The Ramayana Read online

  “Siva gave his bow to the Janaka’s ancestors, and Vishnu gave his to the Maharishi Richaka. And Richaka gave it to his son Jamadagni, my father. In his vanity, Kartaviryarjuna killed Jamadagni. And with this bow, Rama of Ayodhya, I spilled the blood of a generation of arrogant kshatriyas. And I, Parasurama, ruled the world for an age. When I had offered tarpana in blood to my father, I sat in penance to expiate my sin of killing a host of anointed kings. The earth I left to Kashyapa.”

  He paused, and his eyes were full of savage memories. His gaze was still fused with Rama’s; neither wavered. The Bhargava said in his voice deep with a thousand slayings, “I have heard not only men but the Devas extol you, princeling. If you are truly who they say you are, string this bow and I will concede that we may fight.”

  Bhargava thrust the bow forward again. Calmly, Rama climbed down from his chariot; he raised his father up from the ground. Then he went up to Parasurama.

  “You need not repeat yourself, Bhargava, I hear you clearly,” said Rama quietly. “I am happy to accept your challenge, because you insult me by thinking I am afraid of you.”

  Quicker than the eye sees, Rama took Vishnu’s bow from Parasurama. One moment, the Bhargava stood thrusting the great weapon at the prince; the next, Rama had taken the bow from him, strung it with an arrow like a streak of lightning, drawn the bowstring to his ear, and aimed the shaft at the astounded Parasurama’s heart.

  “Bhargava,” said Rama softly, “Viswamitra is my guru and I honor him as I do my father. The brahmarishi was devoted to his sister Satyavati, and she was Jamadagni’s mother. You are Viswamitra’s kinsman, and you are a brahmana. Otherwise, this arrow would have already cloven your heart. Now tell me, Bhargava, what do you offer my arrow in place of your life?”

  In a moment, the power of an age ebbed out of Parasurama’s body. His hands shook; his spirit quailed. For the first time in his life, he knew that the kshatriya who stood before him was greater than himself. Brahma and the Devas had gathered in the sky, invisibly, to watch this encounter. They smiled when they saw Parasurama falter before Rama.

  The fire was gone from the Ax-bearer; weakly he said, “You are my master, Rama of Ayodhya. I will turn back to Mahendra and never come down again, because I know that he who has come in my place is here. I know who you are, and it does not wound my pride to accept defeat from you. Rama, all my tapasya is yours.”

  Rama turned his bow to the sky and shot the arrow of Vishnu flaming into the darkness with which Parasurama had enveloped them. That shaft of infinite trajectory still flies through the deepest galaxies; some say the earth will end on the day Rama’s arrow returns. The darkness vanished like the soul from a body at death, and the sun shone on them again. Parasurama made a pradakshina around Rama, then walked away toward the mountain of his penance, never to return to the world of men. An ancient mantle, which the Bhargava had worn for an age, passed on to the one who came after him.

  Now Varuna, Lord of the ocean, appeared there in light. Rama gave Vishnu’s bow to him, for the power of that weapon belonged to another time, another incarnation. If he kept it, he would forsake his destiny as a mortal man.

  In place of the cosmic ayudha, Varuna gave Rama and Lakshmana each a bow. And these were great weapons as well, if not as awesome as Siva’s or Vishnu’s. The Deva of ocean also gave them each a magic, inexhaustible quiver, two swords in jeweled sheaths, and sets of armor, light as wishes, impenetrable. Then the God of the deeps vanished like a mist.

  Once the bow of Narayana was gone, Rama’s soaring anger seemed to leave him. No more did he burn like the fire that consumes the stars when time ends. He was the gentle prince of Ayodhya again, and his father’s son. Rama said gently to Dasaratha, “Come, my lord, let us go home now.”

  Dasaratha embraced his son. But for the first time, he saw who Rama really was and he felt almost ashamed that he had ever presumed the prince belonged to him at all.

  * * *

  Such a welcome awaited them in Ayodhya. For a month there was music and dancing in the streets. And the people swore their Rama, who the rishis said was Vishnu incarnate, had surely found his Lakshmi. She was as gentle and humble as he was, and they truly were the perfect couple. The light of their love shone through Ayodhya and the people were full of joy, knowing their future was secure in the hands of a great and noble kshatriya.

