The Ramayana (10 page)

Kausalya broke down and sobbed. She wrung her hands, she felt faint in the depth of her bowels, sighed, started out to say things but swallowed back her words. She said bitterly, “What a grand command from a father to a son!” She asked, “When do you have to go? What offence have you committed?”

Rama lifted his mother with his hands and said, “My father’s name is renowned for the steadfastness of his words. Would you rather that he spoke false? . . . I am thrice blessed, to make my brother the King, to carry out my father’s command, and to live in the forests. Do not let your heart grieve.”

“I cannot say, ‘Disobey your father,’ only let me go with you. I cannot live without you.”

“Your place is beside your husband. You will have to comfort and nurse him. You must see that he is not sunk in sorrow by my exile. You cannot leave him now. Also, later, my father may want to engage himself in the performance of religious rites for his own welfare, and you will be needed at his side. After living in the forests, I will come back—after all, fourteen years could pass like as many days. If you remember, my earlier stay in the forests with Viswamithra brought me countless blessings; this could be a similar opportunity again, for me. So do not grieve.”

Kausalya now realized that Rama could not be stopped. She thought, “Let me at least beg my husband’s help to hold him back from this resolve. . . .” However, when she reached the King’s chamber and saw his condition, she realized the hopelessness of her mission. As he lay there stunned and silent, she understood that he must be in some dreadful dilemma. Unable to bear the spectacle of an inert, lifeless husband, she uttered a loud wail. Her cries were so loud that the guests in the assembly hall were startled, and requested Sage Vasishtha to go up immediately and find out the cause. All kinds of music, chanting of hymns, prayers, laughter, and talk had filled the air; but this sudden intrusion of wailing destroyed the atmosphere of joy. Vasishtha hurried on. He found the King looking almost dead, Kaikeyi sitting apart and watching the scene unperturbed, and Kausalya in a state of complete desperation and wretchedness. He quickly tried to estimate the situation. It would be no use questioning Kausalya. He turned to the calm and firm-looking Kaikeyi. “Madam, what has happened?”

“Nothing to warrant all this hullaballoo,” Kaikeyi said. “A situation like this ought to be ignored, a purely domestic matter. Do not be perturbed, sir. Go back to the assembly and tell them to be calm. A few changes in the arrangements, that’s all. They will be told about it soon.”

“I want to know everything,” said Vasishtha emphatically.

She hastened to say, “Of course, you are our spiritual mentor and guide and you have every right to demand an explanation.” While she spoke, Vasishtha saw Kausalya writhing and squirming, and Dasaratha stirring. Dasaratha was evidently aware of what was going on in the room though unable to take part in the conversation. Lest either of them should begin to say things at cross-purposes with her, Kaikeyi said, “Your wisdom sustains us, sir. You will realize that nothing untoward has happened. Before I had even spoken fully, Rama understood and agreed. It’s the others who are making all this fuss. Rama has surrendered his right to the throne in favour of Bharatha, and will stay away in the forest for fourteen years. It’s a thing that concerns primarily himself, and he has accepted it without a word, with much grace. But these others think . . .” She swept her arm to indicate several hostile persons.

Vasishtha understood, but still asked, “What is the cause of this change?”

Kaikeyi, whose good manners had reached their limit, now said, “If my husband will speak, he can—otherwise please wait. Just tell those assembled that there is a change in the programme.”

“That we will see later,” said Vasishtha. “First we must revive the King.” He stooped over the King lying on the couch, gently lifted his head, and helped him to sit up. “We need you, Your Majesty. You are our lord and captain. What is to happen if you are withdrawn like this?”

The King went on mumbling, “Kaikeyi, Kaikeyi . . .”

Vasishtha said, “The Queen, Kaikeyi, is most considerate. She will do nothing that goes against your wishes. I am sure she will be obliging and helpful. There has been no opportunity to discuss these questions with her Majesty, our immediate concern being your welfare.” Kaikeyi listened passively to this hopeful statement by Vasishtha.

Dasaratha, clutching at a straw of hope, asked, “Does she relent? If she does, Rama will be King; and as to my promise, let her ask for any other fulfillment she may think of. . . .”

Relieved to find the King improving, Vasishtha turned to Kaikeyi and appealed to her with all the humility he could muster in his tone. “Everything is in your hands. . . . Please consider yourself as the benefactress of humanity. The whole world will be grateful to you for your help. Please reconsider.”

