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Ayodhya woke that morning, and every sound it made rang hollow from within. Beside the bed of the great king Dasaratha the bards who sang the royal lays, the heralds who traced the lineage, and the singers came as they came every dawn, carrying praise and auspicious song; the vina sounded, hands clapped, and the birds in their cages and on the branches woke at the noise. But the one for whom all this clamor was raised did not wake. Here begins that story of the Ayodhyakanda in which a father falls silent, the guilt of a whole house comes down upon one mother, and a son turns his back on the royal throne and takes a vow to bring his eldest brother home from the forest. This book carries you from Canto 65 through Canto 119, from the death of Dasaratha to the crowning of Rama’s sandals as regent at Nandigrama, and on to the day Rama passes into the Dandaka forest.
The king does not wake (Canto 65)
The night had passed. At first light, in the great king’s palace, the most cultured of bards, the heralds of finest learning, and the singers who could tell one note of the vina from another gathered together. The sound of their praise filled the halls and came back as an echo. The sacred words of the brahmins and of the caged mynahs and parrots, the ring of the vina, and the blessings of the lays composed in the king’s honor made the whole building resound.
Then the attendants of pure conduct, skilled in service, most of them women and eunuchs of the inner apartments, took their places. Servants trained in the bath brought, at the proper hour and in the proper manner, water scented with sandal in golden jars. Pure young maidens carried in the things fit for an auspicious touch and an auspicious sip. Everything of good omen that should be set before the king when he woke was arranged according to custom. Right up to sunrise the whole royal household stood full of eagerness and unease, wondering whether some harm had come to the king who had not yet come out of his chamber.
Then the women near the couch of the lord of Kosala tried to rouse him with soft words and with their touch. But even when they laid respectful hands on the bed, they found no sign of life in the king; no beat of the heart, no pulse, no stir in any limb. They shook like the tips of reeds standing against a current. And the fear those anxious women had carried in their minds settled now into certainty.
Kausalya and Sumitra, overcome by grief for their sons, lay in deep sleep, as though Death itself had seized them too. Dimmed, pale, bowed with sorrow, Kausalya was like a star wrapped in darkness. She had no shine as she slept near the king, nor did Sumitra, lying close by with her face wet from weeping. When the women who could read the signs of sleep were certain that the king had given up his life while he slept, they broke into loud cries, like forest she-elephants whose herd-leader has been taken from them. Their weeping tore Kausalya and Sumitra out of their sleep. Seeing and touching the king, both cried “Alas, my lord!” and fell to the ground. Kausalya, daughter of the king of Kosala, rolling in the dust, became like a star fallen from the sky. Then Kaikeyi and all the other queens, scorched with sorrow, fell senseless. The whole of the inner apartments filled with weeping.
The gist: Dasaratha had given up his life quietly in the night; the morning songs of praise could not wake him, and the inner apartments filled with the clamor of grief.
Kausalya’s lament, and the vat of oil (Canto 66)
Seeing the king gone to heaven, like a fire gone out, a sea drained of water, a sun without light, Kausalya, wasted with grief, took the king’s head into her lap, and with her eyes brimming she said to Kaikeyi, “Cruel Kaikeyi, woman of wicked conduct, your wish has come true; now enjoy your kingdom with no thorn in it. Rama has left me and gone to the forest, and my lord has gone to heaven; like a traveler with no companion on a hard road, I cannot stay alive. What woman, save Kaikeyi, would want to live once she had cast off her own husband?
“A greedy man does not see his fault, like one who eats the kimpaka fruit; because of Manthara, Kaikeyi has destroyed the whole line of Raghu. Set to an unfit deed by the king at Kaikeyi’s goading, Rama has gone to the forest with his wife; and when Janaka hears of it he will burn with grief as I do. The lotus-eyed, righteous Rama, who left this place while yet alive, does not know today that I have been made a helpless widow. Sita, the daughter of the king of Videha, who does not deserve sorrow, will cling to Rama in fright when she hears at night in the forest the terrible cries of beasts and birds. Old Janaka, with few children, will remember Sita and give up his life in grief. And I, a faithful wife, will this very day embrace my husband’s body and enter the fire.”
Then the ministers, men of practical affairs, gently drew away the wailing Kausalya, who had wound her arms around the dead king. By the order of Vasishtha and the other family priests, they placed the king’s body in a trough filled with oil and carried out all the rites of preserving the corpse, for in the son’s absence even the all-knowing ministers could not perform the cremation; and so they kept the body safe. Learning that the king had been laid in the vat of oil, the women wailed, “Alas, the king is dead!” and cried, “Great king, you who always spoke kindly, why have you left us, robbed of the true-vowed Rama? How shall we, made widows, live near the wicked-natured Kaikeyi? That self-possessed Rama was our lord and yours; he gave up the royal fortune and went to the forest.”
Covered in tears and vast grief, the fair wives of the house of Raghu, all joy gone, writhed on the ground. Like a wife robbed of her husband, like a night without stars, Ayodhya, robbed of its high-souled king, had lost all its grace. Between the king’s passing to heaven in grief for his son and the queens writhing on the ground, the sun set and night came down. The townsfolk gathered in knots and reviled the mother of Bharata, and, stricken by the loss of their king, could find no peace.
The gist: because the cremation could not be done in the son’s absence, Dasaratha’s body was kept safe in a vat of oil; and Kausalya, calling Kaikeyi the destroyer of the house, gave herself up to bitter lament.
“Without a king the realm turns to wilderness” (the sages’ plea) (Canto 67)
That night, filled with lament and weeping, and seeming as long as a hundred years, passed in Ayodhya. At sunrise the brahmins who governed the realm in the interval between kings gathered in the assembly. Markandeya, Maudgalya, Vamadeva, Kashyapa, Katyayana, Gautama, and the greatly renowned Jabali, these brahmins, with the ministers, sat facing the royal priest Vasishtha and spoke each in turn,
“In grief for his sons this king has met his end, and that night barely passed. The king is in heaven, Rama is in the forest, and the mighty Lakshmana has gone with Rama. Bharata and Shatrughna, both scorchers of the foe, are in the land of Kekaya, in the city of Rajagriha, in the delightful palace of their maternal grandfather. This very day let some king of the line of Ikshvaku be appointed, for a realm without a king goes to ruin.”
Then they drew, one after another, their many pictures of a land without a king. In a kingless country the clouds do not water the earth with their heavenly rain; no seed is sown; a son is not under his father’s rule, nor a wife under her husband’s; wealth and chastity are not safe; assembly halls, gardens, and houses of merit are not built; sacrifices are not performed; brahmins do not give worthy fees; actors and dancers, festivals and gatherings do not flourish; the rich do not sleep with open doors; men of pleasure do not ride out to the forest for sport; sixty-year-old elephants with bells at their necks do not walk the highways; merchants do not travel far in safety; the balance of gain and security fails; and the army cannot conquer its enemies. The king is truth and the king is dharma; the king is mother and father and benefactor; even Yama, Kubera, Indra, and Varuna bow before a king of good conduct. Without a king the world sinks into darkness. As the eye guides the body, so the king guides the realm. Therefore, best of the twice-born, seeing our conduct, seeing a realm without a king turned to a wilderness, do you consecrate on this throne some prince of the line of Ikshvaku, or some other man.”
A sub-tale: the kimpaka fruit named in this passage returns from an earlier reference. The kimpaka, a fruit much like the colocynth, is thought to be lovely to look at and sweet on the tongue, yet deadly once eaten. In the Indian tradition it stands as a figure for greed: as the greedy man does not see the harm while he eats, so Kaikeyi, in her hunger for the two boons, did not see the ruin of her house.
The gist: Markandeya and the other sages, calling a kingless state the ruin of the realm, begged Vasishtha to consecrate at once some prince of the line of Ikshvaku.
The messengers set out to summon Bharata (Canto 68)
Hearing their words, Vasishtha said to the king’s friends, the ministers, and all the brahmins, “That Bharata to whom the kingdom was given at Kaikeyi’s goading is living happily in his mother’s country with his brother Shatrughna. Let swift messengers on fast horses go and bring back the two heroic brothers. And what is there for us to consider?” All said, “Let the messengers go.” Then Vasishtha called Siddhartha, Vijaya, Jayanta, Ashoka, and Nandana, and commanded them,
“Go on fast horses to the city of Rajagriha, put aside your sorrow, and by my order say this to Bharata, ‘The priest and all the ministers have asked after your welfare; set out at once, there is a matter that will bear no delay.’ But when you get there, do not tell him of Rama’s going to the forest, nor of his father’s death, nor of this calamity fallen on the house of Raghu. And take silk garments and fine ornaments for the king and for Bharata, and go at once.” Provided with food for the road, mounted on approved horses, the messengers went to their homes to take leave, then, with Vasishtha’s permission, set off without delay.
They took the road that touches the Malini river, which flows between the Aparatala range to the south and Pralamba to the north; at Hastinapura they crossed the Ganga and, turning west, went through the middle of Kurujangala to the country of Panchala; they pressed on at speed, passing lakes bright with open lotuses and clear rivers. Reaching the bank of the Sharadanda, they crossed it quickly; on the western bank they went around the revered heavenly tree called Satyopayachana and entered the city of Kulinga. Coming out of Tejobhibhavana they reached Abhikala and crossed the holy Ikshumati, the river bound up with the king’s forefathers. Passing brahmins learned in the Vedas, who drink water from their cupped hands, they came through the land of Bahlika to Mount Sudama; on its peak they saw the place marked with Vishnu’s footprint, the rivers Vipasha (the Vyas) and Shalmali and others, tanks and pools, and lions and tigers and deer and elephants, and pressed on along a very broad highway. Though their mounts were tired, they soon reached Girivraja, the capital of Kekaya, and, for the pleasure of their master Vasishtha and the safety of the house, entered the city that very night.
The gist: Vasishtha sent five messengers, with the order that Bharata be told neither of his father’s death nor of Rama’s going to the forest; crossing many rivers and mountains, they reached Girivraja by night.
Bharata’s ominous dream (Canto 69)
On the very night the messengers entered that city, Bharata saw an unwelcome dream. The dream came in the last watch of the night, and it left the son of the king of kings deeply troubled. (In the Indian tradition a dream in the last watch of the night is held to come true.) Seeing him downcast, his dear friends, wishing to lift his distress, began to tell stories in the assembly; some played instruments, some tried to soothe him with song and dance, some read out plays full of laughter. But the high-souled Bharata, of the house of Raghu, took no joy even among these fond companions.
A dear friend asked, “My friend, why, seated among your friends, do you not share our pleasure?” Bharata answered, “Hear the cause of this heaviness that has come upon me. In my dream I saw my father grimy, his hair loose, falling from a mountain peak into a foul pit filled with dung; and he seemed to float in that pit, drinking oil from his cupped hands, laughing again and again. Then, having eaten rice mixed with sesame, having smeared all his limbs with oil, he plunged headfirst into the oil, again and again. In the dream I saw the sea dried up, the moon fallen to the earth, and the world overrun by demons and covered in darkness. The tusk of the king’s state elephant broke into pieces, and the blazing fires went out all at once. The earth split open, the trees withered, and the mountains fell, giving off smoke. Women dark and red and brown, dressed in black, struck the king as he sat on an iron seat. A demoness in red robes, with a hideous face, mocked the king and dragged him along.
“The righteous king, wearing red garlands and red paste, sped away on a chariot yoked to donkeys, his face to the south. Such and other frightful turns of that evil dream I saw. From it I take it that one of us will die: I, or Rama, or the king, or Lakshmana. The man who in a dream rides in a chariot drawn by donkeys soon sees the smoke of his own pyre. This is why I am cast down and cannot honor your words; my throat is dry, my mind is unwell. I see no cause for fear, and yet there is fear; my voice has changed, my shadow has left me, and I feel a kind of loathing for myself, though I cannot see why. Hearing this dream of so many strange shapes, one I never imagined before, and remembering the king, whom now it has become impossible even to look upon, this great fear will not leave my heart.”
The gist: in the last watch of the night Bharata saw a terrible dream foretelling his father’s death; even his friends’ entertainments could not quiet his unaccountable fear.
The messengers’ message, and Bharata’s farewell (Canto 70)
Bharata was still telling his friends the dream when the messengers, their mounts worn out, reached the lovely city of Rajagriha ringed by an unconquerable moat. Received with honor by the king of Kekaya and the crown prince, and touching the feet of their future king Bharata, they said, “The priest Vasishtha and all the ministers ask after your welfare; set out at once, the matter will bear no delay. Wide-eyed prince, take these precious robes and ornaments and have them given to your grandfather and your uncle as well. Among these, goods worth twenty crore are for the king, your grandfather, and a full ten crore worth for your uncle.”
Devoted Bharata took it all and had it given, on his father’s behalf, to his grandfather and his uncle, and, honoring the messengers with the food and drink they liked, asked them, “Is my father, King Dasaratha, well? Are Rama and the high-souled Lakshmana in health? Is the noble Kausalya, Rama’s mother, devoted to dharma, a speaker of dharma, wise, free of illness? And Sumitra, mother of Lakshmana and the brave Shatrughna, who knows what is right, my middle mother, is she well? Is my mother Kaikeyi, always fierce, quick to anger, who thinks herself wise, in good health, and what has she said for me?”
