The Ramayana (27 page)

Rama said quietly, “I give you my word, Lakshmana and I will do our best to rid your forest of its rakshasas. We shall be your hunters.”

The rishis blessed them. They spent the night there, and the next day some of the hermits came out to show them the way to Sutheekshna's asrama. When the munis turned back, the exiles walked for a way through dense jungle, until they found themselves on the banks of their old friend the Mandakini. They tracked the river upstream, pausing now and then to gaze at a crystal pool full of black lotuses or at some other vivid flower that grew shyly in the deepest thicket, as if being seen by the eyes of strangers would wither its beauty.

The jungle was exotic, full of trees that exuded the most unusual auras and stood laden with blooms of extraordinary shapes and pungent and heady scents. There were spear blossoms and those that looked uncannily like men's heads. There were crimson plants, with perfectly formed sivalingas outthrust from yonic leaf cups.

The farther they went, the brighter and more unfamiliar were the birds in the branches. The monkeys no longer swung above them in troops but were lone and colorful, with faces like painted masks. Once a glimmering leopard stared down at them from a branch that overhung the path.

Lakshmana raised his bow, but Rama touched his arm and said, “This is his home; we are the visitors here. Look how handsome he is!” Green eyes flashing, a snarl on his lips, the leopard vanished without rustling the leaves.

They came to a valley of flowers that took their breath away. The trees were magenta and yellow, pink and white, purple and orange, as far as the eye could see, in a candescent blessing upon the earth. Scents from dreams hung in the air in this wonderland, and they saw boats moored on the Mandakini, brimming with flowers.

Ahead of them a mountain loomed, dark as twilight, and the valley of flowers lay in its shadow. Now some rishis stepped out of the trees on the far bank and hailed them across the river: “We hid because we thought you were rakshasas. We will bring a boat across for you.”

Sutheekshna's friendly sannyasis ferried Rama's party across the Mandakini, and they arrived in that legendary muni's asrama.

 

5. A matter of dharma

Rama prostrated himself before the short, cheerful rishi whose cheeks were as bright as the blooms on the trees that flowered so extravagantly in his valley, because his tapasya was so profound.

Rama said, “Lord Sutheekshna, I am Rama. I have come to take your blessing.”

Sutheekshna rose and embraced the princes. Laying his palm on her head, he blessed Sita. He cried in the most friendly, lively voice, “Rama, I am so happy you have come! You were on Chitrakuta when I last had news of you. You may not know it, but since your birth we rishis have kept a close watch on you. We have waited for you; and who knows, except that I heard you were coming I may have left this body of mine. A year ago, Indra came to me in a dream and said I had won all the lokas with my tapasya, even Brahma's.” The rishi smiled; he was testing Rama gently. He said, “Take all the heavens from me, sweet prince, as my gift to you.”

Rama also smiled, and replied, “I must win them for myself, my lord. But Sharabhanga sent me to you. Before he left his body, he said you would find me a home in the jungle.”

The smile never left Sutheekshna's face; his eyes were alight to see Rama. He cried, “Stay here with us. There are roots and fruit aplenty to feed you. You have seen the flowers of my valley; I think they will please your Sita's heart. The river sings for us and you can take a boat on her at any time. Herds of deer come to visit; they are our friends, and speak to us in their own way. Stay here, Rama: you will be happy among us.”

Rama listened attentively. But then he said, “I fear my kshatriya blood may get the better of me. I may kill a deer and desecrate this holy place. But for tonight I accept your gracious hospitality. Tomorrow, when we are less tired, we will decide on our next course.”

With fruit even more juicy and unusual than they had eaten the last two nights, with honey even sweeter, and roots that tasted like venison, Sutheekshna entertained his visitors. They had wine brewed from some scarlet berries, which made their spirits soar. Late into the night, they sang songs in praise of the Gods above; and Sita bewitched them all when she joined in. Then she sang by herself in her strong, clear voice, with her eyes cast down or fixed on Rama's face.

They slept in peace that night. Sutheekshna's valley was protected by his tapasya, and no evil had yet crossed the river.

*   *   *

The next morning, Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita were up early. Rama bathed in the night-chilled Mandakini, redolent with lotuses.