  But fate had other designs on the lives of the young couple, lost in each other’s tender love. Time had a sinister way to lead them down. Far away on a jade island, a monster lived, whose path was to cross theirs in evil.

  BOOK TWO

  AYODHYA KANDA

  {In Ayodhya}

  1. Rama

  Kaikeyi was Dasaratha’s third and youngest queen, after Kausalya and Sumitra. She was his favorite and she was Bharata’s mother. Her father, King Asvapati of Kekaya, was growing old, and Dasaratha sent Bharata to visit his grandfather. Sumitra’s son, Shatrughna, went with Bharata. Asvapati was as happy as could be, as he lavished his love and hospitality on the princes.

  In Ayodhya, not the sun above was the light of that city and its aging king, but Rama. The Devas knew who Rama was. But he himself was not aware of his divinity save on rare occasions, as when he faced Parasurama and someone from deep inside him rose to meet the Bhargava’s challenge. Siva’s bow and Vishnu’s had been light in his hands; but he was hardly conscious of being Narayana himself, or he would not have suffered as he did during his life, as every mortal man must.

  In fact, Rama was not aware of being special at all, and he gave freely and generously of his affection. However, the world saw qualities in him that were more than merely human. For instance, his appearance was so arresting that wherever the prince went every gaze turned to his dark face and his magnificent form. They said in Ayodhya that looking at Rama’s face was like seeing a bit of heaven.

  He was brave; he was strong and charming. He was imperturbable, as Vasishta and his father saw when Parasurama confronted him; until he strung Vishnu’s bow, and then he was more fearsome than the Bhargava. But no man can live in the constant knowledge that his own son is an Avatara. Dasaratha quickly reverted to his simple and boundless father’s love for his prince. He seldom thought either of Siva’s bow or of Vishnu’s. The old man knew nothing of Ravana of Lanka and the strange and perilous path his son must tread.

  Rama was the soft sun at Dasaratha’s side in the autumn of his days. The prince was kind and courteous, wonderfully intelligent and thoughtful of everyone; whether they were kings or commoners, he made no distinction. He saw unerringly into men’s hearts, regardless of whether they were kshatriyas or servants, and had the rarer gift of compassion.

  If someone was harsh to him, from envy or sorrow, he never retorted in kind but tried to fathom the cause. Many who had come to the prince with their hearts set against him left praising him. It was easy to love Rama; indeed, it was impossible to resist him. His charm was a profound thing, not quite of this world.

  Consider his nature. He never seemed to remember any good he did, and this he did daily because he was in a position to as his father’s favorite son. But he never forgot a favor he received, however slight. They said in Ayodhya that he never forgot a smile.

  But Rama was no fool, if he was kind. He read men’s minds with the sureness of someone much older than he was; he saw through you with the first word or glance. You had the uncanny feeling he knew you better than you did yourself, and loved you no matter who you were. He might forgive you any malice at all, but you could never deceive Rama. Yet you never felt he judged you.

  He loved the old and always had time for them. He said he learned so much from the elderly, about the world they had lived in for longer than he had. He went freely among his people, like a commoner himself, never with any guards. He said the people were his life, and they in return adored him.

  Rama had just one obsession: he would never tell a lie; not under any circumstances, however expedient it was or apparently harmless. It was as if his life
depended on the truth. His people marveled at this quality in such a powerful kshatriya. They said that of all the illustrious line of Ikshvaku, Rama was surely the jewel.

  Rama had a deep and subtle mind, and was the joy of his gurus Vasishta, Markandeya, and Vamadeva. His knowledge of the Vedas and the other scriptures was exhaustive. But he was also original in his exposition of the sanatana dharma: he was luminously relevant. He could translate the oldest proverb or syllogism into startling everyday pertinence. This gift took even Vasishta unawares, with its simple brilliance. Often the rishi wondered if this prince learned from him, or the other way around. At times, when Rama illumined a great truth from the Vedas with a vibrant metaphor from the streets of Ayodhya, Vasishta wondered if he was not hearing the timeless wisdom for the first time. Rama’s expositions verged on revelation.