The messengers said, with great respect, “Tiger among men, all those whose welfare you seek are well; the lotus-handed goddess of fortune is choosing you; so have your chariot yoked.” Bharata said, “I take leave of my grandfather the king; the messengers are pressing me to hurry.” He said to his grandfather, “King, at the messengers’ word I go to my father; when you remember me, I will come again.” His grandfather smelled Bharata’s head and spoke words of blessing, “Go, my child, I give you leave; Kaikeyi is blessed to have so good a son. Give my greetings to your parents, to the priest and the best of the brahmins, and to the two bowmen brothers Rama and Lakshmana.”
The king of Kekaya gave Bharata fine elephants, patterned blankets, deerskins and wealth; he gave, too, great dogs raised in the inner apartments, with the strength of tigers; two thousand gold coins and sixteen hundred horses. His uncle Yudhajit also gave him elephants born of the line of Airavata and of Indrashira, and swift, well-matched mules. But in his hurry to return to Ayodhya, Bharata, son of Kaikeyi, took no delight in that wealth. The haste of the messengers and the dream had filled his heart with unease. The servants of Ashwapati followed with a hundred chariots yoked to camels, oxen, horses, and mules. Taking leave of his grandfather, his grandmother, his uncle Yudhajit, and his aunt, Bharata mounted his chariot with Shatrughna and set out for Ayodhya, like a perfected being returning from the world of Indra.
The gist: Bharata asked after everyone’s welfare and accepted the gifts, but in his haste to reach Ayodhya took no joy in them; carrying the worry of his dream, he set out with Shatrughna.
Entering an empty Ayodhya (Canto 71)
Facing east from Rajagriha, the valiant Bharata came upon the Sudama and Hradini rivers and crossed them; he crossed the west-flowing Shatadru (the Sutlej). Crossing a river at Ailadhana, reaching the Aparaparvata, crossing the river that turns anything thrown into it to stone, he came to the region of Shalyakarshana. Seeing the Shilavaha, he purified himself, then, crossing the Mahashaila mountains, went on toward the Chaitraratha forest. Crossing the twin confluence of the Sarasvati and the Ganga, he entered the Bharunda forest through the northern part of the country of Viramatsya. Crossing the Kulinga river ringed by hills, he reached the Yamuna and rested his army; giving his weary horses a bath and food, and having bathed and taken water himself, he pressed on. On his fine chariot the fine prince crossed the great, untraveled forest like the wind.
At the village of Anshudhana, seeing the Bhagirathi (the Ganga) hard to cross, he crossed with his army at Pragvata, where the passage was easy, and reached the village of Dharmavardhana. Passing to the south of Torana, going through Jambuprastha, he reached the village of Varutha, spent the night there, and came to the garden at Ujjihana where the kadamba trees grew. Taking swift horses and permitting the army to follow slowly, Bharata pushed on fast. Spending the night at Sarvatirtha, crossing the Uttanika and other rivers on hill-bred horses, he reached Hastiprishtaka; at Kutika and Lohitya he crossed the Kapivati, and at Ekasala the Sthanumati, and at Vinata the Gomati. Passing through the sal forest of Kalinganagara, spending seven nights on the road, he saw at daybreak the Ayodhya founded by Vaivasvata Manu.
Seeing Ayodhya ahead, Bharata said to his charioteer, “This glorious city with its holy gardens does not look to me as it should. Charioteer, from far off Ayodhya looks pale, the color of dry clay. She who was full of brahmins and rich men, cared for by royal sages, now looks from a distance like a heap of white earth. Once the loud voices of men and women could be heard here, and today they cannot. The gardens that shone at evening with people returning from their walks look otherwise today; abandoned by their lovers, today they seem to weep. The sweet cries of the joyful beasts and birds cannot be heard now. Why does the glorious wind, once laden with the scent of sandal, aloe, and incense, not blow as it did? Why has the sound of drum and tabor and vina, which always played, fallen silent? I see many ill and unwelcome omens; my mind is troubled. The safety of my kinsfolk seems, in every way, hard to hope for; my heart sinks for no reason I can name.”
Dejected, weary at heart, frightened, his senses disordered, Bharata quickly entered the city guarded by the line of Ikshvaku. Because his mounts were tired, he came in by the western Vaijayanta gate; the gatekeepers welcomed him with cries of victory. Sending the gatekeepers back with honor, he said to Ashwapati’s weary charioteer, “Blameless one, why was I brought in haste, with no reason given? My heart forebodes some evil, my courage seems to fail. All the signs that foretell the death of kings, of which I once heard men speak, I see here today: the houses unclean, grimy, without grace, their doors standing open; empty of offerings and the scent of incense; the temples deserted, the images of the gods and the sacrificial grounds abandoned; the shops of garlands with no bright wares; the merchants afraid; the beasts and birds forlorn. I see men and women in soiled clothes, their eyes full of tears, sunk in thought, thin, longing.” Saying this, downcast, Bharata went on toward the palace. Seeing the city that had shone like Indra’s own, its crossroads and houses and lanes now empty, its doors and door-panels grimy with dust, he was filled with sorrow, and with bowed head entered his father’s house.
The gist: after seven nights on the road, Bharata found Ayodhya graceless and empty; seeing all the signs that foretell a king’s death, he entered his father’s house heavy-hearted.
Kaikeyi’s terrible news (Canto 72)
Not finding his father in the house, Bharata went to his mother’s palace to see her. Seeing her son returned from far away, Kaikeyi rose in delight from her golden seat. The moment the righteous Bharata entered that graceless house he sat down and clasped his mother’s blessed feet. Smelling his head and setting the glorious Bharata in her lap, Kaikeyi asked, “How many nights is it since you left your grandfather’s house? You have come fast by chariot; was the journey not tiring? Are your grandfather and your uncle Yudhajit well? Did all go well on your travels? Tell me everything, my son.”
The lotus-eyed Bharata told her all his news, “This is the seventh night since I left my grandfather’s house. My grandfather and uncle are well. The wealth and jewels the king gave lagged behind on the road, the beasts of burden being worn out, so I came ahead. The messengers made me hurry. Mother, now tell me what I ask; this gold-inlaid couch is empty of the king; these people of Ikshvaku, too, do not look happy. The king was mostly here in your palace; I came today to see him and do not. I would touch my father’s feet; tell me, where is he? Is he in the palace of my eldest mother, Kausalya?”
Kaikeyi, blinded by the lust for the kingdom, told her unknowing son that dreadful, unwelcome news as though it were welcome, “Your father has reached the road that is the road of all creatures; that performer of sacrifices, refuge of the good, the high-souled king, has gone to the other world.” Hearing this, the guileless Bharata of the house of dharma, overcome by grief for his father, fell to the ground crying, “I am destroyed!” and beating his arms upon it. Covered in grief, his mind gone dark, Bharata lamented, “Rise, king, rise, glorious one! Why do you lie here? Good men like you do not lie so. This bed of my father, which was once as lovely as the autumn night sky with the moon in it, is graceless now, robbed of that wise king, like a sky without the moon, like a dried-up sea.” His throat closing, covering his face with his robe, that best of conquerors wept on.
Seeing her son fallen on the ground, godlike, like the young of an elephant, like the sun and moon in one, his mother Kaikeyi lifted him up and said, “Rise, wise one! Good men do not grieve this way. Your mind follows conduct, learning, and austerity.” Bharata said, “I was thinking the king would consecrate Rama, or perform a sacrifice, and it was in that gladness that I came; but all has turned upside down, and I do not see my father, who was always intent on what was dear and good for me. Mother, in my absence, by what illness did the king die? Blessed are Rama and the others who performed their father’s rites with their own hands. The glorious king did not know that I had come, or he would have bent and smelled my head. Where is that soft, kind hand of my father, which would wipe me clean again and again when he saw me covered in dust? Send word at once to my brother Rama, who is like a father, a kinsman to me; the eldest brother is as a father, and I will clasp his feet, for he is now my refuge. What did my truly valiant father say to noble Rama at the last? I wish to hear his final, good message.”
Kaikeyi told him plainly, “That high-souled man went to the other world crying, ‘Alas Rama, alas Sita, alas Lakshmana!’ Bound by the noose of Time like a great elephant caught, your father spoke his last words, ‘Blessed are those who will see Rama return with Sita, and the mighty-armed Lakshmana.’” Hearing this, Bharata, cast lower still by a second unwelcome piece of news, asked, “Where now is that righteous Rama, the joy of Kausalya, with Lakshmana and Sita?” His mother told him that unwelcome thing too in the tone of good news, “That prince, dressed in bark, has gone with Sita and Lakshmana to the great Dandaka forest.”
A little doubtful of his brother’s conduct, and troubled by the memory of the greatness of his line, Bharata asked, “Did Rama take the wealth of some brahmin? Did he harm some innocent rich or poor man? Did he covet another man’s wife? Then why was my brother sent to the Dandaka forest?” Then his mother, fickle by nature as a woman may be, told out all her own vile deed exactly as it was, “Rama took no man’s wealth, harmed no innocent, did not so much as look with a sinful eye on another man’s wife. My son, the moment I heard of Rama’s consecration, I asked your father for the kingdom for you and exile for Rama. Your true-vowed father did just so; Rama was sent away with Sita and Lakshmana. Not seeing his beloved son, worn down by grief, the glorious king met his end. Now, knower of dharma, take up the throne; all this I did for you alone. Do not sorrow, be steadfast; this city and this kingdom, free of any thorn, are under your rule. With Vasishtha and the other chief brahmins who know the rites, quickly perform your father’s last rites, and, in nobility of spirit, have yourself consecrated over the earth.”
The gist: Kaikeyi told Bharata of his father’s death and Rama’s exile together, admitted her own doing, and urged Bharata to take the throne.
Bharata’s first rebuke, and his vow (Canto 73)
Hearing his father’s fate and the exile of both brothers, Bharata, scorched with pain, said, “Now, robbed of my father and of a brother who is as my father, what is the kingdom to me, grieving? Grief upon grief, salt in the wound, you have made the king a corpse and Rama an ascetic. You who see only evil, you stain upon the house! You came upon this house like the Night of Doom itself for its ruin; my father took you to his chest even though you were a live coal, and never knew you. My true-vowed, glorious father, having got you, burned in fierce grief and passed away. You killed my dharma-loving father; for what cause did you drive Rama out and send him to the forest? Because of you, Kausalya and Sumitra too are stricken with grief for their sons; if they live, they will do some very hard thing. Rama treated even you as his own mother, and my far-seeing eldest mother Kausalya treated you as a sister.
“Having dressed that high-souled son of Kausalya in bark and sent him to the forest, sinful woman, do you feel no grief? You are set upon sin; count me dead, and weep. I would have felt no scruple in giving up Rama, if he did not always hold you to be his mother. This wicked idea, of stripping the eldest of his right and giving the kingdom to a younger, which our forefathers condemned, how did it enter your mind? In our house the eldest alone is consecrated; the other brothers serve him. This is the special usage of the Ikshvakus. You do not know the law of kings. The pride of character that guarded those kings by dharma and adorned them with the custom of the house has vanished today with your coming. But I will not fulfill your desire; to do you the wrong you deserve, I will bring back from the forest my brother Rama, whom I love above all, and, having brought back that radiant Rama, I will live as his servant with a steadfast heart.” So saying, the grief-stricken Bharata roared again like a lion in a cave of Mount Mandara.
The gist: Bharata rebuked his mother sharply as the destroyer of the house, reminded her of the Ikshvaku rule of the eldest’s right, and vowed to bring Rama back and become his servant.
The tale of Surabhi, and Bharata’s swoon (Canto 74)
Having rebuked his mother, filled with vast rage, Bharata spoke again, “Fall from the kingdom, cruel and wicked Kaikeyi! You are cast off by dharma; count me dead and go on weeping. What harm had Rama done you, or the most righteous king, that their death and their exile should both come at once by your hand? By the ruin of this house the guilt of killing a brahmin has fallen on you; go to hell, not to my father’s heaven. Having done this dreadful deed, the murder of a father and the exile of a dear and righteous son, having driven out the beloved of all the world, you have brought fear upon me as well. Because of you my father is dead, Rama is in the forest, and I have come to disgrace in the world of the living. Enemy in a mother’s shape, killer of your husband, you are not fit for me to speak to. You are no daughter of the righteous king Ashwapati, but a demoness come to destroy his house.
“A son is born of every limb of his father and out of the heart of his mother, and for that he is dearer to his mother than all kinsmen.” Then Bharata told the tale of Surabhi, “It is an old story. Surabhi, the cow of plenty, honored by the gods and knowing dharma, saw her two ox-sons fallen to the ground with the toil of half a day of pulling the plow, and, in grief for her sons, with tears in her eyes, she wept. Her fragrant teardrops fell on the body of the high-souled Indra as he passed below. Looking up, Indra saw Surabhi standing in the sky, forlorn, deeply wretched, weeping. Troubled, Indra joined his palms and asked, ‘Is some great danger threatening us from anywhere? Well-wisher of all, what is the cause of your grief?’ Surabhi said, ‘King of the gods, no danger threatens you; I weep for my own two suffering sons, who are being killed, worn down in the heat of the sun by a cruel plowman; nothing is dearer than a son.’
