hear Yamadev, so she never knew whether or not he responded.

And the next instant, another rippling blast struck her, taking away consciousness as easily as it had taken away breath.

And everything turned

WHITE INFINITE WHITE

Then even the white faded, and her vision was filled with 

BLANKNESS

&

VOID

She floated in the void for an infinity.

And through the void she heard a voice call her name.

Two
voices.

Both male, but young. Very young.

And they both called her, “Maa!”

And laughed.

She felt strangely comforted, even though she knew that something had ended that she had never thought would end. Could end.

And she felt herself smile, even as a tear fell from her eye.

The voices made her feel safe. As if she had nothing to fear anymore.

And that was true.

For even though this was the end, it was also a beginning.

She blinked.

She opened her eyes.

And found herself standing in the great sabha hall of Ayodhya, alone. The seats usually occupied by mantris, the mahamantri, nobles, commoners, were all empty. Only the endless rows of pillars marched in every direction, like stone sentries marking a prison.

She raised her head, knowing whom she would see before she saw him.

Rama sat before her, upon the sunwood throne. He was Rama and yet he was not
her
Rama. She knew this from a single glance, from the way he sat, legs flung apart insolently, goblet in his careless hand, head bearing the ornate, gleaming crown lowered, eyes dark and gleaming, lupine, boring into her. There was no love there. No compassion. No mercy.

Only ruthless justice.

He spoke. And even before he spoke, she knew what he would say. A single word, more terrible than volumes.

“Exile.”

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SONS OF SITA

Ashok K. Banker

RAMAYANA SERIES®

Book 8

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Invocation

Ganesa, lead well this army of words

Epigraph

|arvaci subhaghe bhava site vandamahe tva|

||yatha nah subhaghasasi yatha nah suphalasasi||

|Auspicious Sita, we venerate and worship thee|

||Bless us, endow us with prosperity and bring us fruits abundantly||

Rig-Veda, Mandala 4, Sukta 57, rca 6

Dedication

for

yashka 

ayush yoda

bithika

my beginning

my middle

my end

not necessarily in that order

love, forever

and nothing but love, forever

RETELLING THE RAMAYANA

AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION TO THE 2ND INDIAN EDITION 2005

Adi-kavya: The first retelling 

Some three thousand years ago, a sage named Valmiki lived in a remote forest ashram, practicing austerities with his disciples. One day, the wandering sage Narada visited the ashram and was asked by Valmiki if he knew of a perfect man. Narada said, indeed, he did know of such a person, and then told Valmiki and his disciples a story of an ideal man. 

Some days later, Valmiki happened to witness a hunter killing a kraunchya bird. The crane’s partner was left desolate, and cried inconsolably. Valmiki was overwhelmed by anger at the hunter’s action, and sorrow at the bird’s loss. He felt driven to do something rash, but controlled himself with difficulty. 

After his anger and sorrow subsided, he questioned his outburst. After so many years of practicing meditation and austerities, he had still not been able to master his own emotions. Was it even possible to do so? Could any person truly become a master of his passions? For a while he despaired, but then he recalled the story Narada had told him. He thought about the implications of the story, about the choices made by the protagonist and how he had indeed shown great mastery of his own thoughts, words, deeds and feelings. Valmiki felt inspired by the recollection and was filled with a calm serenity such as he had never felt before. 

As he recollected the tale of that perfect man of whom Narada had spoken, he found himself reciting it in a particular cadence and rhythm. He realized that this rhythm or meter corresponded to the warbling cries of the kraunchya bird, as if in tribute to the loss that had inspired his recollection. At once, he resolved to compose his own version of the story, using the new form of meter, that others might hear it and be as inspired as he was. 

But Narada’s story was only a bare narration of the events, a mere plot outline as we would call it today. In order to make the story attractive and memorable to ordinary listeners, Valmiki would have to add and embellish considerably, filling in details and inventing incidents from his own imagination. He would have to dramatize the whole story in order to bring out the powerful dilemmas faced by the protagonist. 

But what right did he have to do so? After all, this was not his story. It was a tale told to him. A tale of a real man and real events. How could he make up his own version of the story? 

At this point, Valmiki was visited by Lord Brahma Himself. 

The Creator told him to set his worries aside and begin composing the work he had in mind. Here is how Valmiki quoted Brahma’s exhortation to him, in an introductory passage not unlike this one that you are reading right now: 

Recite the tale of Rama … as you heard it told by Narada. Recite the deeds of Rama that are already known as well as those that are not, his adventures … his battles … the acts of Sita, known and unknown. Whatever you do not know will become known to you. Never will your words be inappropriate. Tell Rama’s story … that it may prevail on earth for as long as the mountains and the rivers exist. 

Valmiki needed no further urging. He began composing his poem. 

He titled it, Ramayana, meaning literally, The Movements (or Travels) of Rama. 

Foretelling the future 

The first thing Valmiki realized on completing his composition was that it was incomplete. What good was a story without anyone to tell it to? In the tradition of his age, a bard would normally recite his compositions himself, perhaps earning some favour or payment in coin or kind, more often rewarded only with the appreciation of his listeners. But Valmiki knew that while the form of the story was his creation, the story itself belonged to all his countrymen. He recalled Brahma’s exhortation that Rama’s story must prevail on earth for as long as the mountains and the rivers exist. 