  Yet Rama never spoke out of turn; he had been born with the gift of keeping his own counsel. With the discrimination of a Brihaspati, he knew unerringly who his friends were and who his enemies. It is perhaps absurd to try to enumerate the qualities of a prince whose perfections we know were, very likely, numberless.

  He was an artist of merit. He played on the vina and the flute with talent; though neither with the same wild genius as he was to play one of them, an age later, near the end of the dwapara yuga, when he came again as another, altogether more flamboyant prince of the earth.

  He was a master, as every kshatriya should be, of horse and elephant, and of the vyuhas of war. He drove a chariot like the fleeting wind. The Devas knew his archery was unrivaled not just in this world, but all the realms.

  He was a master of his anger, and he had no knowledge of envy. As Narada said to Valmiki: in this prince of Ayodhya all the virtues that Brahma ever created were gathered as the galaxies are within the universe. Rama was an embodiment of grace. But most of all he was human; and like any man, he could suffer.

  Not just his father, his mothers, his exquisite wife, and his adoring people loved Rama; the knowing earth wanted him to be her sovereign. After all, it was what he was born for.

  2. A yuvaraja for Ayodhya

  As he grew older, Dasaratha’s world was fuller than ever of his eldest son. The father saw the greatness of the young man: with his three mothers, between whom he made no distinction; with his wife and his brothers; with the rishis and the ministers in the palace; and outside the palace, with the people of Ayodhya. And the aging king wanted to crown Rama yuvaraja, the heir apparent. He longed to see his son stand before him in the royal sabha, dripping with the waters of the abhisheka.

  “My Rama will be a greater king than I ever was,” he knew. “He is as strong as Indra and as wise as Brihaspati. Once I have made him yuvaraja, I can leave this world in peace.”

  But then he began to see evil omens in the air and on the land, and the water that flowed ran queerly. The king thought these were signs of his end. He called his ministers and told them he wanted to crown Rama yuvaraja. Dasaratha asked for the rural people of Kosala, and the neighboring kings and chieftains, to be called immediately to Ayodhya for the ceremony. He was in a hurry; the omens disturbed him.

  It would take too long for him to invite Janaka; that king would rejoice, whenever he heard the news. The guests began to arrive. Dasaratha welcomed them according to their status and his own. There was a regal congregation in the king’s sabha, and the common people thronged the palace yard and the street outside. Like the sea when the tide is in, the crowd surged.

  Dasaratha entered, flanked by his gurus. He climbed up to his throne, that king who was a father to his people. When the cheering died down and he had their silence, his great voice resounded like a blessing among them.

  “You all know that since the golden krita yuga the kings of my line have ruled your ancestors, since the days of Ikshvaku himself. I, too, have ruled to the best of my abilities. I have never strayed knowingly from dharma and I have loved you all like my own children. But now, this body of mine is old and it cannot bear the burden of kingship for much longer. The weakness of age is advanced in me. It is time, before I err as your king, that I give the reins of power to younger hands. I seek the consent of the wise, who have guided me through the years; I seek all your blessings. I want to crown my son Rama yuvaraja and be at some ease in my last years.”

  There was a swelling murmur of approval from the crowd. Dasaratha raised his hand to indicate he had not finished.

  “You all know that Rama has every royal quality, and each one in more abundance than I ever did. No man was ever more suited than my son to be a king.”

  There was a roar of assent from the crowd. Again, Dasaratha raised his hand for them to be quiet.

  “But I would only make Rama the yuvaraja for now, until he grows used to the burden he must shoulder. If you do not approve of my choice, you must tell me; and also whom you would rather have as your king than Rama.”

  But now there was no controlling them. They began to shout for Rama until Ayodhya reverberated with the syllables of his name.

  “We will see Rama soaked with the waters of the abhisheka and his head under the white parasol!” cried someone, and the crowd roared for Rama to be king.

  Dasaratha held up his hand again. Though his heart was full of joy, he said, “I thought you were happy with my reign. Why this unseemly delight at the very thought of Rama being crowned?”