“Seeing Surabhi weep, whose thousands upon thousands of offspring fill this whole world, Indra understood that nothing is dearer to a mother than a son. When even Surabhi of countless offspring weeps, how will Kausalya, robbed of Rama, who has but one son, go on living? You have made that saintly woman of one son childless; and for this you will suffer, here and hereafter, without end. I will clear this whole debt to my brother and perform all the last rites for my father in full, and so raise his fame; of that there is no doubt. I will bring back the mighty king of Kosala, Rama, and myself go to the forest that sages haunt, and save Rama from the sin of a broken vow. Sinful woman set on sin, before the townsfolk with tears in their throats I could not bear the burden of your deed. Enter the fire if you will, go yourself to the Dandaka, or tie a rope around your neck; there is no other road for you. Only when Rama comes home to his own country will I be whole and clean.” So saying, like a wild elephant pierced by goad and lance, hissing like a serpent, Bharata fell to the ground in fury. His eyes red, his robe loose, his ornaments scattered, that prince lay on the earth like the banner of Indra thrown down at a festival’s end.
A sub-tale: the “banner of Indra” points to the ancient festival of Indra. At the start of the rainy season kings would raise in their cities a tall standard, the Indra-dhvaja, in Indra’s honor; when the festival ended, it was thrown down. Valmiki, again and again, likens the fallen Bharata and Shatrughna to this Indra-banner being cast down: high and glorious one moment, on the ground the next.
The gist: with the tale of Surabhi, showing a mother’s love for her son at its height, Bharata repeated his resolve to bring Rama back and go to the forest himself, and fell fainting in the excess of his grief.
The oaths before Kausalya (Canto 75)
After a long while, coming back to himself, the valiant Bharata rose, and seeing his forlorn mother with tears in her eyes, he rebuked her again before the ministers, “I never wanted the kingdom, never took counsel with my mother. I did not even know of the consecration the king had planned for Rama; I was far away with Shatrughna. I knew nothing of the high-souled Rama’s exile, nor of how Lakshmana and Sita were banished.”
Knowing his voice, Kausalya said to Sumitra, “Bharata, son of the cruel Kaikeyi, has come; I wish to see that far-seeing Bharata.” Pale-faced, thin, trembling, Kausalya set off toward Bharata. And Bharata, with Shatrughna, set off toward Kausalya’s palace. Seeing Kausalya fallen senseless with grief on the way, the two grieving brothers embraced her. Weeping, the noble Kausalya said to Bharata, “You who longed for the kingdom have got it now, this kingdom with no thorn in it; Kaikeyi got it for you quickly by a cruel deed. What good did the cruel-eyed Kaikeyi see in dressing my son in bark and sending him to the forest? Let Kaikeyi send me too, at once, where my glorious son is. Or take me yourself to where that tiger among men, my son, is doing his austerities. This wide kingdom, full of wealth and grain, of elephants and horses and chariots, she has got for you.”
These cruel words pierced the blameless Bharata like a needle in a wound, and, half-conscious, he fell at her feet, and after much lament came to himself. Joining his palms he said, “Noble lady, why do you rebuke me, who knew nothing, who am without stain? You know my boundless love for Rama. May his mind never follow the scriptures, by whose consent my true-vowed brother went to the forest.” Then Bharata took, one after another, a chain of hard oaths, “Let this and this sin fall on the one by whose consent my noble brother went to the forest,” and he named the servitude of low men, the fouling of the sun with one’s filth, the kicking of sleeping cattle, the taking back of wages from a servant who has done his work, treachery against a king who protects his people, the failure to protect the people while taking one’s share of their offerings, the defilement of a teacher’s bed, betrayal of a friend, the sin of setting fire, the killing of women, children, and the aged of the kingdom, disrespect to elders, going in to another man’s wife, the fouling of water and the giving of poison, the false refusal of water to the thirsty, and partial judgment; all these sins, he said, fall on the one by whose consent Rama went to the forest. As Bharata all but fainted under these harsh oaths, Kausalya said, “My son, with each oath you take you strip more life from me; but by good fortune your soul has not swerved from dharma. True to your word, you will reach the world of the good.” So saying, the brother-loving, mighty-armed Bharata was taken into her lap and, embraced, the deeply grieving Kausalya wept aloud. That high-souled prince, lamenting, his mind unsteady with confusion and the tumult of grief, sighing again and again, lay half-conscious, and the night passed for him in sorrow.
The gist: at Kausalya’s bitter words Bharata proved his innocence with many harsh oaths; knowing his heart, Kausalya took him into her lap and wept.
Dasaratha’s cremation (Canto 76)
To the grief-scorched Bharata, Vasishtha, best of speakers, said, “Enough; do not grieve, and may it be well with you, glorious prince. Now, in due time, perform the fitting last rites for the king.” Hearing this, the dharma-knowing Bharata fell to the ground, then rose to have all his father’s funeral rites performed. Taking the king’s body from the vat of oil, and laying that yellow-faced king, who seemed to be in deep sleep, on a foremost couch inlaid with many jewels, his son Bharata, deeply wretched, lamented, “King, in my absence, with me not there, what did you decide? Where do you go, having sent away the dharma-knowing Rama and the mighty Lakshmana? Where will you go, leaving this grieving people, robbed of Rama, the lion among men, who does great deeds with ease? With you gone to heaven and Rama gone to the forest, who will look to the welfare of this city? Robbed of you, this earth is graceless as a widow; the city looks like a night without the moon.”
The great sage Vasishtha said again, “Mighty-armed one, whatever last rites are to be done for the king, do them unhurried and without wavering.” Saying “So be it,” Bharata hastened the officiating priests, the family priest, and the teachers. On the king’s death the sacred fires taken out of the fire-house were offered into by the priests according to rule. Placing the still king on a bier, the servants, throats choked, downcast, carried him on their shoulders to the burning ground. People walked before the king, scattering flowers of silver and gold and many cloths along the road. Building the pyre of sandal, aloe, sarala, padmaka, and deodar, and heaping on many fragrances, the priests laid the king in the middle of the pyre. Having made the offerings and murmured the mantras, the singers of the Sama chanted according to the scriptures.
The king’s queens came out of the city in litters and carriages as befitted them, ringed by aged guards. The priests walked around the king now given to the fire; Kausalya and the other grief-scorched women walked around the king who had performed the horse sacrifice. There the piteous weeping of thousands of women, like curlews, could be heard. Then the queens, helpless, weeping, lamenting again and again, came down from their chariots at the bank of the Sarayu. With Bharata, having offered the water-oblation, the queens, the ministers, and the priest returned to the city with tears in their eyes and passed the ten days of ritual impurity sleeping on the ground in grief.
The gist: at Vasishtha’s urging, Bharata took his father’s body from the vat of oil and performed the cremation fit for an emperor, and offered the water-oblation on the bank of the Sarayu.
Gathering the bones, and the grief of Bharata and Shatrughna (Canto 77)
When ten days had passed and he was purified, the prince performed the eleventh and twelfth day rites. He gave the brahmins vast wealth, jewels, grain, precious cloths, many gems, a great flock of white goats, silver, and many cows. For his father’s benefit in the other world he gave away male and female servants, carriages, and great houses.
On the thirteenth day, at dawn, coming to the foot of the pyre to gather the bones, and seeing that circle red with ash and strewn with charred bones, the mighty-armed Bharata fainted with grief and, his throat closing, said, “Father, the brother Raghava into whose keeping you gave me before you went, when he too went to the forest I was left here in this emptiness, cast off by you. King, where have you gone, leaving mother Kausalya, whose son has gone to the forest, a helpless woman?” He fell weeping and forlorn to the ground, like the Indra-banner lifted by its machine. All the ministers ran to him, as the sages ran to Yayati fallen from heaven. Seeing Bharata drowned in grief, Shatrughna too, remembering the king, fell senseless. Remembering his father’s many loving looks and ways, Shatrughna, as though maddened, lamented, “The ocean of grief born of Manthara, filled with the crocodiles of Kaikeyi’s words, its waters churned by the boons, has drowned us all. Father, tender, boy-like Bharata, whom you always fondled, where have you gone, leaving him in tears? Who will now do what you did, letting us choose from among all foods and drinks and clothes and ornaments? Why does this earth, robbed of you, not split open, when the time is ripe for splitting? My father has gone to heaven, Rama to the forest; what reason is there for me to live? I will enter the fire. Robbed of brother and father, I will not go back to empty Ayodhya, but to the forest of austerities.”
Hearing the two lament, all the attendants grew more stricken still. Downcast, worn out, Bharata and Shatrughna rolled on the ground like oxen with broken horns. Then the priest of them all and of their father, the gentle, all-knowing Vasishtha, lifting Bharata up, said, “Lord, today is the thirteenth day since your father passed away; why do you still delay the remaining rite of gathering the bones? Life and death, joy and grief, gain and loss, these three pairs run alike in all creatures and cannot be escaped; to grieve like this does not become you.” Sumantra too lifted Shatrughna, comforted him, and spoke of the certainty of birth and death for all beings. Risen, the two tigers among men, grimy with rain and sun, stood apart, glorious as two separate Indra-banners. Wiping their eyes, red-eyed, their voices forlorn, the princes were hastened by the ministers to the remaining rites.
A sub-tale: “Yayati fallen from heaven” points to the famous king of the old lore. When his merit ran out, Yayati began to fall from heaven, and the royal sages Ashtaka and the others, who were his daughter’s sons, ran to catch and hold him. Valmiki takes his figure for the ministers running to Bharata from this: as even great men are thrown into confusion and run when their own support falls.
The gist: Bharata gave the funeral gifts; at the gathering of the bones both Bharata and Shatrughna fainted with grief, and Vasishtha and Sumantra steadied them by teaching the certainty of birth and death.
Manthara’s punishment (Canto 78)
To the grief-scorched Bharata, thinking of the journey to meet Rama, Shatrughna, younger brother of Lakshmana, said, “That Rama, who is the refuge of all creatures in their sorrow, and above all of his own people, that Rama of true strength, a woman has sent to the forest! Why did the strong, valiant Lakshmana not free Rama from this calamity, even if he had to hold back our father to do it? Weighing right and wrong, a king who has climbed onto the wrong road and fallen under a woman’s power should have been checked at the very start.”
He was still speaking when, at the eastern gate, Kaikeyi’s hunchbacked maid Manthara appeared, decked in every ornament, smeared with the finest sandal, dressed in royal robes; bound with many girdle-chains and choice jewels, she looked like a she-monkey tied up with ropes. Seeing that cause of the whole dreadful sin, the gatekeeper seized the piteous hunchback and handed her to Shatrughna, saying, “Here is the pitiless, sinful woman because of whom Rama is in the forest and your father gave up his body; now do with her as you will.” The vow-keeping Shatrughna said to all the people of the inner apartments, “The very fruit of bitter grief that she visited on my brothers and my father, let her taste it now.”
So saying, he seized by force the hunchback surrounded by her band of maids; her scream filled the palace. Seeing Shatrughna in a fury, all the maids fled, crying, “In the way she began, she will destroy us all; come, let us take refuge with the compassionate, dharma-knowing, glorious Kausalya; she is our sure protection.” Full of rage, Shatrughna dragged the shrieking hunchback across the ground; jerked this way and that, her ornaments of many patterns scattered, and with those broken ornaments the palace shone like the autumn sky studded with stars. That strong bull among men, still gripping Manthara, gave a stinging rebuke to Kaikeyi, who had come to save her. Wounded by those harsh words, terrified by Shatrughna, Kaikeyi took refuge with her son Bharata. Seeing Shatrughna in a fury, Bharata said, “Women are not to be killed by any creature; forgive her. I would have killed this wicked, sinful Kaikeyi myself, were it not that the righteous Rama would count me a matricide and be angry with me. If Rama learned that we had killed even this hunchback, the righteous one would surely never speak to you or to me again.” Hearing Bharata’s word, Shatrughna drew back from the deed and let the half-fainting Manthara go. She fell at Kaikeyi’s feet, sighing, and gave herself up to piteous lament. Dragged by Shatrughna, dazed, forlorn, looking to her refuge like a curlew caught in a net, the hunchback was slowly soothed by Bharata’s mother.
The gist: Shatrughna dragged and punished the finely dressed Manthara and rebuked Kaikeyi; but with “women are not to be killed” and the fear of Rama’s anger, Bharata stepped in and had her released.
