The Ramayana Page 7

  Viswamitra said softly, “Ganga is called tripathaga because she who flowed in Swarga, flowed also on Bhumi and in Patala. The three paths.”

  He grew silent, and stared out at the silver expanse before them, stretching away to the horizon where the moon had risen and hung low: the same moon which had, once, witnessed Bhagiratha’s incredible prayatna. Breaking his spell, Viswamitra stretched himself. Some of his hermits rose and went to walk beside the river, and the princes of Ayodhya went with them.

  But later that night, after all the others were asleep and the fire had burned down, Rama lay awake beside his brother and hearkened to the Ganga. She spoke to him secretly of strange and marvelous ages, and he was amazed that he could understand what she said. Like lucid dreams, pristine legends played themselves out before his mind’s eye and the river was his guru under the moon.

  14. Rishi Gautama’s asrama

  The next day, Viswamitra’s party crossed the wide water in a fisherman’s coracle and the river blessed them on their way. On the northern bank of the Ganga, they came to the gates of Vishala. The city was built where Diti, mother of the Daityas, once sat chanting noxious mantras taught her by Kashyapa. She prayed for a boy who would kill her sister Aditi’s son, Indra.

  Diti became pregnant by Kashyapa’s seed. But the vow she had sworn was exacting: a thousand years of perfect purity, even during her pregnancy. One day, after she had bathed, Diti fell asleep with her head on her knees and the tips of her hair brushing her feet. Indra had waited like a serpent for this moment’s lapse. He flashed into her womb through her nostril, and cut her child in seven pieces with his diamond thunderbolt. But he could not extinguish life within those pieces. The seven pieces began to wail aloud inside their sleeping mother. Indra cut each of the seven pieces in seven again. But they still howled. In despair, the Deva hissed at them, “Maa Ruda! Maa Ruda!” “Don’t cry! Don’t cry!”

  Diti awoke, shaking, and she knew what had happened. Indra said to her, “Your vow protected your children; even my vajra could not kill them. Here, take them, they are forty-nine now.”

  But Diti realized that now her sons could never kill the Deva king. She said to Indra, “Fate has decided that evil won’t befall you. You take these sons of mine and let them be your brothers.”

  Indra took those splendid children among the Devas and they became companions to Vayu of the air. For what Indra whispered to them in their mother’s womb, they were called the Maruts.

  * * *

  In Vishala, where once Diti kept an imperfect vow, King Sumathi of one branch of the Ikshvaku line ruled. He came out from his palace to welcome Viswamitra and his party. They stayed a night in that city and set out the next morning for Mithila. But when Sumathi visited them, Viswamitra’s rishis told him how Rama came to Siddhasrama, and how he killed the rakshasas. It was from Vishala that Rama’s fame first spread, with the story of how Maricha was carried a hundred yojanas to the sea by the manavastra.

  They came to the outskirts of Mithila, grander than Vishala. Glowing silver and gold, jewels embedded in her walls, the city’s towers and ramparts stroked the sky. Kshatriyas and rishis were full of wonder. At the edge of the city, Rama pointed to a grove of fruit trees with an auspicious air. At its heart was an asrama, in seclusion.

  “What asrama is this where no one lives,” asked the prince, drawn strangely to the place, “though it is so beautiful and built on the hem of a great city?”

  A light in his eye, Viswamitra said, “If you think the asrama is beautiful now, you should have seen it when Maharishi Gautama sat in dhyana under its trees. Rama, this place was like a bit of heaven fallen into the earth.

  “Gautama’s tapasya was so profound that Brahma created a woman called Ahalya, of unequaled beauty, and gave her to Gautama to be his wife. For years they lived happily together. But one day, Indra saw Ahalya and was smitten by her. When Gautama went to the river for his evening bath, the Deva assumed the rishi’s form and came to Ahalya. She knew him at once; but that lovely woman was flattered that the Deva desired her. She allowed Indra to make love to her on the very floor of the asrama where she slept nightly with her husband.

  “When passion was slaked, Ahalya became sensible of the danger they were in. She cried to Indra, ‘Go quickly, before my husband returns.’

  “But in his arrogance and languor, he laughed, ‘He will not finish his worship so soon.’ He began to make love to her again, and Ahalya could not resist his caresses.