So he taught it to his disciples, among whose number were two young boys whose mother had sought sanctuary with him years ago. Those two boys, Luv and Kusa, then travelled from place to place, reciting the Ramayana as composed by their guru. 

In time, fate brought them before the very Rama described in the poem. Rama knew at once that the poem referred to him and understood that these boys could be none other than his sons by the banished Sita. Called upon by the curious king, Valmiki himself then appeared before Rama and entreated him to take back Sita. 

Later, Rama asked Valmiki to compose an additional part to the poem, so that he himself, Rama Chandra, might know what would happen to him in future. Valmiki obeyed this extraordinary command, and this supplementary section became the Uttara Kaand of his poem.

Valmiki’s Sanskrit rendition of the tale was a brilliant work by any standards, ancient or modern. Its charm, beauty and originality can never be matched. It is a true masterpiece of world literature, the ‘adi-kavya’ which stands as the fountainhead of our great cultural record. Even today, thousands of years after its composition, it remains unsurpassed. 

And yet, when we narrate the story of the Ramayana today, it is not Valmiki’s Sanskrit shlokas that we recite. Few of us today have even read Valmiki’s immortal composition in its original. Most have not even read an abridgment. Indeed, an unabridged Ramayana itself, reproducing Valmiki’s verse without alteration or revisions, is almost impossible to find. Even the most learned of scholars, steeped in a lifetime of study of ancient Sanskrit literature, maintain that the versions of Valmiki’s poem that exist today have been revised and added to by later hands. Some believe that the first and seventh kaands, as well as a number of passages within the other kaands, were all inserted by later writers who preferred to remain anonymous.

Perhaps the earliest retelling of Valmiki’s poem is to be found in the pages of that vast ocean of stories we call the Mahabharata. When Krishna Dweipayana-Vyasa, more popularly known today as Ved Vyasa, composed his equally legendary epic, he retold the story of the Ramayana in one passage. His retelling differs in small but significant ways. 

Sometime later, the burgeoning Buddhist literature, usually composed in the Pali dialect, also included stories from the Ramayana, recast in a somewhat different light. Indeed, Buddhist literature redefined the term dharma itself, restating it as
dhamma
and changing the definition of this and several other core concepts. 

In the eleventh century, a Tamil poet named Kamban undertook his own retelling of the Ramayana legend. Starting out with what seems to have been an attempt to translate Valmiki’s Ramayana, Kamban nevertheless deviated dramatically from his source material. In Kamban’s Ramayana, entire episodes are deleted, new ones appear, people and places are renamed or changed altogether, and even the order of some major events is revised. Most of all, Kamban’s Ramayana relocates the entire story in a milieu that is recognizably eleventh-century Tamil Nadu in its geography, history, clothes, customs, etc., rather than the north Indian milieu of Valmiki’s Sanskrit original. It is essentially a whole new Ramayana, retold in a far more passionate, rich and colorful idiom. 

A few centuries later, Sant Tulsidas undertook his interpretation of the epic. Tulsidas went so far as to title his work
Ramcharitramanas
, rather than calling it the Ramayana. 

By doing so, he signalled that he was not undertaking a faithful translation, but a wholly new variation of his own creation. The differences are substantial. 

In art, sculpture, musical renditions, even in dance, mime and street theatrical performances, the story of Valmiki’s great poem has been retold over and over, in countless different variations, some with minor alterations, others with major deviations. The tradition of retellings continues even in modern times, through television serials, films, puppet theatre, children’s versions, cartoons, poetry, pop music and, of course, in the tradition of
Ramlila
enactments across the country every year. 

Yet how many of these are faithful to Valmiki? How many, if any at all, actually refer to the original Sanskrit text, or even attempt to seek out that text? 

Should they even do so? 

So many Ramayanas 

Does a grandmother consult Valmiki’s Ramayana before she retells the tale to her grandchildren at night? When she imitates a rakshasa’s roar or Ravana’s laugh, or Sita’s tears, or Rama’s stoic manner, whom does she base her performance on? When an actor portrays Rama in a television serial, or a Ramlila performer enacts a scene, or a sculptor chisels a likeness, a painter a sketch, whom do they all refer to? There were no illustrations in Valmiki’s Ramayana. No existing portraits of Rama survive from that age, no recordings of his voice or video records of his deeds. 

Indeed, many of the episodes or ‘moments’ we believe are from Valmiki’s Ramayana are not even present in the original Sanskrit work. They are the result of later retellers, often derived from their own imagination. One instance is the ‘seema rekha’ believed to have been drawn by Lakshman before leaving Sita in the hut. No mention of this incident exists in Valmiki’s Ramayana. 

Then there is the constant process of revision that has altered even those scenes that remain constant through various retellings. For example, take the scene where Sita entreats Rama to allow her to accompany him into exile. In Valmiki’s Ramayana, when Rama tells Sita he has to go into exile, and she asks him to allow her to go with him, he refuses outright. At first, Sita pleads with him and cries earnest tears, but when Rama remains adamant, she grows angry and rebukes him in shockingly harsh terms. She refers to him as a ‘woman disguised as a man’, says that ‘the world is wrong when they say that there is no one greater than Rama’, calls him ‘depressed and frightened’, ‘an actor playing a role’, and other choice epithets. It is one of the longer scenes in Valmiki’s Ramayana, almost equalling in length the entire narration of Rama’s early childhood years!