Bharata refuses the throne (Canto 79)
On the fourteenth morning the men who ran the realm gathered and said to Bharata, “Alas! Having driven out the eldest son Rama and the mighty Lakshmana, our great elder Dasaratha has gone to heaven. Glorious prince, now be our king; this realm is without a leader, and there is no fault in it. Take up the kingdom of your fathers and forefathers, be consecrated, and protect us.” Walking around all the materials of consecration, the vow-keeping Bharata said to them all, “In our house the kingship of the eldest has always been the rule; men as wise as you should not say such a thing to me. Rama is our eldest brother; he will be lord of the earth; I will live fourteen years in the forest for his sake. Let a mighty fourfold army be made ready; I will bring my eldest brother Rama back from the forest.
“With all these materials of consecration carried before me, I will go for Rama’s sake toward the forest; having consecrated that tiger among men there, I will bring Rama back with honor to Ayodhya, as one carries fire home from a great fire-hall. I will not fulfill the wish of this Kaikeyi who smells of a mother; I will live in the hard forest, and Rama will be king. Let craftsmen build the road, let the high and low ground be leveled, let guards who know the hard and narrow paths come along.” As Bharata spoke for Rama’s good, all cried, “Eldest prince, you who would give the earth to your eldest brother Rama, may the goddess of fortune rest on you forever!” Hearing this fine word, joy spread over Bharata’s face, and tears of great gladness flowed. Hearing this plan to consecrate Rama in the forest itself and bring him back, all the ministers and councilors lost their grief, and said, “Best of men, at your order craftsmen and guards devoted to you and to Rama have been set to build the road.”
The gist: Bharata refused the throne and declared that he himself would live fourteen years in the forest and bring Rama back to be king; the glad council set craftsmen and guards to build the road.
The divine road to the Ganga (Canto 80)
Then those who knew the lie of the land, skilled in surveying; the brave diggers who sink wells and tunnels, and the engineers who devise ways to cross rivers or dam water; the laborers, the master builders, the men versed in machines; the carpenters, the road-clearers and road-guards, the fellers of trees; the cooks, the plasterers, the workers in bamboo and leather; and able guides, all went ahead.
That vast throng, pressing joyfully toward Rama’s dwelling, shone like the sea swelling at festival. Joining company by company, the road-builders went ahead with their many tools. Cutting creepers, vines, and shrubs, stumps and rocks and many trees, they made the road. In treeless tracts they planted trees here and felled trees there with axe, adze, and sickle. Strong men tore up the deep-rooted clumps of virana grass and leveled the high and low ground. Others filled with earth the dry wells and long pits hidden under grass, and leveled the low ground all around. Where the streams could be bridged, they threw bridges; the pebbles that needed crushing they crushed, and broke the barriers that held back the water. In a short time, by building dams, they turned the streams into many pools of much water, of various shapes, like little seas. In waterless tracts they had fine wells dug, adorned with platforms.
That royal road, built for the army, with a firm surface mixed with lime, lined with flowering trees, loud with the calls of joyous birds and adorned with banners, sprinkled with sandal water, dressed with many flowers, shone like a road of the gods. By order, the officers set up camps in pleasant tracts of sweet-fruited land, and adorned the beloved camp of the high-souled Bharata like a jewel. At star-blessed hours the builders set up Bharata’s camps; around them they raised high mounds of earth and moats, and tents shining like sapphire images stood along fine lanes. Ringed with rows of mansions, girt with lime-washed walls, adorned with banners, cut through by well-made highways, those camps, with their seven-storied buildings and their dovecote-crowned spires, seemed to fly in the air and shone like the city of Indra. Ringed with groves of many trees, reaching to the bank of the Ganga with its cool clear water and its great fish, that lovely royal road, made step by step by able craftsmen, shone at night like the clear sky studded with moon and stars.
The gist: at Bharata’s order, craftsmen of many kinds built from Ayodhya to the bank of the Ganga a divine, easy royal road, complete with bridges, wells, pools, and camps.
Refusing the throne: Bharata’s vow
The night of the second day was drawing on, the very night that comes before the Nandimukha, the offering made to the ancestors at the start of an auspicious rite. Vasishtha had made ready Bharata’s consecration for the next morning, and the bards, the heralds, and the panegyrists who sing the praises of kings began, as their custom was, to hail Bharata with auspicious hymns. With a golden rod the drum that marks the end of each watch of the day was struck, and the servants sounded hundreds of conches and instruments of many kinds. This great blare of trumpets seemed to fill the four quarters, but to Bharata, already burning with grief, the sound only pushed him into deeper grief.
Waking at that blare, Bharata had it stopped at once, saying, “We are not king.” Then he said to Shatrughna, “See, Shatrughna, what a vast wrong Kaikeyi has done the world. King Dasaratha has gone, leaving all these sorrows upon us. The royal fortune of that righteous, high-souled king, which rested only on dharma, now drifts on the water like a boat with no helmsman. And Rama, who was our greatest protector and lord, this same mother of ours, casting off dharma, has sent to the forest.” Seeing Bharata lament thus, half out of his senses, all the women of the inner apartments broke into loud, piteous weeping.
At that very hour the greatly renowned Vasishtha, knower of the law of kings, came into that assembly of the lord of the Ikshvakus. With his band of pupils he took his seat in that lovely council hall, which was of gold, inlaid with gems and pearls, and looked like Indra’s own hall of Sudharma. Seated on a seat marked with the auspicious svastika, the sage who knew all the Vedas ordered the messengers, “We have a matter of the utmost need. Bring here quickly and gently the brahmins, the warriors, the ministers, the generals, Shatrughna and the glorious Bharata with the other princes, and Yudhajit, a chief minister also called Vijaya, and Sumantra, and all who wish Bharata well.” Then a great clamor rose of people coming on chariots, horses, and elephants.
The gist: on the morning of the consecration, when the panegyrists began to praise Bharata as king, Bharata had the auspicious music stopped and refused, in plain words, to be treated as king. Vasishtha, knower of the law of kings, summoned the assembly, and Bharata came to sit with the princes and ministers in that council hall bright as Indra’s court.
Vasishtha’s urging, Bharata’s resolve
The wise Bharata looked at that assembly, filled with the best of men and great souls and shining like a night lit by the full moon. Reading the mind of all the ministers and the people, the priest Vasishtha spoke gently to Bharata, “My child, King Dasaratha, walking in dharma, has gone to heaven, leaving you this rich earth full of wealth and grain. The true Rama, remembering the dharma of the good, that is, obedience to a father, no more forsook his father’s command than the risen moon forsakes its light. Your father and your elder brother have both given you this kingdom with no thorn in it; so enjoy it with your glad ministers and be consecrated at once. Let the kings of the north, west, south, and east, and the throneless chief-kings by the Sahya mountain, and the merchants of the sea, bring you jewels beyond counting.”
Hearing the priest’s word, Bharata sank into grief. The dharma-knowing Bharata called Rama to mind within himself, so that he might find the right road, to be Rama’s servant rather than the seizer of his elder brother’s right. In a voice like a swan’s, his throat choked with tears, the young prince lamented before the whole assembly and rebuked the priest for his ill counsel, “Rama, who studied the Vedas in his teacher’s house with strict celibacy, who finished his learning and bathed as the rule commands, and who walks in dharma, whose kingdom would a sensible man like me seize? How, being Dasaratha’s son, shall I make myself the robber of my elder brother’s throne, when the kingdom and I myself belong to Rama? Say in this assembly only what is right.
“Rama is not only the eldest of us, he is the best. His mind is fixed on dharma, and he is as powerful as Dilipa of the solar line and Nahusha of the lunar. He alone, like Dasaratha, is fit to have the kingdom. If I did this sin of seizing my elder brother’s right, which only base men do and which wins no heaven, I would become a stain on the line of Ikshvaku. I do not even approve of the sin my mother has done. Therefore, though I am here, with folded hands I bow to Rama, who lives in the hard forest. I will follow Rama; he alone, best of men, is lord of this kingdom. Raghava is fit for the kingdom of all three worlds.”
Hearing this answer full of dharma, all the members of the assembly wept for joy, their minds sunk in Rama. Bharata went on, “If I cannot bring my elder brother back from the forest, then I too will live there as Lakshmana lives now. Before all these good men I will try every means to bring him back by force. I have already sent ahead all the skilled workmen who mend the road, so the journey to the forest is what pleases me.” Then the brother-loving Bharata said to Sumantra, skilled in counsel, standing near, “Sumantra, rise, and by my order go quickly, give the command to set out, and have the army made ready.”
Sumantra was overjoyed and passed the word to all as Bharata directed. The people and the generals rejoiced. The wives of the warriors, longing to see Rama, urged their husbands in their homes to make haste. The generals ordered the march with horses swift as thought, with bullock carts and chariots. Seeing the army ready, Bharata said to Sumantra standing near, “Have my chariot made ready at once.” Sumantra brought a chariot yoked with fine horses. Resolved to soothe Rama and bring him home, Bharata said again, “Rise and go quickly, have the army made ready for the march by its captains, for I wish to soothe Rama in the forest and, for the good of the world, bring him back.” Then from house to house the warriors, merchants, laborers, and brahmins rose in high spirits, and camels, chariots, donkeys, elephants, and well-bred horses were yoked for the march.
The gist: Vasishtha urged Bharata to accept the thornless throne given him by his father and brother, but Bharata refused it and vowed to bring Rama back from the forest, and, if he could not, to live in the forest as Lakshmana did. The assembly wept for joy, and Sumantra readied the army for the march.
The journey to the bank of the Ganga
Rising the next morning and mounting his fine chariot, Bharata set out quickly, longing to see Rama. All the ministers and the priest went ahead of him in chariots bright as the chariot of the sun. Nine thousand elephants, duly caparisoned, followed Bharata, the joy of the line of Ikshvaku. Sixty thousand chariots, carrying bowmen armed with weapons of every kind, followed the glorious prince. A hundred thousand horses with their riders followed Bharata.
The glorious Kaikeyi, Sumitra, and Kausalya, glad at the thought of bringing Rama home from the forest, also rode out, each in her own fine chariot. Bands of brahmins too set out with glad hearts to see Rama with Lakshmana and Sita, and, speaking only of him, said as they went, “When shall we see Rama, dark as a cloud, mighty-armed, steady of mind, firm in his vows, who wipes away the grief of the world? As the rising sun dispels the darkness of the whole world, so Raghava, merely by coming into sight, will lift our grief.” Speaking of good things, embracing one another, they went on. All the good people of Ayodhya, honored and humble alike, went out to meet Rama.
Every jeweler, every skilled potter, weavers who knew the working of thread, makers of weapons, makers of fans from peacock feathers, men who lived by the saw, borers of gems and pearls, workers in ivory, preparers of lime, sellers of perfume, famed goldsmiths, weavers of blankets, bath-attendants, physicians, burners of incense, brewers, washermen, tailors, village headmen, and dancers and boatmen with their women, all joined this march. Brahmins sunk in meditation, learned in the Vedas, honored for their good conduct, followed Bharata in their thousands on bullock carts. In fine dress, in clean clothes, sandal and red paste on their bodies, all followed Bharata slowly on carriages of many kinds. The joyful army too followed its brother-loving Bharata.
Crossing the long road with chariots, litters, horses, and elephants, they reached the bank of the Ganga near Shringaverapura, where Rama’s friend, the brave Guha, ringed by his kinsmen, ruled that region with care. Reaching the bank of the Ganga, graced by chakravaka birds, the army following Bharata halted. Seeing the holy waters of the Ganga and the halted army, the eloquent Bharata said to all the ministers, “Let my army halt on all sides as it wishes. Let us rest today and cross this sea-going river tomorrow. In the meantime I wish to go down into the river and offer the water-oblation to my father, the emperor gone to heaven, for the peace of his soul.” The ministers said “So be it” and set the army in its separate camps. Having settled the army in order on the bank of the Ganga, Bharata too halted, sunk in the one thought of how to bring Rama back.
The gist: with nine thousand elephants, sixty thousand chariots, a hundred thousand horses, the three queens, brahmins, craftsmen, and the people, Bharata, longing to see Rama, reached the bank of the Ganga at Shringaverapura, where Guha ruled. There he had the army make camp and halted to offer the water-oblation to his father.
Guha’s suspicion, Guha’s welcome
The moment he saw this army camped on the bank of the Ganga, Guha, king of the Nishadas, said to his kinsmen sitting by him, “From here this vast army looks like the sea. However hard I think, I can see no end to it. Surely the ill-minded Bharata has come himself, for I see on his chariot that great banner with the sign of the kovidara tree. If his heart is evil, he will bind us in chains or kill us, for we are devoted to Rama, son of Dasaratha, driven from the kingdom by his father. Wishing for that king’s rare royal fortune, Bharata, son of Kaikeyi, is coming to kill Rama. Rama is my lord and my friend, so, wishing his good, do you all stand armed on this bank of the Ganga. Let all my boatmen, with the army, guard the river, eating the meat and roots and fruits kept in the boats. On each of five hundred boats let a hundred armored young fishermen stay. If Bharata proves friendly to Rama, then this army will cross the Ganga today.” Saying this, Guha took gifts of parched grain, fruit pulp, and honey, and went to meet Bharata.
