The Ramayana Page 8

  Janaka ran forward and embraced him, again and again. Then he hugged Lakshmana and, with tears in his eyes, he bowed over and over to Viswamitra, who had brought Rama to Mithila. Janaka cried to the dazed crowd, “The prince of Ayodhya has done what no other kshatriya could! I am delighted to give my daughter Sita to him. There is no warrior in heaven or earth like Rama.” He turned to Viswamitra. “My lord, may I send messengers to Dasaratha? To ask him to come to Mithila, so Rama and Sita can be married as soon as possible.”

  Viswamitra glanced at Rama. He saw joy brimming on the prince’s face, and he said, “Do so, Janaka. Let the news fly to Ayodhya.” Within the hour, the king’s messengers set out on the swiftest horses in Mithila’s royal stables.

  * * *

  From her room, high up in Janaka’s palace, Sita had seen Rama when he came and she had prayed he would string the bow. She had lost her heart the moment she set eyes on him: it was this prince she had always dreamed of and waited for. She knew him from long ago, from countless lives before. They had belonged together since time began.

  17. Dasaratha goes to Mithila

  Like the wind, Janaka’s messengers rode for three days, until they saw the turrets of Ayodhya. Shouting to one another, they flashed up to Dasaratha’s gates.

  “Take us to your king!” they cried to the guards. “We come with joyful news from King Janaka and Rishi Viswamitra.”

  Dasaratha welcomed them eagerly into his sabha. The messengers’ leader announced, “Great Dasaratha! Janaka of Mithila sends his greetings. He inquires after your majesty’s health and the welfare of your kingdom.”

  Dasaratha waved impatiently to the man that he should deliver the news he brought. As the sabha in Ayodhya sat hushed, the messenger said, “Janaka wants you to hear a petition from him of which Brahmarishi Viswamitra approves. My master says: ‘I have a daughter called Sita. I swore that the man who marries her must first string the bow of Siva, which the Lord gave my ancestor. Countless kshatriyas tried, and failed even to move the bow. But, Dasaratha, your Rama, watched by a crowd of kings, rishis, and my people, strung Siva’s bow as if it were a toy. I want Sita to become your son’s wife. My lord, accept my gift more precious to me than life. I beg you, come quickly to Mithila to bless the young couple.’ Janaka awaits your reply.”

  Dasaratha rose and cried, “The children are in Videha with Viswamitra, and you all hear what my Rama has done!” He turned to Vasishta, Vamadeva, and his other ministers. “Janaka wants to have the wedding as soon as he can. If none of you has any objection, let us go to Mithila straightaway.”

  The rishis gave their assent happily, for Sita’s fame had spread long ago to Ayodhya. It was decided they would leave the next morning. After their journey, the messengers from Mithila slept soundly; but the king of Kosala hardly slept that night, because he was as excited as a boy at the thought of seeing Rama again. It seemed like a lifetime since his child had gone away with that knowing Viswamitra.

  The next day, the chariots and palanquins to carry Ayodhya’s royal family gleamed in the dawn outside the palace. Night long, preparations had been under way in the queens’ apartments and in the treasury. This was no ordinary visit by one king to another. This was the occasion of Rama’s wedding, and cartloads of gold and priceless jewelry would travel with the party from Ayodhya.

  It was customary for them to go ahead, and the king’s rishis, Vasishta, and the others were the first to leave. When the sun was halfway to his zenith, Dasaratha himself emerged from the palace. He was greeted with a roar from his people, thronging to see him off to the wedding of their beloved Rama.

  * * *

  They took five days to reach Mithila, and Janaka rode out from his city to welcome Dasaratha and his company. With his relatives, his ministers, and Sadananda, Janaka came to meet Dasaratha. He saw Rama’s father, and, eschewing formality, rode forward and embraced Dasaratha emotionally. The people saw that both kings had tears in their eyes.

  Now Janaka welcomed his royal guest formally, saying, “My lord, I thank you for coming to Mithila. You honor me by accepting my hospitality. I am already thrice blessed that the great Vasishta has come to my city, and Vamadeva and Markandeya with him.

  “But more than anything else, Dasaratha, your son has realized my most cherished dream for me. If he had not come, I would have been forced to break my oath that Sita would marry only the man who strung Siva’s bow. My yagna is almost complete. As its culmination, you must allow me to have Rama and Sita married.”