  “The brief time of love is a long while. When they were satisfied, and Indra himself realized he should leave, it was too late. Just as the Deva prepared to go out with a last embrace, Gautama stood at the door, staring in amazement at someone who looked exactly like himself, holding Ahalya in his arms. But he knew at once who it was. Indra, king of Devaloka, stood revealed before the rishi. But Gautama was not moved.

  “In a terrible voice, he cursed the Deva. ‘Your vanity, that no woman can resist your charms, made you commit this crime. Let your charms be seen by all the world from today, a thousand fold. Let your body be adorned with a thousand phalluses, so everyone knows your real nature.’

  “Reeling from the curse, the Deva fled. Already he felt the thousand appendages of his shame pushing their lewd way out through his skin. Thus, the Deva king was called Satakratu. For a thousand divine years, each of which is three hundred and sixty-five human years long, Indra sat in a fervid penance. Only then, Brahma softened the curse of Gautama: he changed Indra’s thousand phalluses into a thousand eyes.

  “But that evening after Indra fled, the heartbroken Gautama cursed Ahalya in their hut, ‘Unfaithful woman, you have betrayed your womanhood. Be as dust on the ground!’

  “She cried out in anguish. Tears in his eyes, the maharishi looked at his wife and knew he could not curse either her or himself forever. He said, ‘In the treta yuga, Vishnu will be born as a prince of this earth. When his holy feet touch the dust you now become, you will be forgiven.’

  “Before his eyes, she turned into dust on the floor of the asrama where she had betrayed him. Gautama vanished from this place and was never seen here again.”

  * * *

  Now they stood on the threshold of the asrama. Viswamitra pushed the door and it creaked open. With his hands, he cleared the cobwebs that hung from ceiling and wall in thick lattices. He let in the light of the sun, like a weapon to end the darkness of centuries that lay congealed within that room. He called Rama to come and see where Ahalya was made dust by her husband’s curse. Handing his bow to his brother, Rama crossed over the threshold, past Viswamitra and into the deserted dwelling.

  Following the shafts of the sun, Rama went into Gautama’s ancient home. And he was another profound light, even if he did not know it yet himself. Viswamitra stood at the door, not wanting to be the first one inside. The instant the prince of Ayodhya stepped into that hut, there was a flash like soft lightning in the gloom. A woman whose beauty belonged to another age of the earth, who was like a sudden flame in a cloud of smoke, like the sun on clear water, stood before an astonished Rama, her hands folded and her eyes shining.

  Beside the first flash of spirit light, from which Ahalya had stepped, another, deeper radiance shone. With a rapturous smile on his face, Gautama appeared there. As in a dream, he prostrated himself at the feet of the dark prince. Ahalya touched Rama’s feet with her lips, and then her husband’s. His eyes brimming, Gautama raised her up and embraced her.

  Then, surprising himself, Rama raised his palms that were suddenly alight, and blessed Gautama and Ahalya. Hand in hand, they walked around him in pradakshina, as though he was a sacred fire. Ahalya joined her luster to Gautama’s and they vanished into the twin candescence, from the world and that time.

  Only Viswamitra saw the shower of barely tangible petals from the realm of the Devas, and perhaps their contrite king: petals whose transcendant sweetness filled that hermitage.

  15. Mithila

  They entered King Janaka’s Mithila, and wal
ked up to the enclosure of the yagna. A thousand brahmanas, all experts on the Vedas, had gathered there for the sacrifice. They were housed in a thousand dwellings built within the vast precinct of the yagnashala.

  Viswamitra chose a spot near a tank of clear water, at the heart of Mithila, and he and his party settled themselves under a pipal tree. In his palace Janaka heard of Viswamitra’s arrival and came at once to greet the rishi. He had heard about Viswamitra from his own guru, Gautama’s son Sadananda. Janaka prostrated himself before the great sage who had come to his city.

  “My yagna is thrice blessed that you have come to Mithila! Now I am sure the Gods will give me what I want. Twelve days remain to the conclusion of the yagna. Viswamitra, you must stay with us until the end. You must be here when the Devas come for their share of the havis.”