Seeing him come, the time-wise Sumantra, like a humble servant, said to Bharata, “This chief, Guha, ringed by thousands of his kinsmen, is coming; he is an old friend of your elder brother Rama and knows the Dandaka forest. Scion of Kakutstha, grant him your sight. Surely he knows where Rama and Lakshmana are.” Hearing this welcome news, Bharata said at once, “Let Guha meet me.” Given leave, Guha, overjoyed, came with his kinsmen and said humbly, “This region is the garden of your palace, and we, in our ignorance, have lost the chance to welcome you. We offer you whatever is ours; stay in the house of your own boatman. Here are green and dried roots and fruits gathered by the Nishadas themselves, fruit pulp, and many kinds of wild grain. It is my hope that the army will eat well here and pass the night, and that you too, having enjoyed food of many kinds, will set out tomorrow with the army.”
A sub-tale: Guha is that same Nishada king, Rama’s friend, who at the start of the exile, in the earlier cantos of the Ayodhyakanda, ferried Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita across the Ganga. The Nishadas are a forest people of fishermen and boatmen. That is why, seeing Bharata’s vast army, Guha at first suspects that Bharata may have come to harm his brother, and readies himself to defend. Only when he learns Bharata’s true heart does his suspicion melt away.
The gist: seeing so great an army, Guha, king of the Nishadas, feared that Bharata might have come to kill Rama, and set his boatmen to guard the boats. Then, taking gifts, he came himself to sound out Bharata’s heart, and offered him a warm welcome.
Guha’s doubt is dispelled
The greatly wise Bharata gave an answer that touched the heart, “Friend of my elder brother, you have granted my great wish in wanting to welcome so vast an army of mine.” Then, asking to be shown the way, Bharata asked, “By what road shall I go to the hermitage of Bharadvaja? This tract along the Ganga is very dense with trees and hard to cross.” Hearing this, Guha, a wanderer of the forests, joined his palms and said, “My careful boatmen, who know my country, will surely go with you, and I myself will go with you, mighty prince. But is it possible you go with an evil heart against Rama, the doer of hard deeds? This vast army of yours raises a kind of doubt in my mind.”
Bharata, whose heart was clear as the sky, answered in a sweet voice, “Let the day never come when there is such wickedness in me. Do not doubt me, for that Raghava is my elder brother and is to me as honored as a father. I am going to bring Rama back from the forest; I have no other purpose, Guha, I tell you truly.” Hearing this, Guha’s face bloomed with joy, and he said again, “Blessed are you! On this whole earth I see none like you, who would give up a kingdom that came to him without effort. Your fame will spread through the worlds and last forever, for you wish to bring back Rama fallen into calamity.”
While they spoke, the sun lost its light and set, and night came on. Comforted by Guha, the noble Bharata settled the army in its camp and went with Shatrughna to his bed. But an unmatched grief born of care for Rama seized the blameless, dharma-fixed Bharata. As a tree scorched by the forest fire is burned within by the fire hidden in its own hollow, so Bharata, already scorched by grief for his father’s death, was burned within by the fire of care for Rama. As the Himalaya heated by the sun’s rays melts its snow and lets it flow, so the sweat born of the fire of grief flowed from all Bharata’s limbs. Crushed under a vast mountain of sorrow, Bharata, son of Kaikeyi, like a bull parted from its herd, tormented by the pain in his heart, could find no peace on his bed. Then Guha comforted the deeply wretched Bharata again about his elder brother.
The gist: Bharata thanked Guha for his welcome and asked the road to Bharadvaja’s hermitage. Guha voiced his doubt, and Bharata’s guileless answer dispelled it. As night came, Bharata burned within with care for Rama, and Guha comforted him again and again.
Guha’s account: Lakshmana’s vigil
Guha, the forest-dweller, told the measureless Bharata of the fine spirit of the high-souled Lakshmana, “When Lakshmana, holding his fine bow and arrows, was keeping watch to guard his elder brother and his sister-in-law, I said to him, ‘My friend, here is a soft bed made ready for you; free of care for Rama and Sita, sleep in comfort, joy of the house of Raghu. We servants are used to hardship and you are made for ease. We will keep watch to guard Rama. On this earth no one is dearer to me than Rama. By his grace I hope in this world for great fame, vast dharma, and untainted wealth and pleasure. So I will take up my bow and, with all my kinsmen, guard my dear friend Rama. In this forest nothing is unknown to me; here we could face even a fourfold army.’
“The high-souled Lakshmana, whose only care is dharma, answered us all humbly, ‘When Rama, son of Dasaratha, sleeps on the ground with Sita, how can sleep or life or comfort please me? Guha, look: he whom all the gods and demons together could not stop in battle sleeps on the grass with Sita. This peerless son of Dasaratha, won by great austerity and many sacrifices, lies on the ground. With his exile the king will not live long, and this earth will soon be widowed. At the emperor’s death the women, having wailed aloud, must be worn out and silent by now, and the tumult of the palace must have gone quiet. I do not think that mother Kausalya, the king, and my mother Sumitra will live even through this night. My mother may live on in hope of Shatrughna, but the wretched Kausalya, who gave birth to a hero like Rama, will surely give up her life.
“‘Failing to set Rama on the throne, his long-cherished wish left undone, my father will give up his life crying, “All is lost.” When this term of exile is over, will Sita and I, our vow kept, come home happy to Ayodhya with the safely returned Rama?’ Thus, sitting and lamenting, the high-souled Lakshmana passed the night. At the rising of the clear sun the two brothers made their matted locks, and here on this bank of the Bhagirathi I ferried them across in comfort with Sita. Wearing matted locks and the bark of trees, carrying fine quivers and bows, gazing at the beauty all around, the two scorchers of the foe, like great elephants, went on with Sita.”
The gist: Guha told Bharata that at the start of the exile Lakshmana refused to sleep and spent the whole night guarding Rama and Sita, lamenting for his father and the mothers. At dawn the two brothers made their matted locks, and Guha ferried them and Sita across the Ganga.
Bharata faints at the news of the matted locks
Hearing this most unwelcome news of Rama’s matted locks, Bharata sank into thought of Rama, tormented by the fear that now, wearing the ascetic’s locks, Rama might never return. Tender though he was, yet of great strength, with lion’s shoulders, mighty arms, wide lotus eyes, young and lovely to look upon, Bharata stood still a moment, and then, like an elephant pierced by a goad, suddenly, in deep grief, fell to the ground. Seeing Bharata faint, Guha’s face went pale, and he shook like a tree trembling in an earthquake. Shatrughna, standing near, overcome with grief, embraced the fainting Bharata and wept aloud.
Then all Bharata’s mothers came running, thin from fasting, worn with the loss of their husband. Weeping, they stood in a ring around the fallen Bharata. Kausalya went to him and, wretched at heart, embraced him. As a cow embraces its calf, so that woman of austerity clasped Bharata to her chest and, sunk in grief, weeping, asked, “My son, is some illness troubling your body? The life of this whole royal house rests today on you alone. After Rama went to the forest with his brother and King Dasaratha went to heaven, it is only by looking at you that I live; today you are our one protector. My son, have you heard some unwelcome news of Lakshmana, or of my only son Rama, who has gone to the forest with his wife?”
In a moment Bharata steadied himself and assured Kausalya that he had heard nothing unwelcome of Lakshmana or Rama, then, weeping, said to Guha, “Where did my brothers stay the night? Where did Sita rest, where Lakshmana? On what bed and eating what did they take their rest? Tell me, Guha.” The king of the Nishadas, glad, told him how he had arranged the food and rest of his dear guests, “For Rama’s meal I brought many kinds of rice, grains to chew, and fruit of many kinds. The truly valiant Rama, to please me, accepted it all, yet, remembering the warrior’s law, would not take it, saying, ‘Friend, it is not for us warriors to take gifts but to give them.’ With these words that high-souled man made it clear to us all.
“Drinking only the water Lakshmana brought, Rama with Sita fasted that day. Then Lakshmana too quenched his thirst with the water that was left. Rama, Lakshmana, and Sumantra, all three, kept silence and did their evening worship. After that Lakshmana himself brought kusha grass and quickly made a holy bed for Rama. Rama sat on that bed with Sita, and, having washed the feet of them both, Lakshmana drew a little apart. This is the very foot of the ingudi tree, and this the very kusha grass on which Rama and Sita slept that night. Two quivers full of arrows bound at his back, gloves on his hands, holding his great bow, the scorcher of the foe, Lakshmana, alone, walked round and round Rama all night. And I too, with my fine bow and arrows and my watchful kinsmen, stood there where Lakshmana walked, guarding Rama, the equal of Indra.”
The gist: hearing that Rama had taken on the matted locks, Bharata fainted. Coming to, embraced by an anxious Kausalya, he asked Guha for the story of Rama’s night. Guha told how Rama refused the gift by the warrior’s law, fasted and slept on a bed of kusha grass, while Lakshmana and Guha kept watch all night.
Bharata’s lament before the bed of kusha grass
Having heard it all with care, Bharata went with the ministers to the foot of the ingudi tree and saw Rama’s bed. To all his mothers he said, “Here that high-souled man slept on the ground and passed the night. This is the very kusha grass pressed flat by his body. Rama, born in the great house of King Dasaratha, was not made to sleep on the bare ground, without shade, without a bed. That tiger among men who slept on beds spread with fine carpets and deerskins, how did he sleep on the ground? He who slept in seven-storied palaces high as Meru, floored with gold and silver, decked with fine carpets, whom every day song and music and the sweet sound of drums awoke, that same Rama lies today on the ground.
“This is past belief in the world; it does not seem true to me. My mind is confused; it seems to me a dream. There is no fate greater than Time, by which the son of Dasaratha, Rama, and the lovely daughter of the king of Videha, Sita, slept on the ground. This is my brother’s bed, and here are the marks where he turned from side to side, where all the kusha grass was pressed flat by his limbs on the hard earth. It seems the blessed Sita slept on this bed still wearing her ornaments, for grains of gold cling here and there, and threads of silk are caught in the grass. It seems to me that a husband’s bed, hard or soft, is sweet to a faithful wife, and so the tender princess of Mithila, Sita, feels no pain on this hard bed.
“Alas, I am destroyed, I am a cruel man, that because of me Rama slept with his wife on so hard a bed, like the helpless. Born in a line of emperors, giving joy to all the worlds, doing good to all, dark as a blue lotus, red-eyed, lovely to look upon, how did Rama leave his matchless, beloved kingdom and sleep on the ground? Blessed and greatly fortunate is the fair-marked Lakshmana, who follows his brother in this bitter time. Sita, daughter of Videha, has gained her end, who went to the forest with her husband. But we, parted from that high-souled man, are sunk in doubt. With my father gone to heaven and Rama gone to the forest, this earth seems to me empty as a boat with no helmsman. On this earth, guarded by the might of Rama’s arms though he lives in the forest, no one lays claim even in his mind.
“Ayodhya too, left unguarded, empty, uncared for, uncovered, her defense-wall without a sentry, elephants and horses roaming free and her gates never shut, no enemy wishes to take, like food laced with poison. From today I will sleep on the ground or on grass, eat fruit and roots, wear matted locks on my head and bark on my body. I will pass the rest of the term of exile in the forest as Rama’s stand-in, so that the famous vow of my noble brother is not made false. While I live in the forest for my brother’s sake, Shatrughna will stay with me, and my noble Lakshmana will guard Ayodhya. Let the brahmins consecrate Rama in Ayodhya; may the gods fulfill this true wish of mine. And if, though I bow my head and plead with him in every way, he will not return, then I will stay long in the forest with the wandering Raghava; he will not be able to refuse me.”
The gist: seeing the bed of kusha grass, Bharata lamented, setting it against Rama’s royal splendor, held himself to blame for it all, and praised Lakshmana and Sita. He resolved that if Rama would not return, he would take on the matted locks and bark and live in the forest as Rama’s stand-in.
Crossing the Ganga, and toward Bharadvaja’s hermitage
Having spent the night on that bank of the Ganga, Bharata rose at dawn and said to Shatrughna, “Why are you still sleeping? Rise, Shatrughna, may it be well with you, call the king of the Nishadas, Guha, at once; he will ferry the army across.” Shatrughna answered, “I too am awake, like you, thinking of noble Rama; I do not sleep.” As these two lions among men spoke, Guha came, joined his palms, and said, “Scion of Kakutstha, did you pass the night in comfort on the riverbank? May your army always be in health.”
Bharata, wholly given to Rama, answered, “Wise one, our night was comfortable and you honored us. Now let your boatmen ferry us across the Ganga in many boats.” Guha at once returned to his town and said to his kinsmen, “Rise, wake, may it always be well with you, drag the boats down to the bank, I will ferry the army across.” At the king’s word they rose and gathered from all sides five hundred boats, fine boats named svastikas, decked with banners, manned by boatmen, sturdy and hung with great bells. Guha himself brought a svastika boat spread with white carpets and adorned with festive instruments.