  Dasaratha bowed and said happily, “It is not my place to tell a king like you when the wedding should take place. Your brahmanas must know that better than I.”

  Janaka took Dasaratha’s arm and they entered Mithila together. Here also, the people milled in the streets to welcome the king from Ayodhya. Dasaratha and his party were lodged in a palace prepared for their stay. Viswamitra waited for them there. Overwhelmed when he saw the rishi, Dasaratha prostrated himself at his feet.

  Viswamitra raised him up gently, murmuring, “Dasaratha, I hope you don’t regret having sent your sons with me. The ways of fate are mysterious and I have lived longer than you to know them.”

  He led the king inside with an arm around his shoulders. Then Dasaratha’s face lit up as if a sun had risen in his heart: Rama waited there, with Lakshmana beside him. Janaka and Viswamitra left the father and his sons together, and withdrew to the yagnashala where the Vedas were being chanted without pause.

  Evening was upon them when the princes were left alone with Dasaratha, who embraced them repeatedly, tears flowing down his face. He made them sit close beside him, while he lay down to rest after his journey. He made them repeat all their adventures, beginning when they left Ayodhya with Viswamitra and ending with how Rama strung Siva’s bow. At least ten times he heard the story from both Rama and Lakshmana, as if it was food, drink, and air to him. And he held Rama’s hand tightly, as happy an old man as could be found on earth.

  Rama and Lakshmana spent all night with their father, while Janaka and the rishis were at the yagnashala, where the sacrifice was nearing its end. Early the next morning, the ritviks collected around the vedika and the final rites were completed without blemish.

  Janaka said to Sadananda, “I want to share my joy with my brother Kusadhvaja.”

  Sadananda sent messengers to Kusadhvaja, who was the king of Samkashya beside the limpid Ikshumati. When his brother arrived, Janaka, his ministers, his gurus, and his family gathered in the royal sabha.

  Janaka said to his chief minister, Sudama, “My lord, fetch Dasaratha and his sons to our sabha.”

  The king of Ayodhya and his princes came, and they were resplendent. Janaka and Kusadhvaja went to Dasaratha with folded hands, and brought him, Rama, and Lakshmana to golden thrones set apart for them.

  Dasaratha said solemnly, “Janaka, my friend, my guru Vasishta will recall the ancestry of the young man who is to marry your daughter.”

  Vasishta rose and traced the line of Manu. He told of the greatness of Ikshvaku, who was the first mortal king to rule Ayodhya. He told of Trishanku, Yuvanashva of renown, and his son Mandhata, who was called the jewel of the krita yuga. Of Sagara he spoke, of Anshuman and Bhagiratha, of Kakushta and Raghu, and of Aja, whose son was Dasaratha himself. He ended formally, Brahma’s son, the kulaguru of Ikshvaku, the royal House of the Sun: “Now you know the antecedents of Rama. Be pleased to give your daughter Sita, who is a rare treasure among women, to Dasaratha’s son.”

  Janaka bowed to Vasishta. He rose from his throne and said, “My lords, I too will tell you about my ancestors. Nimi was the first of our line, and after his son Mithi our city was called Mithila.” He began the account of his illustrious line. Each king was named, down the august generations, and his fame recited, until he came to Svarnaroma, who was his own father.

  Then Janaka said, “I ask you humbly to accept my daughter Sita to be your son Rama’s wife. I have another daughter Urmila. She, also, is a lovely child, and I would be delighte
d if you take her to be the magnificent Lakshmana’s bride.”

  He bowed to Dasaratha, who smiled and said, “It is our privilege to have your daughters for our sons’ wives.”

  Viswamitra stood up suddenly and said, “Your brother Kusadhvaja has two daughters. I propose that they be married to Bharata and Shatrughna. Let your two ancient houses be bound together inextricably.”

  A murmur of approval hummed through the court, and Kusadhvaja rose and endorsed Viswamitra’s proposal. Embracing Dasaratha, Janaka said, “My friend, let your sons purify themselves with the proper rituals. Three days from today, under the auspicious Uttara Phalguni nakshatra, we will solemnize the weddings.”

  The kings returned to their apartments.