  Even as he spoke the king’s eyes strayed and strayed to Rama and Lakshmana. He could not contain himself, and asked, “Who are these young men? They seem to be as strong as Devas and as handsome. Truly, it is of such kshatriyas the ancients said that, seeing them, even men wish they were women! Muni, tell me all about these brothers; for brothers they must be, they are so alike. My heart longs to know everything about them.”

  Viswamitra said, “These are Rama and Lakshmana, sons of Dasaratha of Ayodhya. Before I tell you how they killed Tataka, and Maricha’s rakshasas, let me tell you about a miracle. When Rama walked into Gautama’s asrama, Ahalya rose from her dust. Gautama appeared there and they were united again. Janaka, the kshatriyas have come to look at Siva’s bow.”

  A cry escaped Sadananda; Ahalya was his mother. He bowed deeply to Rama, “You have freed my mother from her long death. I salute you, Rama of Ayodhya, be welcome in Mithila. It is not for nothing that Viswamitra himself came to call you out into the world.”

  Then Sadananda told the story of Viswamitra’s life to the gathering under the old pipal tree, saying he did so for posterity, because he knew the brahmarishi himself would never speak of his own achievements. As Sadananda unfolded his tale, Viswamitra sat among the absorbed gathering. His eyes seldom left Rama’s dark face, and at times a faint smile flickered on his lips.

  Twilight fell in the garden at Mithila. Not the princes of Ayodhya, Viswamitra’s rishis, nor King Janaka stirred when, occasionally, Ahalya’s serene son paused. Encouraged by their eager silence, Sadananda continued. Darkness fell and lamps were brought out to them by Janaka’s servants. It was late when the brahmana finished his extraordinary tale.

  Janaka returned to his palace with his guru. Viswamitra’s munis and the brahmarishi himself stretched out under the pipal tree, listening to the silence, the rich breeze, and the tidings they bore from distant parts. They soon fell asleep. Only Rama and Lakshmana were still awake. They watched the moon rise near midnight, and were lost in a reverie of Viswamitra’s astonishing life.3

  16. Siva’s bow

  With the early sun, Janaka came back to Viswamitra and his party. The king said, “Through the night, I thought about your presence in my city at this auspicious time. I feel more certain than ever that you have come with a blessing for me. Command me, my lord; how may I serve you?”

  Viswamitra replied, “Perhaps you are right, Janaka, and I have come to you with a blessing. But these princes of Ayodhya, who are master archers, have come to look at Siva’s bow. Let the ayudha be fetched out. It may be that your fortune, like your ancestors’, is still bound to it.”

  Janaka sat down with them. He said, “Before we look at Siva’s bow, let me tell you how I came to have it. My House is called Videha, and Nimi was a great kshatriya in our line. After Nimi, the sixth king in olden times was Devaratha. It was to Devaratha that the bow was first given, and he was told to keep it safely.

  “It happened in the days when Siva’s father-in-law, Daksha, held his infamous yagna, to which he did not invite either his daughter Sati or Siva. But Sati went anyway. She did not want to be Daksha’s daughter any more, and raising the inner fire of yoga in her body, she made ashes of herself. The Devas watched in terror; for in their vanity they had all come to Daksha’s sacrifice.

  “Siva arrived at that yagna with his army of ganas. He came with his bow in his hand to kill Daksha and the Devas. He said, ‘Sati burned herself while you watched. I will part your jeweled heads from your bodies!’

  “But they fell at his feet, and Mahadeva is easily pacified, for his heart is kind. He forgave the Devas, and gave Daksha a goat’s head in place of the one Virabhadra had hewn from his neck. It was at that time, as if he did not trust himself in his terrible grief, that Siva gave his bow for safekeeping to my ancestor Devaratha. Ever since, the bow has been with us and we have guarded it as our most precious treasure, the root of our fortune.”

  Now he paused, and glanced at Viswamitra. The rishi, who knew the best part of the king’s story was yet to be told, smiled to encourage him. Janaka brightened as if a hope he held dear had been confirmed. He resumed slowly: he had arrived at the heart of his tale.

  The king of Mithila said, “Some years ago, I was turning the earth for another yagna. Suddenly before my golden plow I saw a child lying on the ground, like a piece of the moon. She lay smiling at me, and my heart would not be still until I had brought her to my wife. We decided to raise her as our daughter.”