Onto it climbed Bharata, the mighty Shatrughna, Kausalya, Sumitra, and the other royal women. The priest Vasishtha and the aged brahmins were seated before Bharata and the queens, and after them the other royal women, while the bullock carts and stores were loaded onto other boats. The clamor of setting fire to the camp huts, of coming down to the ghat, and of gathering up the vessels rose to the sky. Those bannered boats, driven by the boatmen, seemed to move of themselves at speed with their riders. Some were full of women, some of horses, some of costly chariots and carts. Elephants swimming with banners on their backs looked like winged mountains. Some men crossed on rafts, some on jars great and small, and some by their arms alone.
Ferried across by the boatmen, that holy army moved in the Maitra hour toward the fine forest near Prayaga. Reaching the far bank, setting everyone down, comforting the army, settling it in camp as it wished, the high-souled Bharata went with the priests and ministers to meet the great sage Bharadvaja. Coming near the hermitage of the high-souled Bharadvaja, priest of the gods as it were, Bharata saw that wide and lovely forest, with lovely leaf huts among the clusters of trees.
A note on the hour: the Maitra hour, that is, the muhurta sacred to the sun-god Mitra. There are fifteen muhurtas in a day, and one muhurta is about forty-eight modern minutes. The muhurtas named by Brihaspati run in order: Raudra, Sarpa, Maitra, Paitra, Vasava, Apya, Vaishva, Brahma, Praja, Isha, Aindra, Aindragna, Nairrita, Varunaryaman, and Bhagi.
The gist: at dawn Bharata and Shatrughna find each other awake in thought of Rama. With Guha’s five hundred boats the whole army, the queens, and the stores cross the Ganga, and, camping near Prayaga, Bharata goes with Vasishtha toward the hermitage of the sage Bharadvaja.
The meeting with Bharadvaja
A single kos from Bharadvaja’s hermitage, the best of men, Bharata, halted all his people and went ahead with the ministers. Taking off his weapons and ornaments, wearing only silk, the dharma-knowing Bharata set the priest Vasishtha in front and went on foot. The moment he saw Vasishtha, the great ascetic Bharadvaja rose quickly from his seat and told his pupils to bring the arghya offering for the guests. Embracing Vasishtha and receiving Bharata’s greeting, the mighty sage knew that this was the son of Dasaratha.
Giving the two guests in turn the arghya, water for the feet, and fruit, the dharma-knowing Bharadvaja asked after the welfare of the family, of Ayodhya, of the army, the treasury, the friends and the ministers. Knowing of Dasaratha’s death, he did not ask after the king’s welfare. Vasishtha and Bharata in their turn asked after the sage’s health, his sacred fires, his pupils, his trees, his deer, and his birds. Bharadvaja, bound by love for Rama, said to Bharata, “You who rule the kingdom of Ayodhya, what has brought you here? Tell me all this, for my mind is not free of doubt. That greatly renowned Rama, whom Kausalya bore, who by his father, on a woman’s account, was set to fourteen years of exile and went to the forest with his brother and his wife, is it possible you wish to do some harm to that blameless Rama and his younger brother Lakshmana, to enjoy the kingdom free of any thorn?”
Hearing this, Bharata, shedding tears of grief, answered in a choked voice, “If even the all-knowing lord thinks this of me, then I am destroyed. It cannot even be imagined that harm should come to Rama from me, so do not say to me so harsh a thing. What my mother did in my absence is not to my liking, nor am I glad of it, nor have I accepted her word. I have come to soothe that tiger among men, Rama, and bring him back to Ayodhya, and to bow at his feet. Knowing this, be gracious to me, and tell me where the emperor Rama is now.”
Begged by Vasishtha and the other sages, Bharadvaja said gladly, “Tiger among men, scion of Raghu, to serve the guru, to hold one’s self in check, and to walk the road of the good, this is worthy of you. By my yogic power I already knew your mind, and yet I asked, to make your resolve firm and to raise your fame. I know the dharma-knowing Rama, who with Sita and Lakshmana now dwells on the great mountain Chitrakuta. Go there tomorrow without fail, but today stay here with your ministers. Grant me this wish, wise one.” The great-hearted Bharata, now known for the devotee of Rama that he was, said “So be it” and resolved to stay in the hermitage that night.
The gist: leaving the army behind and setting aside his weapons and ornaments, Bharata reached Bharadvaja’s hermitage with Vasishtha. To test him, Bharadvaja asked whether Bharata meant harm to Rama, and Bharata poured out his true heart in words full of remorse. The sage told him that Rama was at Chitrakuta and bade him stay the night.
Bharadvaja’s unearthly hospitality
The sage invited Bharata, son of Kaikeyi, now resolved to stay the night, to accept his hospitality. Bharata joined his palms and said, “The hospitality possible in the forest, arghya, water for the feet, roots and fruit, you have already given me.” Bharadvaja said, as though smiling, “I know you love me and would be content with any gift. But I wish to feast this whole army of yours. Why have you halted the army so far off, why not brought them all with you?” Bharata answered, “Holy one, it was for fear of you that I did not come with the army. A king or prince should keep his distance from the ground of ascetics, lest the trees, the water, the soil, and the huts be spoiled; and so I came alone.” The sage commanded, “Let the army be brought here.” And Bharata did so.
Going into the fire-hall, sipping water and wiping his lips, Bharadvaja summoned for his hospitality Vishvakarma, the craftsman of the gods. Then he called on Tvashta, and on the three world-guardians led by Indra, that is, Yama, Varuna, and Kubera. He called all the rivers that flow east and west, some to run with maireya and sura, kinds of wine, and some with water cool as the juice of sugarcane. He invited the gandharvas Vishvavasu, Haha, and Huhu and all the apsaras, Ghritachi, Vishvachi, Mishrakeshi, Alambusha, Nagadatta, Hema, and Soma, and all the apsaras in the service of Indra and Brahma, along with their teacher Tumburu. He summoned the divine Chaitraratha grove of the Uttara Kurus, choice food to eat and to suck and to lick from the moon-god Soma, and garlands of many kinds, drinks, and meats. By this summons, uttered according to the rules of pitch and accent, the peerless sage, deep in meditation, seemed to bring heaven itself down to earth.
That divine sound of summoning rang in the ears of heaven, earth, and all creatures. The invited gods came one by one. A pleasant cool breeze blew, touching the Malaya and Dardura mountains. From the sky fell a rain of divine flowers, and the drums of the gods sounded; the apsaras danced and the gandharvas sang. The ground for a circuit of forty miles grew level and green with grass soft as sapphire. Groves of the Chaitraratha kind and a lovely river appeared, laden with bael, wood-apple, jackfruit, citron, myrobalan, and mango. White houses of four rooms rose, and stables for horses and elephants, and palaces steeped in a divine scent, white as clouds. Bharata bowed to the royal throne as though to Rama himself, took up the fly-whisk, and sat in the minister’s seat. All the ministers and priests took their seats in order.
In a little while rivers of milk and rice flowed, and on both banks lime-washed divine houses rose. Twenty thousand women sent by Brahma, twenty thousand jewel-decked women sent by Kubera, and twenty thousand apsaras from the Nandana grove came, whose embrace could make a man as though drunk. Narada, Tumburu, and Gopa, kings of the gandharvas, sang before Bharata. Alambusha, Mishrakeshi, Pundarika, and Vamana began to dance. The bael trees played the drum, the myrobalan the cymbals, and the pipal became a dancer. Deodar, palm, tilaka, and tamala came as hunchbacks and dwarfs to serve. Shinshapa, myrobalan, jamun, malati, mallika, and jasmine creepers took the shape of young women and set to serving.
The women said to the soldiers, “Let the wine-drinkers drink wine, let the hungry eat milk and rice, whoever wants a thing will get that very thing.” Seven or eight young women, rubbing each man with fragrant paste, bathed him on the lovely banks, pressed his feet, and gave him savory drinks in private. The herdsmen fed the horses, elephants, donkeys, camels, and oxen fitting food, and gave them sugarcane and parched grain mixed with honey. The army became as if drunk; the groom could not tell his own horse, nor the mahout his own elephant. Having received all comforts, red sandal on their bodies, ringed by apsaras, the soldiers said, “We will go now neither to Ayodhya nor to the Dandaka; may it be well with Bharata and with Rama.” Footmen, horsemen, mahouts, all, as though set free, began to dance and sing, crying, “This is heaven itself.”
Thousands of golden vessels, hundreds of thousands of golden cauldrons, tens of millions of golden dishes appeared, filled with rice and delicacies. Forest wells turned to milk and rice, cows became cows of plenty, and the trees dripped honey. Great wells filled with maireya, and on the pond-banks the savory meat of deer, peacock, and fowl was set out. There were heaps of curd, buttermilk, milk, and sugar. At the ghats stood bathing oils, hot water, sandal paste, tooth-sticks, mirrors, cloths, sandals and shoes, combs, umbrellas, bows, armor, and beds and seats. There were tanks of drinking water and pools of clear water full of lotuses. No one there saw a man grimy, hungry, or dust-covered. At that dreamlike, wondrous hospitality all were amazed. The night passed for those people rejoicing like the gods in the Nandana grove. At dawn the rivers, gandharvas, and apsaras took leave of Bharadvaja and departed, but the people were still merry with wine, smeared with sandal, and adorned with divine garlands.
A sub-tale: in Valmiki’s tradition the austerity of a sage gives him a power such that by a mere act of will he can call down the splendor of the world of the gods to earth. Here Bharadvaja, as a fire-tending brahmin and son of Brihaspati, is counted priest of the gods as it were. According to a saying of the codes, all men are shudras by birth, twice-born by the brahmin’s calling, vipras by the study of the Vedas, and only by knowing Brahman does a man become a brahmin in truth. This scene of hospitality shows that same height of a sage’s austerity, beyond the reach even of an emperor of the whole earth.
The gist: by the power of his austerity Bharadvaja summoned Vishvakarma, the world-guardians, the rivers, the gandharvas, and the apsaras, and made for Bharata’s whole army a hospitality like heaven itself. With rivers of milk and rice, golden houses, divine food, and the service of apsaras, the soldiers felt they were in heaven, and the night passed in joy.
The mothers presented, and the march toward Chitrakuta
Having passed the night with his family in the hermitage and received its hospitality, Bharata came to Bharadvaja to ask leave to go on toward Chitrakuta. Seeing that tiger among men come with folded hands, Bharadvaja, his fire-offering done, asked, “Blameless one, did your night pass in comfort in this hermitage of ours? Were all your people content with the hospitality?” Bharata bowed and said, “Holy one, with my whole army and its beasts I stayed in comfort, and you satisfied me well. Down to the servants, all, free of weariness and hardship, stayed most happily in fine houses. Now I ask your leave, best of sages. As I go to my elder brother, look on me with a friendly eye. By what road and how far is the hermitage of that righteous, high-souled man? Tell me.”
Bharadvaja answered, “Two and a half yojanas from here, in a forest empty of men save for ascetics, with lovely waterfalls and groves, is the famed mountain called Chitrakuta. To its north flows the Mandakini river, covered with flowering trees. Near that river and the mountain of Chitrakuta is the leaf hut of the two brothers; there, without doubt, they dwell. Commander, take the road south, and, turning to the left, lead your army full of elephants and horses; there you will see Rama.” Hearing of the march to Chitrakuta, the emperor’s queens left their chariots and stood around the brahmin Bharadvaja.
Trembling with age and grief, thin with the loss of her husband and of Rama, Kausalya, with queen Sumitra, clasped the sage’s feet with both hands. Kaikeyi, blamed by the world for not making her son crown prince, touched the sage’s feet too in shame. Walking around the sage, she stood dejected near Bharata. Then the great sage Bharadvaja asked, “Raghava, I wish to know more of your mothers.” The eloquent, righteous Bharata joined his palms and said, “Holy one, the lady you see here, thin and forlorn with grief and fasting, is Kausalya, the chief queen of my father, who gave birth to that tiger among men, Rama of the lion’s gait, as Aditi gave birth to Upendra. Pressed to her left arm, like a branch of the karnikara with its flowers fallen, this grief-stricken lady is Sumitra, the king’s middle queen, whose two godlike sons are the brave, truly valiant Lakshmana and Shatrughna.
“And this, Bharata, angry, short-sighted, proud, thinking herself beautiful, greedy for lordship, noble in seeming but base within, is Kaikeyi, my mother. Know her for a cruel woman set on sin, for through her the tigers among men Rama and Lakshmana got a calamity-ridden exile, the childless King Dasaratha went to heaven, and I see in her the root of my great sorrow.” His voice choked with tears, his eyes red with anger and grief, Bharata hissed like an angry serpent. The great-minded Bharadvaja said, “Bharata, do not hold Kaikeyi to blame, for this exile of Rama will become the cause of good for all. By Rama’s exile will come the good of the gods, the demons, and the sages of realized souls, of all alike.”
Greeting the sage and walking around him, taking leave, his purpose gained, Bharata ordered the army, “Make ready for the march.” Yoking chariots of divine horses decked with gold, people of many kinds mounted. Elephants and she-elephants with gold trappings and banners moved on like the thundering clouds at summer’s end. On carriages costly and cheap the people went, and those on foot went on foot. Led by Kausalya, the queens, longing for the sight of Rama, went gladly in fine chariots. The noble Bharata rode in an auspicious palanquin bright as the midday sun and the full moon. That vast army full of elephants and horses set out like a great cloud filling the southern sky, and, crossing the forests, mountains, and rivers beyond the southern bank of the Ganga, frightening the deer and birds, entered the great forest of Chitrakuta in splendor.