  18. Rama kalyana

  In the sabha of Mithila, purified with mantras and incense, flowers and sacred yantras, Dasaratha waited with his sons and Vasishta, the chief priest. The princes of Ayodhya had also purified themselves with a three days’ homa.

  Vasishta said ritually to Janaka, “My lord, the princes wear the sacred kankanas on their wrists. They await the kanyadana, which blesses the giver and the receiver.”

  Now Janaka fetched his daughter. Sita was like the Goddess Lakshmi risen in her primordial lotus. The sabha fell hushed to see such loveliness upon the earth. She was as bright as a streak of lightning. Her eyes were as long as lotus petals, set wide, and she kept her gaze turned down to the ground. Her tresses, night-black and hanging below her waist, were braided with jasmine and stranded with strings of pearls. She wore a tawny silk sari, edged with gold threads and woven with crimson swans. She was entirely beautiful.

  Rama’s heart was given the moment he saw her. He also thought he knew her from long ago, another place and time. She walked slowly beside her father, like a princess of a higher world fallen into this one. Those who had come to attend the wedding broke spontaneously into praise. They rose and blessed her.

  Janaka brought her to Rama, and he said, “This is my daughter Sita. From now, she will be yours and follow you on the path of dharma. Take her hand, Kshatriya, and my blessings be upon you both. Rama, she is a pativrata; she will be like your shadow.”

  Janaka poured holy water over Rama’s hands, and sanctified the gift of his daughter. As the water fell into Rama’s palms, they clearly heard music from Devaloka, as if it was being played in that sabha. It was music first created before the earth ever spun through darkness and light, and it made the spirit take wing. Out of the air, divine voices sang at Rama’s wedding and Sita’s. Lucent flowers fell out of heaven to bless them: flowers that melted away in a moment, and all Mithila was fragrant with immortality when Rama took Sita’s hand in his, forever.

  Janaka brought Urmila and gave her to Lakshmana. “Here is my daughter Urmila. Take her hand, Lakshmana, and let her be yours always.”

  Lakshmana did. Kusadhvaja brought in his two daughters, Mandavi and Srutakirti, and gave them to Bharata and Shatrughna. Seven times the four princes of Ayodhya led their brides round the fire. All of them exquisite, the girls followed a pace behind their young men. And there was no eye in that sabha, but it was tear-laden.

  The kshatriyas, bright as Devas, and their brides lovelier than apsaras, came out into the open street to drummers’ ecstatic rhythms. The common people sang out their blessings and showered vivid petal storms over the young couples, shouting their names and “Jaya! Jaya!” And now it fairly poured sweet, subtle blooms from the sky. The heartstopping songs of gandharvas wove teasingly through the melodies of Mithila’s musicians: so heaven above and the earth below seemed to have become one realm, when Rama married Sita.

  That city was festive and colorful as a rainbow all day long. At night, the celebrations began in earnest: the drinking, the wildest music and the dancing in the streets, in which the princes and their brides joined. These went on until the sun rose, gold and saffron.

  Viswamitra came early to the young couples to bless them. He embraced Rama, as if he were his own son, and more. For a moment, it seemed the stern rishi’s eyes shone with tears. He said, “My part is done. I must return to the mountains.” He blessed them somberly. And then, with his rare smile, he was off, striding away toward the horizon. As they stood gazing after him, Viswamitra went back north to the Himavan and the banks of the Kaushiki. She was his sister, who waited for him.

  19. Bhargava

  After Viswamitra had gone, Dasaratha came to take his leave of Janaka. The two kings embraced, and when the time came to bid farewell to Sita, Janaka was overwhelmed. He clasped her to him, and then turned away quickly as if it would break his heart to look at her again. He blessed Rama and his brothers, Urmila, and his nieces.

  Janaka rode out of Mithila to the place where he had come to receive Dasaratha, four momentous days ago. There he stood in his chariot, waving after the travelers until they dwindled in the distance. And still that king stood on, waving to his daughter, as her husband bore her away to another life. Sita rode in Rama’s chariot, and once she had parted from her father, she did not turn back to look at him.

  They had ridden for a day through friendly lands, when the riders out in the van of the company saw a plume of darkness ahead, curling into the clouds. Birds cried in alarm and wheeled panic-stricken. Beasts of the wild dashed across their path: terrified deer herds, elephant, and even a tiger. The darkness whirled toward them, swallowing the sun and quickly all the sky, until they were plunged in an unnatural night. Their horses reared in fright, whinnying; many unseated their riders. A pall of dust blew at them so they could hardly breathe.