Kaikeyi became emotional: “If one cannot depend on the promise of a famous king,” she hissed, “life is not worth living. After all, I have done nothing more than ask for the fulfillment of his own voluntary promise, and you talk as if I had committed a crime!”

“You do not realize the evil consequences of your act, nor are you willing to listen and understand when we try to explain. Your obstinacy is inhuman,” said Vasishtha. When she appeared unaffected, he went on: “The King’s tongue never uttered the words of exile; you have passed this on as his own command, knowing that Rama would never question the truth of it. You have used your position as his favourite queen.”

No matter how he argued and persuaded, Kaikeyi held her ground with cynical calm. “Oh, Guruji, you too talk like these ignorant, self-centered people who find fault with me without understanding.”

Finally the King burst out, “Oh, devilish one, you ordered him into exile! Is he gone? In seeking you as a mate, I sought my death. Those cherry-red lips I thought sustained me, but they have only been a source of the deadliest poison to finish me off now. This sage be my witness. You are no longer my wife, and your son shall not be entitled to cremate me when I die.”

Kausalya, when she saw her husband’s plight, was most moved and tried to comfort him in her own way. Concealing her own misery at the prospect of Rama’s exile, she told her husband clearly, “If you do not maintain the integrity and truth of your own words, and now try to hold Rama back, the world will not accept it. Try to lessen your attachment to Rama and calm yourself.”

The King was not appeased by her advice. “The holy water from Ganga brought for ablution during the coronation will now serve me for my last drink; the holy fire raised will serve to light my funeral pyre. Rama, Rama, don’t go. I take back my word to Kaikeyi. . . . How can I bear to see you go? I will not survive your departure. If I lived after your departure, what would be the difference between me and that monster in wife’s shape—Kaikeyi?” Thus and in many other ways, Dasaratha lamented.

Vasishtha said, “Do not grieve. . . . I will see that your son is persuaded to stay back.” Dasaratha had become so weakened in will that he clung to this hope when he saw the sage depart. Kausalya comforted the King by saying, “It is quite likely Vasishtha will come back with Rama.” She tenderly lifted him, nursed him, and stroked his head and shoulder. He kept repeating, “Will Rama come? When? How terrible that Kaikeyi, whom I loved so much, should contrive my death so that she may place Bharatha on the throne!” Silence for a while, but once again all his lamentations and fears would return redoubled.

“Kausalya, my dearest wife, listen. Rama will not change his aim, but definitely go away, and my life will end. You know why? It’s an old story.

“Once while I was hunting in a forest, I heard the gurgling of water—the noise an elephant makes when drinking water. I shot an arrow in that direction, and at once heard a human cry in agony. I went up and found that I had shot at a young boy. He had been filling his pitcher; and water rushing into it had created the noise. The boy was dying and told me that his old parents, eyeless, were not far away. He had tended them, carrying them about on his back. They died on hearing of this tragedy, after cursing the man who had killed their son to suffer a similar fate. And so that is going to be my fate. . . .”

 
When Rama’s exile became known, the kings and commoners assembled at the hall broke down and wept; so did the religious heads and ascetics. Men and women wept aloud; the parrots in their cages wept, the cats in people’s homes; the infants in their cradles, the cows and calves. Flowers that had just bloomed wilted away. The water birds, the elephants, the chargers that drew chariots—all broke down and lamented like Dasaratha himself, unable to bear the pang of separation from Rama. What a moment ago had been a world of festivities had become one of mourning. Crowds thronged hither and thither, stood in knots at street corners, watched the portals of the palace, speculating and commenting. “Kaikeyi—the red-lipped prostitute,” they said. “We never suspected that our King was so lost in infatuation. . . . We thought that the red-lipped woman was our Queen, but she has shown her true nature—using her flesh to bait a senile male, who has sought his own ruin and thereby the ruin of our country. Let Kaikeyi try and rule this country with her son—there will be none left to rule over; we will all kill ourselves or move out with Rama. Ah, unfortunate earth not destined to have Rama as your overlord! What is Lakshmana doing? How will he stand this separation? What justification can there be for breaking a promise made to Rama? Strange act of justice this! The world has suddenly gone mad!”