He came to Sutheekshna, and said, “I think we should go on a pilgrimage to all the asramas in the Dandaka vana. We want to befriend every rishi who lives here. Bless us on our way, my lord.”

Sutheekshna said, “May your journey be safe and joyful. Come back to me when you have met all the munis in our jungle.”

Sita strapped their quivers on for the princes. Bowing to the sage and merry hermit, they set off, heading still deeper into the forest.

As they went, Sita lagged nearer her husband. She kept glancing back at him, until he walked beside her and asked, “What is troubling you, my love?”

She bit her lip and hesitated. Then very softly she said, “Dharma is a subtle thing. One can be true to it only if one's mind is entirely without desire”

She looked up at him, smiling as if she had transgressed her bounds already. Rama took her hand and urged her, “Go on.”

She gave a shy laugh. “Three sins must be avoided if one is to live perfectly in dharma. You, Rama, are certainly free of the first two. You have never told a lie and never will. You have never and shall never, I think, even look at another woman with desire. But it is the third crime against the truth that worries me, ever since you swore to Sharabhanga's rishis that you would rid the jungle of its rakshasas. But the jungle is the rakshasas' home. They have not harmed you in any way, yet you have sworn to kill them. I am against our going further into the forest.

“Having given your word, Rama, the moment you see a rakshasa you will want to kill him. And for you, to think is to act. I have heard the very touch of a weapon is like fire. Varuna's bow in your hand is fire to your spirit. But you must never string it unprovoked; you must not kill even a rakshasa unless he attacks you first.

“Rama, you wear the valkala of a tapasvin; you must honor what you wear. My love, dharma is, most of all, peace.”

Rama smiled and said solemnly, “I swear by our love that I will never kill anyone, even a rakshasa, unless I am provoked. But you must consider what provocation is. It is my kshatriya dharma to help those who seek my protection, as the rishis have done. The forces of darkness and light are always at war in the world. The earth prospers, humankind thrives, because of the prayers of these holy ones who dwell in the forest. Their penance is for the weal of all men.

“The rakshasas who feed on their flesh are minions of evil. It is my dharma to save the world from them. Just think of the rishis' plight: that for fear of the rakshasas, they cannot still their minds in peace and draw heaven's grace down for the earth's nurture. Sita, the world will fall into anarchy without the tapasya of these saintly men. I should have offered to protect them without their asking; their worship is more vital to the earth than the throne of Ayodhya. My love, they are the sacred support of the people, of us all. They are the holders of the world.

“We may lose our lives fighting the forces of evil; but fight them we must, as we are able. It is the very reason why fate has brought us into the Dandaka vana.”

Sita was quiet. Rama put his arm around her and continued: “Your concern moves me; don't ever think I am not aware of it. And to watch over my dharma is your concern, whose else's? But I realize with each day in the jungle, in every fiber in my body, that I have been born for a purpose beyond just being a prince of Ayodhya. A powerful destiny seems to call me, Sita, one that I do not yet understand.”

Sita looked into her husband's youthful face and saw how its lines were firming into manhood. Not just a world, but an eternity seemed to separate them from Ayodhya now. And Sita was a little frightened.

 

6. Ten years

Rama spoke to Lakshmana and they lengthened their stride through the jungle. They walked past rivulets and through some light thickets; they passed more than one mountain. They saw more enchanted pools, heavy with lotuses in rare colors. All day they walked, stopping only to pluck familiar fruit from the trees and eat them. They came to a lake full of sweet water with herds of deer on its banks. Wild pig came to drink, and they saw flocks of sarasa and chakravaka, goose and migrant teal, scarlet ibis and pelican, crane and painted stork.

The sun was sinking in the west when they arrived in a zone of asramas. There was a clutch of them built into a wide depression in the earth, none far from the others. Their rishis welcomed their royal guests with memorable warmth: wherever Rama encountered a hermit, he was unfailingly worshipped!

This was, at last, the deepest place in the Dandaka vana, its inmost heart. If they went on from here, they would be leaving the jungle again. Among these rishis, Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita spent ten years. They were peaceful years, save for frequent encounters with the rakshasas, who came in search of human flesh and human blood. Instead they found swift death at the hands of the blue kshatriya of Ayodhya and his brother; and it was violent deliverance for them. In ten years, the race of rakshasas dwindled in that jungle.