  But there was a twinkle in his eye. His people shouted their replies.

  “Because he is Rama!” yelled someone, simply.

  “We love him,” cried another.

  “He has more truth in him than the Devas,” said a woman.

  “He is the greatest of the Ikshvakus.”

  “He is brilliant.”

  “The strongest kshatriya of all.”

  “Wise beyond his years.”

  “He is one of us.”

  “He cries when we do.”

  “Even the earth wants Rama for her king. She told me in a dream.”

  “He is as blue as a night lotus.”

  “He is Vishnu’s Avatara.”

  “He is beautiful, in his body and his soul.”

  His face wreathed in a smile, Dasaratha cried to Vasishta above the din, “My lord, let us prepare to crown Rama yuvaraja.”

  Vasishta ordered the city of Ayodhya to be got ready for the coronation. “Let there be flowers everywhere, from the palace arches to the streets, as though they sprouted for joy at this news. Let the royal road along which Rama rides his elephant be perfumed like the gardens of Amravati. Let there be music and dance. I, Vasishta, say to you that gandharvas will sing in the sky when Rama is crowned, and apsaras will dance on clouds.”

  Dasaratha called Sumantra and said, “Bring my son to me.”

  Today, Rama had gone out from the city: he should not be present when the king told the people he meant to make him yuvaraja. Sumantra went like the very yearning in the old king’s heart, and Dasaratha climbed the marble stairs to the terrace of his palace to watch his son ride home. He stood there, his eyes searching the horizon, until a small cloud of dust appeared on it. He saw Rama’s chariot with the Kovidara banner, as he flew home at his father’s summons.

  With fond eyes, the king watched his prince ride up the highway into Ayodhya. His lank hair flew behind him; his horses were in thrall to the one who drove them. Again Dasaratha remarked how long his son’s arms were. The one at his side hung down to his knee. A thought of the Eternal One, who lies upon primal waters, dreaming the universe, flitted into the king’s mind. But he did not care to think who else his son was apart from just his precious Rama. Just Rama was enough and more for him.

  He watched his prince climb down from the chariot at the palace door. He watched him wade through the crowd that reached out to touch him. He saw him take the steps, two at a time, hurrying to his father whom he loved as he loved his life. Then Rama was with him on the commanding terrace. Dasaratha clasped his son in his arms and made him sit next to him on a golden chair.

  His eyes
mellow with the light of age, Dasaratha said solemnly so the crowd below heard him, “Rama, you are my eldest son and dear to me as my life. These good people want me to make you their yuvaraja. And I mean to crown you when the moon is full in the Pushyami nakshatra.”

  The people roared their approval again, like the very ocean, shouting Rama’s name and “Jaya!” But Rama said nothing, only gazed for a moment into his father’s face; then he prostrated himself at Dasaratha’s feet for his blessing.

  Her servants came running to Kausalya with the news, and she gave them silks and ornaments. Slowly the crowd began to thin, as the people drifted home. But Ayodhya was alive with the announcement, and soon singing and dancing broke out in the streets.

  But Rama distanced himself from the celebrations. He sat alone in his own palace, lost in thought. He knew he should feel much happier than he did. But then, he was a wise prince and realized that kingship was always more a burden than a privilege. But he had been raised to be a king since he was born, and it was not only this thought that now worried him. Another, deeper anxiety stirred in his heart, for no reason he could name.

  Something malignant seemed to mock him, from far away, but quite clearly.

  3. The joyful news

  When Dasaratha was alone, he realized he had been carried away by the crowd’s excitement. He had made an impulsive commitment to his people, that he would crown Rama on Pushyami. Sumantra came to him and said, “Your Majesty, the moon enters Pushyami tomorrow.”

  Dasaratha came down into his private chambers. “Bring Rama to me now,” he said to Sumantra.

  Sumantra went to Rama’s palace, which was a short way from his father’s. He asked to be announced to the prince. Rama came out to the sarathy, who was like his own uncle, and, taking his hand, led him inside.

  “You have come in a hurry, Sumantra. Sit down and refresh yourself.”