Lakshmana, on hearing of the developments, was roused like the fire starting to consume the earth on the last day. “Food kept for the lion is sought to be fed to the street puppy—so plans that doe-eyed Kaikeyi,” commented Lakshmana. He picked up his sword and bow, put on his battle dress, and aggressively roamed the streets swearing, “Rama shall be crowned, and whoever comes in the way will be annihilated. Let the whole world come, I’ll destroy everyone who opposes, and pile up their carcasses sky high. I’ll seize the crown and will not rest till I place it on Rama’s head. This I’ll achieve this very day, this very day.” Seeing his fiery eyes and hearing his stentorian challenges, people withdrew from his proximity. “If all the gods in heaven, all the demons, all the good people of the earth, and bad—if the whole world oppose me, I’ll not relent or yield to the desire of a mere female. . . .”

His challenges and the rattling of his arms and the twanging of his bow-string reached the ears of Rama, who was just on his way to take leave of his stepmother Sumithra, Lakshmana’s mother, and he immediately turned back and confronted Lakshmana. “What makes you wear all this battle-dress, and against whom are you uttering your challenges? And why are you so wild and angry?”

Lakshmana said, “If this is not the occasion for anger, when else is it? After having promised you your rightful place—to deny it now! I can’t tolerate it. The vicious dreams of that black-hearted woman shall not be fulfilled. I’ll not let my senses watch this injustice passively. I’ll resist it till I perish.”

“It was my mistake,” said Rama. “I have only myself to blame for accepting my father’s offer of the throne so readily without thinking of the consequences. Your tongue, learned in the recital of Vedas and all the truths of godly life, should not be allowed to utter whatever it likes so irresponsibly. Your charges will not stand the scrutiny of judicious and serene temperaments. You must not utter such bitter remarks about people who after all are none other than your father and mother.” (Rama makes no distinction between mother and stepmother). “Calm yourself. Sometimes a river runs dry, and then it cannot be said to be the fault of the river—it’s dry because the heavens are dry. So also, our father’s change of mind, or the apparent hardheartedness of Kaikeyi, who has been so loving and kind, or Bharatha’s chance of succession. . . . These are really not our own doing, but some higher powers have decreed them. Fate . . .”

“I’ll be the fate to overpower fate itself,” said Lakshmana, with martial arrogance. Rama argued with him further. “I’ll change and alter fate itself, if necessary,” repeated Lakshmana and concluded his sentence with the refrain, “Whoever dares to oppose my aim will be destroyed.

“I know no father and no mother, other than you,” said Lakshmana, still unsoftened. “You are everything to me. And there is no meaning in my existence, and in the possession of my limbs and sense intact, unless I establish you on the throne as your right, irrespective of what a female serpent has tried to do. My blood boils and will not calm down—you will now see what my bow can do. . . .”

At this Rama held his hand back. He said, “I am firmly convinced that our mother Kaikeyi is the one who deserves to inherit this kingdom, having saved our father’s life and being assured of his gratitude; it is Bharatha’s privilege—being the one chosen by Kaikeyi; and my privilege is renunciation and the association of enlightened hermits of the forests. Do you want to let your anger rage until you have vanquished an innocent brother who has no part in this, a mother who has nursed us, and a father who was the greatest ruler on earth? Is that victory worth all this? Is this anger, which seeks to destroy all firm relationships, worth nurturing? Control yourself, and take your hand off your bow.”

Lakshmana relaxed, muttering, “What’s all this strength of my arm worth! Mere burden, if it cannot be employed to destroy evil when I see it; and my anger itself has now proved futile.”

 
Rama went up with Lakshmana to bid farewell to his stepmother Sumithra. As had happened with the others, Sumithra also bewailed Rama’s exile and tried to stop him. Once again, untiringly, Rama expressed his determination to go and his joy at being able to fulfill his father’s terms. While they were talking, a servant maid sent by Kaikeyi came bearing in her arms garments made of tree barks, a reminder for Rama to change quickly and depart. Lakshmana ordered another set for himself, shed the finery he was wearing, and changed into coarse bark. Presently Rama, dressed like an ascetic or penitent, was ready to leave. At the sight of his departure, the women wept. Rama made one last attempt to leave Lakshmana behind but Lakshmana followed him stubbornly. He then went into Sita’s chamber and found her already dressed in the rough tree fibre—her finery and jewels discarded and laid aside, although she had decorated and dressed herself as befitting a queen a little while ago. Rama, though he had been of so firm a mind for himself, felt disturbed at the sight of her—the change being so sudden. He said, “It was never my father’s intention to send you along with me. This is not the life for you. I have only come to take your leave, not to take you with me. . . .”