From asrama to asrama went Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana. In some they stayed a month, in others a year; everywhere they had the same welcome and hospitality. Slowly Rama grew used to being treated like an Avatara, though he neither encouraged it nor shrank from it. He accepted it as he did the sunrise or the moon in the sky, and it did not make him arrogant or change him in any way. And in the heart of the forest, his spirit was opened to him: a secret, mystic bloom, thousand-petaled.

Ten years went by, and Sita and the princes scarcely knew how. They became part of the jungle: like the deer, the elephants, and the mighty bison, the langurs and baboons on the trees, the lotuses upon the pools, and even the rakshasas. The jungle was now their home.

Lakshmana could fluently imitate the voices of the birds and beasts. He could call up a koyal or a tigress in season, convincingly mimicking the songs or roars of their mates. They went for long walks. They went bathing in the charmed streams and pools, and ten years passed like a dream: especially for Rama, who, more than anything, reveled in the company of every rishi he met. Individually, they were so unlike one another, and most of them were far from perfect. They had their petty bickering and jealousies, their lovable idiosyncrasies and their shifting hierarchies within each asrama. Some were bhaktas of Siva, and others worshipped Vishnu. But to Rama, they were all fascinating without exception, and enviable. He could spend days listening to their conversation, ever passionate, if at times eccentric: always about great and holy God.

Ten years flew by, between asrama and asrama. Then Rama remembered his promise to Sutheekshna that he would return to that rishi's sanctuary, when he had roamed the other hermitages of the Dandaka vana to his heart's content. So one day, some rishis beside the Mandakini heard themselves being hailed from across the river by three travelers who looked much more like jungle folk than they had ten years ago, when they last passed through the valley of flowers.

Sutheekshna was overjoyed to see Rama. Over and over again he hugged the prince, as though he was his very life restored to him. And he cried, “You have spent so much time in the other asramas. What is wrong with mine that you stayed just a day with me?”

Rama spent ten months with that jovial muni. Then one morning he remembered something that had tugged at his heart for a long time. He went to Sutheekshna and said, “I heard that Agastya Muni lives in the Dandaka vana. But the paths of the forest are so difficult that I hesitated to try to find his asrama.”

Sutheekshna gave a delighted laugh. “Last night, just as sleep came over me, I thought to myself I must tell Rama to go and seek Agastya's blessing. But with morning, I had forgotten again. This has been happening quite often; perhaps until now it was not time for you to visit the incomparable one.

“Take the rishis' path south from here, and four yojanas away you will find Agastya's brother's asrama. You can spend your night there in safety, and I am sure the muni will direct you to his brother.”

*   *   *

South went the princes and Sita. The southern forest was quite a different place. It was less dense, but strewn with open glades, with fruit and flowering trees. More streams and rivers flowed through it than to the north or the east. Most of the way, they walked under the warm sun and were glad of it. They did not have to go in single file as they did through the thicker jungle, and Rama asked Lakshmana, “Do you know the story of Agastya Muni?”

Being used to listening to his brother's stories since they were children, Lakshmana was eager to hear it; so was Sita, though she smiled at the younger prince's keenness.

Rama began: “Once there were two rakshasas who lived here in the southern Dandaka. They were brothers called Ilvala and Vatapi, and their fierceness and cruelty were legend. Their favorite diet was the flesh of brahmanas, and the manner in which they snared the unsuspecting munis was passing strange.

“Ilvala, who had powers of maya, would himself assume the form of a brahmana and wait on this very path. When a real brahmana came along, he would accost him tearfully. He would cry in the most priestly language that his father had just died and he would be honored if the traveling muni would attend the srarddha.

“Meanwhile, Vatapi, who was an even abler sorcerer than his brother, became a sacrificial goat. When the guest arrived, the goat was killed and a meal cooked with its flesh. When the guest had been fed, so he was past eating another morsel, Ilvala, his expression as bland as it had been all morning, would shout, ‘Vatapi, come out!'