  The black wind whistled shrilly. Dasaratha cried, “I see evil omens all around. What dreadful spirit is upon us?”

  Vasishta strained his eyes against the spinning darkness. Above the scream of the wind, which blew their armor off the soldiers’ backs, he shouted, “Something terrible approaches! But the beasts of the earth run around us in pradakshina; whatever it is will pass.”

  But dread gripped the party from Ayodhya. The storm raged fiercer, as the eye of it drew near. Women swooned and strong men too. Soldiers were seized by that fear and fell from their horses in the dizzy night. Soon, few of the company were still conscious: only Rama and his brothers, Dasaratha, Vasishta, and some of the other rishis. Striding at them out of the freakish storm, they saw a tremendous figure illumining the darkness around him.

  He wore the bare garb of a hermit. His unkempt jata, half of it piled high on his great head, also hung to his shoulders in thick locks. He lit the night he brought with the fire that puts out the planets when time ends. Those who had not fainted stood dazzled by him, shading their eyes. The blade of the battle-ax he carried on his shoulder glinted at them. In his other hand he carried a bow: a weapon as old and mighty as the one Rama had strung in Mithila. His eyes burned like molten drops of the sun.

  Like Mahadeva come to consume the Tripura, Parasurama Bhargava, Vishnu’s Avatara, brahmana warrior, bane of the kshatriyas, stood glowering at them. Vasishta and the other rishis folded their hands to the Bhargava. But inwardly they trembled that the kshatriya slaughterer was among the princes of Ayodhya. They had heard Parasurama had kept the oath he swore in his dead father’s name: he had offered Jamadagni tarpana in blood. They had heard he was satisfied with the river of royal blood he had let flow, in revenge, and to quell the hubris of the kings of the earth. Yet it seemed wrath sat on his brow like thunder today, and he came swirled about in a furious night.

  They offered Parasurama arghya and he took it from them. But all the while he shook with some powerful emotion. Then he had done with nicety. He seized the bridle of Rama’s horse and cried in a voice full of sneering challenge, “I have heard about your archery, princeling; the people of the earth speak of nothing else. I have heard you broke Siva’s bow in Mithila and I have brought another bow to test you with. For I don’t believe what I have heard.”

  And he stood glaring at Rama, locked with him eye to eye. But now Rama shone in that gloom as brightly as Parasurama him
self. A faint smile played on the prince’s lips, though he said nothing yet, only held the Bhargava’s gaze easily; while the other frowned at him, and growled at him, trying to shake his composure and make him look away.

  Abruptly Parasurama thrust out the magnificent bow he had with him. “This belonged to my father, Jamadagni. If you are who they say, boy, let me see you string this bow and shoot an arrow from it. If you can, I will consider you a worthy adversary, and we shall fight a duel. But if you are afraid, only admit it. Accept that I am your master and I will leave you in peace.”

  Dasaratha gave a moan. His face was white. With folded hands, he cried to Parasurama, “I heard you had put out the fire of your anger with the blood of a thousand kings.” Fear gripped his very soul; but out of love for Rama he confronted the Bhargava. Kneeling, he petitioned the apparition of wrath. “You swore to Indra you would lay down your weapons. You went to Mount Mahendra to sit in tapasya. Then why are you here now to challenge my child? If you kill my son, it will be the end of me and of my house.”

  But Parasurama’s glare did not move from where it was fixed on Rama’s face. He ignored the king at his feet as if he were not there. He said just to Rama, “Viswakarman made two bows in the eldest days. They are the ancestors of all weapons and a legend across the three worlds. They are infused with the power of the first days of creation, and no mere mortal can bear them. Viswakarman gave one bow to Siva and the other to Vishnu. I am told you broke Sankara’s bow, but I do not believe what I hear, because I know these weapons. If you did break a bow, it must have been another. Here in my hand is no replica, princeling: this is the bow of the Blue God who lies upon Anantasesha. This is Vishnu’s bow, with which he broke a sliver from Siva’s weapon, so the Three-Eyed One was shaken. Then they fought again and the Devas had to stop them, lest the stars be put out and the darkness of the void consumed. Yes, this is that bow.