The gist: asked by Bharadvaja, Bharata presented his three mothers, Kausalya, Sumitra, and Kaikeyi, naming Kaikeyi in harsh words as the root of his sorrow. The sage said Rama’s exile would become the cause of good for all. Then Bharata set out with the queens and army toward Chitrakuta, two and a half yojanas away.
The army enters Chitrakuta
Under that vast moving host with its banners, the great rutting bull elephants fled this way and that with their herds. Bears, spotted deer, and ruru deer were seen fleeing everywhere along the forest paths, the hills, and the riverbanks. Ringed by his fourfold army, the righteous Bharata, son of Dasaratha, pressed on gladly in the hope of meeting Rama. The army of the high-souled Bharata, like the waves of the sea, covered the earth as clouds cover the sky in the rains. The ground, hidden under the throngs of horses and mighty elephants, stayed out of sight a long while.
Having crossed a long road, when the mounts grew tired, the noble Bharata said to the chief minister Vasishtha, “From the look of this place, and from what I had heard, it is clear we have reached the very region Bharadvaja described. This is the mountain Chitrakuta, this the Mandakini river, and far off this forest looks like a dark cloud. My mountain-like elephants are treading the lovely peaks of Chitrakuta. The trees shaken by the elephants shower flowers on the peaks as the clouds shower rain at summer’s end. Shatrughna, look, this mountain tract, once haunted by kinnaras, is now filled with horses as the sea is filled with sea-monsters. These herds of deer, driven on, look like a net of clouds scattered by the wind in autumn. Like the people of the south, these soldiers are decked with cloud-dark shields and with fragrant flowers and ornaments on their heads. This forest, until now silent and fearsome, filled with people, seems to me like Ayodhya. The dust raised by the hooves covers the sky, but the wind soon blows it away, showing me, as a kindness, the sight I long for.
“Shatrughna, look, these horse-chariots, driven by fine charioteers, race through the forest, eager for the sight of Rama. Frightened by the army, these lovely peacocks flee toward the birds’ mountain home. This region seems to me most lovely, blameless one; this dwelling of ascetics is plainly the road to heaven. Many spotted deer with their does look as though painted with flowers. Now let the army go ahead in good order and comb the forest, so that those tigers among men, Rama and Lakshmana, may come into sight.”
Hearing Bharata’s word, brave armed men entered the forest and saw, far off, a line of smoke. Coming back to Bharata, they said, “There is no fire in a place empty of men; it is clear that Rama and Lakshmana live here. And if they are not here, then surely some other ascetics like Rama are.” Hearing this word, approved by the good, Bharata, crusher of enemy armies, said to all the soldiers, “Stay here on your guard, do not go further. I will go myself, with only Sumantra and Dhriti.” At the order the soldiers halted on all sides, and Bharata fixed his eyes on the line of smoke. Held back, the army too rejoiced, knowing the meeting with Rama was near.
A note on the distance: Bharadvaja gave the distance to Chitrakuta as two and a half yojanas, that is, ten kos. The old measures of yojana and kos are disputed among the commentators, but the real distance from Prayaga to Chitrakuta comes to about 80 modern miles, roughly 130 kilometers, so the army had to travel several days. Chitrakuta is still today a place of pilgrimage on the border of Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh.
The gist: Bharata’s ocean-like army entered the forest of Chitrakuta, where Bharata knew the place by the signs Bharadvaja had given. Seeing smoke in the distance, the soldiers guessed it was Rama’s hermitage, and Bharata halted the army and resolved to go ahead with only Sumantra and Dhriti.
Rama describes Chitrakuta
Meanwhile, on Chitrakuta, where he had now lived some three months, Rama, son of Dasaratha, a lover of fine mountains, to please Sita and to lighten his own mind, began to show her the wonder of Chitrakuta’s beauty as Indra shows Shachi the Nandana grove. Rama said, “Fair one, looking at this lovely mountain, neither the loss of the kingdom troubles my mind nor the parting from those I love. Look at this mountain, full of flocks of birds of many kinds, whose mineral-rich peaks seem to pierce the sky. Its slopes, dressed with ores, gleam here like silver, here red as blood, here yellow, here like fine gems, here like topaz and crystal.
“Full of herds of deer of many kinds, of harmless leopards and panthers and bears, and of many birds, this mountain is lovely. With mango, jamun, asana, lodhra, priyala, jackfruit, dhava, ankola, bhavya, tinisha, bael, tendu, bamboo, kashmari, neem, varuna, mahua, tilaka, jujube, myrobalan, kadamba, cane, dhanvana, and pomegranate trees full of seed, all laden with flower and fruit and casting shade, this mountain heightens its beauty. Fair one, look at these kinnaras sporting in pairs on the lovely peaks, lost in one another. See their swords hung on the branches of trees, and the fine garments and playgrounds of the vidyadhara women. With its waterfalls and springs this mountain looks like an elephant streaming with rut. What man would the wind from the caves, laden with the scent of flowers, not gladden?
“Faultless one, if with you and Lakshmana I spent many autumns here, no grief would touch me. Beautiful one, on this mountain rich with flower and fruit, filled with birds of many kinds, crowned with strange peaks, I am truly at ease. From this exile I have gained a double good: I am freed of my debt to my father’s truth, and I have done what pleases Bharata. Daughter of Videha, are you glad, seeing with me on Chitrakuta the many sights that please the mind, the speech, and the body? My royal-sage forefathers, Manu and the rest, have always called such a forest life sweet as nectar and a cause of release from rebirth after death.
“Great rocks of many colors, blue, yellow, white, and red, shine in their hundreds around the mountain. At night thousands of glowing herbs blaze with their own light like tongues of fire. Here the mountain looks like houses, here like gardens, and here like one great single rock. This Chitrakuta seems to have burst up and split the earth. See the soft beds of the pleasure-lovers, spread with kusha leaves and lotus petals, and leaves of the sthagara, punnaga, and birch. See the crushed and scattered lotus garlands and the fruits of many kinds tasted and thrown aside. Rich with roots and fruit and water, this Chitrakuta is lovelier than Kubera’s Alaka, Indra’s Amaravati, and the Uttara Kuru. Sita, if with you and Lakshmana I can pass this term of fourteen years happily, walking the road of the good and holding to hard self-restraint, I will find a joy that heightens the dharma of my house.”
The gist: living on Chitrakuta some three months, Rama, to gladden Sita and to keep his own mind from wavering, described the mountain’s beauty at length, its many-colored ores, fruit trees, kinnaras and vidyadharas and glowing herbs, and said that with Sita and Lakshmana this exile felt to him sweet as nectar.
The description of the Mandakini
Then, turning from the mountain, Rama, lord of Kosala, showed the princess of Mithila the lovely Mandakini river with its holy water. The lotus-eyed Rama said to the fair-limbed, moon-faced daughter of the king of Videha, “See the Mandakini river with its lovely sandbanks, haunted by swans and cranes, full of flowers. Ringed with bank-trees of many kinds, adorned with trees of flower and fruit, this river shines on every side like the fragrant lotus pool of Kubera. Though its water is muddy just now from the drinking of herds of deer, still these lovely banks give me joy.
“Beloved, wearing matted locks and deerskin, bark over them, the sages bathe in the Mandakini at the appointed hour. Wide-eyed one, these other sages of steadfast vows, arms lifted, worship the sun. The trees on both banks, their peaks shaken by the wind, shed their flowers and leaves and seem to show the mountain dancing. See the Mandakini, here with water clear as gem, here with sandy banks, here thronged with the perfected ones. Slender one, see the heaps of flowers, shed by the wind, spread on the banks and drifting in the current. Blessed one, these sweet-voiced chakravaka birds climb the banks calling in lovely tones.
“Lovely one, the sight of Chitrakuta and the Mandakini is dearer to me than living in the city, above all with you beside me. Dive with me into this water, ever stirred by the daily bathing of the perfected ones made spotless by austerity and self-restraint. Beautiful one, bathe in the Mandakini like a friend at play with a friend, sinking the red and white lotuses that bloom in it. Beloved, count the forest-dwellers as townsfolk, Chitrakuta as Ayodhya, and this river as the Sarayu. The righteous Lakshmana stands firm in obedience to me, and you too, daughter of Videha, please me by being kind. Bathing three times a day, eating honey, roots, and fruit, living with you, I have no longing for Ayodhya, none for the kingdom. In this lovely river, churned by herds of elephants, its water drunk by elephants, lions, and monkeys, and dressed with flowers, who would not be freed of weariness and made glad by bathing?” Speaking many such meaningful words, Rama, joy of the line of Raghu, wandered with his beloved Sita over the lovely Chitrakuta gleaming like a mass of collyrium.
The gist: to keep Sita glad, Rama described the beauty of the Mandakini, its sandbanks, swans and cranes, the bathing sages, and the flowers drifting along its banks, and said that living on Chitrakuta with Sita was dearer to him than Ayodhya and the kingdom.
The dust-cloud over Chitrakuta, and Lakshmana’s suspicion
Rama was resting with Sita on the lovely peaks of Chitrakuta. Having shown her the Mandakini, the mountain river that runs near Chitrakuta, he sat on a flat rock and, describing the pulp of fruits fit for ascetics, was gladdening Sita’s mind. At that moment the dust raised by Bharata’s army coming near, and the thud of its feet, spread up to the sky.
Frightened by that heavy clamor, the rutting elephants broke from their herds and fled in all directions. Rama heard the sound of the army and saw the great elephants, parted from their herds, running this way and that. He said to Lakshmana, “Son of Sumitra, Sumitra is blessed to have so worthy a son as you. This deep roar sounds like a thunderbolt. It may be herds of forest elephants, or buffaloes, or deer scared by lions, that have suddenly fled in all directions. Son of Sumitra, try to learn whether some king or prince has come to the forest to hunt, or whether some other beast of prey has strayed here. This mountain is very hard even for birds; so learn all this exactly.”
At the order Lakshmana climbed quickly up a flowering sal tree and, looking in every direction, cast his eyes to the north. There he saw a vast army full of elephants, horses, and chariots, with watchful footmen. He told Rama that an army was coming near and said, “Where that great tree full of flower and fruit stands out clearly, there a banner shines on a chariot, its sign the kovidara tree, its staff bright.”
Seeing the kovidara banner, Lakshmana leaped at once to the conclusion that Bharata was coming to kill Rama. Blazing with anger, as though he would burn that army to ash, he said, “Noble brother, put out the fire, and let Sita go into the cave. Surely, having got the consecration and wanting a kingdom with no thorn, Bharata, son of Kaikeyi, is coming to kill us both. Come, let us both take our bows and stand on the mountain peak, or, wearing armor and raising our weapons, stay here. Raghava, I will meet this Bharata face to face, through whom you, Sita, and I have had to bear this great suffering, and through whom you were robbed of the kingdom that was yours by long right.”
Lakshmana went on, “Raghava, I see no fault in killing Bharata. It is no sin to kill one who has done wrong first. Bharata has done wrong first. Today I will loose my checked anger on the enemy army in the form of arrows, as one spits fire on dry brush. Tearing the bodies of the enemy with sharp arrows, I will drench the forest of Chitrakuta with blood today. Having killed Bharata with his army, I will pay the debt of my bow and arrows. Kaikeyi, greedy for the kingdom, will be crazed with grief to see her son killed by my hand; and I will kill her too, with her kin and her people.”
A note on the kovidara banner: the sign of the kovidara tree, the mountain ebony, was the emblem on the banner of the royal house of Ayodhya. Lakshmana knew the army by this sign; but not knowing Bharata’s true purpose, he leaped to suspicion.
The gist: seeing the dust and clamor rise over Chitrakuta, Lakshmana knew the kovidara banner in the army and suspected Bharata of enmity, and in his fury vowed to kill Bharata with his army and Kaikeyi too.
Rama calms Lakshmana; the army makes camp
Rama soothed in every way the Lakshmana who raged at Bharata, mad with anger, and said, “When the mighty Bharata has come himself in his eager wish to see me, what need is there now of bow or of shield and sword? Lakshmana, having sworn on my father’s truth, if I killed Bharata in battle, what would I do with a kingdom so stained? I will no more take a fortune that comes by the ruin of kinsmen or friends than I would eat a dish laced with poison.
“Lakshmana, dharma, wealth, pleasure, and the kingdom of the earth itself I want only for your sakes, my brothers; this I promise you. Gentle one, the kingdom of this sea-girt earth is not hard for me to win, but by unrighteousness I would not want even the seat of Indra. Whatever happiness might come to me without Bharata, without you, and without Shatrughna, let the fire consume it.