  Janaka’s face lit up. “We called her Sita because we had found her in a furrow at the head of the plow, and we soon realized she was no ordinary child. Her devotion to her parents, her uncanny knowledge of people, her compassion, her gentleness and grace, and not least, Muni, her beauty, are scarcely of this mortal world.”

  He stopped again, and for an instant stared straight at Rama. That prince’s heart was on strange, fine fire that he had never known before in his young life. He looked away in mild confusion, while Viswamitra hid a smile.

  Now in the tone of sharing a secret, Janaka continued, “To tell you honestly, my friends, in Mithila we think of Sita as an Avatara of the Devi Lakshmi. Never before has this kingdom known such prosperity as we have since we found her.”

  They saw his eyes grow moist as he spoke of Sita. “I decided she would only marry a prince who was worthy of her. And we prayed that such a man might come for her someday. Meanwhile, so many kshatriyas came to Mithila, wanting to marry Sita. But I refused them all. One angry king cried at me, ‘To whom then, Janaka, will you give your daughter?’

  “Without thinking, I replied, ‘To the man who can lift Siva’s bow and string it!’

  “A hundred kshatriyas came. But none of them could move the bow from where it lay, let alone pick it up. Once an alliance of kings brought a great army and surrounded my city. How could I withstand such a force on my own? I prayed to the Devas and they sent a host from heaven, because I was the guardian of Siva’s bow. How swiftly that battle was concluded: the kshatriyas fled from the astras of the Gods. Yes, quite a tale hangs by the bow of Siva.”

  He rose and took Rama and Lakshmana by the hand. “Come to my palace and I will have Siva’s bow fetched for you to see.”

  Just within the palace gates, the bow was displayed so that all who passed could look at it. It was kept in an iron casket and worshipped with incense, flowers, and mantras during the three sandhyas of the day.

  Janaka led them to the palace arena, festive with flags, garlands, and banners for the yagna. Already, thousands of people had streamed into it, from far and near, for the sacrifice. When his most recently arrived guests were seated with honor, Janaka clapped his hands to his guards to bring the bow.

  In its great casket, Siva’s bow was wheeled in. It lay on a low golden cart, glimmering with jewels. A hundred strong men pulled on the massive ropes that dragged the cart of eight wheels. This was Siva’s bow with which he had threatened the Devas. The crowd rose. A vast murmur of AUM Namah Sivayah! was heard, like an ocean wave in that stadium.

  Janaka went to Viswamitra and bowed to him, to show that the rishi was the most revered person present. The king said aloud, “Brahmarishi Viswamitra, her
e lies the bow of Mahadeva, which has broken the pride of many a kshatriya. No Deva, gandharva, kimpurusha, kinnara, Asura, or great naga has been able to lift this bow; not through all the ages, since Siva gave it to my ancestor.”

  The guards flung back the casket’s cover. The jewels on that weapon shot livid shafts of color through the day and the crowd gasped. Viswamitra turned to Rama at his side; the prince was as tense as a bowstring himself. Softly, the rishi said, “Rama, my child, go and look at Siva’s bow.”

  A hush fell on the crowd when Rama rose. He was radiant; he was unworldly blue. He crossed gracefully to the casket. For a moment, he stood gazing at the bow. Then a smile lit his face. He said, “Muni, may I touch the bow?”

  Janaka cried, “Of course! What else have you come for?”

  Viswamitra nodded to Rama. The prince leaned forward and stroked the great weapon with his fingertips. Viswamitra whispered to Janaka, “Ask him if he can lift it.”

  Janaka shot the rishi a doubtful glance: he was afraid lest this prince could not lift Siva’s bow. For suddenly, his heart was set on giving his precious Sita to Rama and no one else. But Viswamitra insisted, bristling his brows at the king.

  Then Rama himself turned and said in a clear voice, “I think I can lift the bow and string it. May I try?”

  A great intuition of destiny swept the people. The crowd was on its feet, ready for a miracle.

  “You may!” cried king and sage together.

  Effortlessly, as if it was his own weapon that he carried at his back every day, Rama picked up Siva’s bow from its casket. The crowd sighed. Calmly, the prince bent the bow and strung it. A thunderflash exploded in his hands. The earth shook and most of the people fell down stunned: Siva’s awesome bow had snapped in two. Smiling faintly, Rama placed the pieces back in the casket.