“I hold that the brother-loving Bharata, who is dearer to me than life, hearing that I had become a forest-dweller with Sita and you, wearing matted locks and bark, and remembering the dharma of the house, worn with love and grief, has come only to see me, and with no other thought. Lakshmana, when and what wrong did Bharata ever do you, that you should suspect him so? If you say this out of greed for the kingdom, then, on seeing Bharata, I will tell him to give the kingdom to Lakshmana, and Bharata will say ‘very well’ and agree to it.”
Hearing his righteous elder brother speak so, Lakshmana seemed to shrink into his own limbs for shame, and said, “I think our father Dasaratha himself has come to see you.” Seeing the abashed Lakshmana, Rama said, “Yes, I too think it is our mighty-armed father come to see us here. Or, holding us fit for comfort and thinking of the hardships of exile, he has come to take us home. My glorious father Raghava will take even this Sita, ever used to comfort, back from the forest.
“See, these two fine horses, swift as the wind’s speed, are plainly in view. This great old elephant, our wise father’s elephant named Shatrunjaya, sways at the head of the army. But I do not see our father’s world-famous white parasol, and this raises a doubt in my mind. Lakshmana, come down from the top of the tree.” Coming down from the peak of the sal, Lakshmana, conqueror of foes, stood before Rama with folded hands.
Now Bharata had ordered that no harm should come to Rama’s hermitage. And so the army of Bharata of the line of Ikshvaku, full of elephants, horses, and men, halted near the mountain over a span of a yojana and a half, about twelve kos. Setting dharma before him, casting off pride, brought by the wise Bharata only to please Rama, that army shone near Chitrakuta.
A note on the missing white parasol: the king’s divine white parasol was the mark of a living emperor. Rama recognized the army as Dasaratha’s, but not seeing the parasol he grew uncertain. Here the reader already receives the sign that the great king is no longer in this world.
The gist: trusting in Bharata’s love, Rama calmed Lakshmana’s anger; not seeing his father’s white parasol, he felt a doubt within; and, by Bharata’s order, the army made camp near Chitrakuta without disturbing the hermitage.
Bharata sets out on foot to find the hermitage
Having halted the army near Chitrakuta, the mighty Bharata, best of those who go on foot, wished to go on foot to Rama, keeper of his father’s word. The moment the army stopped, Bharata said to his younger brother Shatrughna, “Gentle one, with these bands of men and with Guha’s Nishada followers, search this forest quickly on every side. Let Guha, with his thousand kinsmen, their hands full of bows, arrows, and swords, search the forest for Rama and Lakshmana. And I will go through the whole forest on foot, with the ministers, the townsfolk, the elders, and the brahmins.
“Until I have seen Rama, or the mighty Lakshmana, or the greatly blessed daughter of Videha, I will find no peace. Until I have seen my brother’s auspicious face, full as the moon, with its wide lotus eyes, I will have no peace. Blessed is Lakshmana, son of Sumitra, who looks without ceasing on Rama’s lotus-eyed, radiant face. Until I have seen my brother, worthy of the kingdom, consecrated on the throne of our fathers and wet with the water of the bath, I will have no peace.
“Fortunate is the daughter of Janaka, Sita, who follows her husband, lord of the sea-girt earth. Blessed is this mountain of Chitrakuta, equal to the king of mountains, the Himalaya, on which Rama dwells as Kubera dwells in his Chaitraratha grove.” Saying this, the mighty-armed, radiant Bharata went on foot into the great forest. Among the flowering clusters of trees grown on the mountain peaks, that best of eloquent men, Bharata, pressed on.
Climbing quickly up a sal tree on Chitrakuta, Bharata saw the tall pillar of smoke rising from the fire of Rama’s hermitage. Seeing it and knowing “Rama is here,” the noble Bharata, with his kinsman Shatrughna, was as glad as one who has found the far shore of a great water. Seeing that hermitage of Rama, haunted by holy men, he sent the searching army back to the camps and went ahead quickly with Guha to meet Rama.
The gist: Bharata set the army to search for the hermitage and sent Guha and Shatrughna in one direction, and, longing to see Rama, praising the good fortune of Sita and Lakshmana, went ahead on foot; seeing the pillar of smoke, he knew the hermitage and went on with Guha.
The leaf hut, and the meeting of the brothers
When the army had halted, Bharata, eager for the sight of his elder brother, went ahead, pointing out to Shatrughna the signs of the hermitage along the way. He begged the sage Vasishtha, “Bring my mothers quickly,” and went on fast himself. Longing for the sight of Rama, Sumantra too followed behind Shatrughna; his heart, like Bharata’s, was full of the longing for Rama.
As he walked, the shining Bharata saw his elder brother’s leaf hut, built in the manner of ascetics’ dwellings, and beside it a second hut ringed with a wall of wood, made for Sita. Before the hut he saw split logs of wood and flowers gathered for worship; on the trees here and there he saw path-marks made of kusha grass and bark, set up by Lakshmana and Rama for the way to bathe or fetch water. In the forest he saw great heaps of the dried dung of deer and buffalo, gathered against the cold.
Glad at heart, Bharata said to Shatrughna and the ministers, “I hold that we have reached the very place the sage Bharadvaja described. The Mandakini river does not seem far from here. High on the trees these strips of bark hang; this must be the path Lakshmana marked for going, at odd hours, to bathe or to fetch water. Here I will see my noble brother, tiger among men, honorer of elders, seated glad as a great sage.”
Reaching Chitrakuta on the bank of the Mandakini, Bharata said to his companions, “In this lonely place, seated on the ground in the hero’s posture, the high-souled Rama, lord of the world, having given up all comforts, has fallen into this calamity for my sake and lives in the forest. The world reviles me; today I will fall at the feet of Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana and please them. Cursed be my birth and my life!” Lamenting so, Bharata saw in the forest a vast, holy, lovely leaf hut, thatched with the leaves of sal, palm, and ashvakarna, spread with kusha grass like the altar of a sacrifice, visible from far off.
That hut was adorned with great bows with backs of gold, gleaming like rainbows; it shone with fearsome arrows kept in quivers, bright as the sun’s rays, as the world of the serpents shines with serpents of blazing hoods. There were two swords in scabbards of gold and two shields inlaid with golden flowers. On the walls hung gauntlets of iguana skin dressed with gold; that hut was as unconquerable to bands of enemies as a lion’s cave is to deer. In that holy dwelling Bharata saw a vast, sacred altar, its slope toward the southeast, holding the blazing fire of the fire-offering.
Gazing a moment, Bharata saw Rama seated in the hut, wearing a circle of matted locks, dressed in black deerskin and bark, radiant as fire. With lion’s arms and lotus eyes, Rama, guardian of the sea-girt earth, sat with Sita and Lakshmana on the level ground spread with kusha grass, like the eternal Brahma. Seeing him, the righteous Bharata, son of Kaikeyi, sunk in grief and confusion, ran toward him.
Stricken at the mere sight, Bharata began to lament in a voice choked with tears, “He who was fit to sit in the royal assembly served by ministers, my very elder brother, sits with the beasts of the forest! He who wore robes worth thousands wears deerskin today, keeping his father’s dharma. He who always wore lovely flowers of many kinds, how does that Raghava bear this weight of matted locks today! The body on which costly sandal was laid, this same body of my noble brother is covered with dirt today! Cursed be my world-reviled life, cruel man that I am!”
Lamenting so wretchedly, his face streaming with sweat, Bharata fell weeping to the ground before he could reach Rama’s feet. Scorched with grief, the mighty prince said only once, in a forlorn voice, “Noble brother!” and could say no more; his throat closed with tears. Shatrughna too, weeping, bowed at Rama’s feet. Taking both into his embrace, Rama also shed tears.
Then those princes, met in the forest, embraced Sumantra and Guha too, as the sun and moon in the sky meet Venus and Jupiter. Seeing those princes, fit to ride on great elephants, gathered there, all the forest-dwellers forgot their joy and shed tears.
The gist: Bharata saw Rama in the leaf hut, in matted locks and bark, with Sita and Lakshmana; holding himself the cause of the calamity, he lamented and fell at Rama’s feet; Rama embraced both brothers, Sumantra, and Guha, and all were drowned in tears.
Rama’s lesson in statecraft, and his questions of welfare
Rama looked at Bharata, who had fallen to the ground with folded hands, wearing matted locks and bark, as one looks at the sun at the world’s end, hard to gaze upon. Somehow knowing him, Rama lifted his brother Bharata, pale-faced and thin, with his hands, smelled his head, set him in his lap, and asked with love, “My child, where is your father, that you have come to the forest? While he lived, it was not right for you to come to the forest. After a long while I see Bharata; child, why have you come to the forest?
“Is the king our father alive, that you have come here? Has that grieving emperor not gone suddenly to the other world? Gentle one, has your kingdom, come down from of old, not been snatched from your hands, young as you are? Do you serve your truly valiant father? Is the great king Dasaratha, performer of the Rajasuya and Ashvamedha sacrifices, true to his vows, firm in dharma, well? Do you honor duly the teacher of the Ikshvakus, the Brahman-devoted, greatly radiant, learned Vasishtha? Are Kausalya, and Sumitra of good children, and the noble lady Kaikeyi happy?”
Rama asked in this order many matters of the law of kings: is your priest, humble, deeply learned, free of envy, honored? Does the priest who knows the fire-rite tell you the time of the offering? Do you honor the gods, the ancestors, the servants, the elders, the aged, the physicians, and the brahmins? Do you honor Sudhanva, skilled in the science of arrows and in statecraft? Have you made ministers only of men brave as yourself, learned, masters of their senses, well-born, and able to read a sign?
“Raghava, counsel is the root of a king’s victory. Is your counsel, well guarded by ministers versed in the scriptures and steadfast, kept from spreading through the realm? Do you take counsel neither alone nor with too many? Does a decided plan not reach the people before the work is done? Do you begin at once a profitable work with an easy start, and not put it off? Do you value one wise man above a thousand fools, for in a crisis of wealth it is the wise man alone who can do great good?”
Rama asked also about the general, the envoy, the spy, the fort, the treasury, and the care of the people, “Are the brave, strong, war-skilled heroes honored as they should be? Does the army get its food and pay at the right time, without delay? The people are not overwrought by harsh punishment? Have you made your envoy only a man of the land, learned, able, gifted, a speaker of truth? Do you keep watch on the eighteen high officers of the enemy’s side and the fifteen of your own by three secret spies each, unknown to one another?”
“Raghava, do you guard on every side the rich Ayodhya, founded by brave forefathers, true to her name, with strong gates, full of elephants, horses, and chariots, peopled by thousands of brahmins, warriors, and merchants? Are the merchants who live by farming and cattle dear to you? Is your income large and your spending small? Does the treasury not go to the unworthy? Is the innocent, pure man not punished out of greed, and the guilty thief not set free for the love of money? The tears of men wrongly accused destroy even the sons and cattle of a king.
“Best of the victorious, do you serve the three, wealth, dharma, and pleasure, dividing your time among them? Do the brahmins who know all the scriptures, with the townsfolk and the country folk, wish you well? Do you keep clear of the fourteen faults of a king: godlessness, falsehood, anger, carelessness, procrastination, turning away from the wise, sloth, slavery to the five senses, taking counsel alone, consulting with fools, failing to begin a decided work, failing to guard one’s counsel, failing to use auspicious rites, and rising up to act without thought?”
Rama asked after the fruit of the Vedas, of works, of children, and of learning in the scriptures, urged Bharata to follow the road of his forefathers, and said, “You do not eat savory food alone, but give to your begging friends? The learned warrior who rules the whole earth, protecting the people by dharma, truly a king, when he leaves this perishable body goes to heaven.”
A sub-tale (the meaning of putra): in a later canto Rama tells the story of the royal sage Gaya. He who saves his father from the hell called Put is called a putra, a son, for he delivers his ancestor. And so men wish for many worthy sons, that even one of them may go to Gaya, perform the ancestral rites, and lift the father out of hell.
The gist: setting Bharata in his lap, Rama, under cover of asking after his father and after everyone’s welfare, gave a long lesson in statecraft, on counsel, the army, the treasury, the forts, the care of the people, the faults of a king, and the balance of dharma, wealth, and pleasure.
Bharata returns the kingdom; Rama holds the father’s command above all
Knowing from Bharata’s ascetic’s dress that he was full of love for him, Rama, with Lakshmana, asked, “Noble brother, having done a most difficult thing, why have you come to this place in matted locks, bark, and deerskin? Tell me the reason for leaving the kingdom and coming to the forest.” Then Bharata, son of Kaikeyi, bound in the embrace of the high-souled Kakutstha, joined his palms and said,
“Scorcher of the foe, at the word of his beloved wife and my mother Kaikeyi, our father, having done that most difficult thing, the casting off of his eldest son, left us all and, stricken with grief for his son, went to heaven. Noble brother, that mother of mine did this great sin that robs her of her fame. Not gaining the fruit of the kingdom, my widowed mother, wasted with grief, will fall into a most dreadful hell.
“Noble brother, be gracious to this disgraced servant of yours, and this very day be consecrated on the throne of Ayodhya like Indra. All these people, and my widowed mothers, have come to please you. By your right as the eldest you alone are lord of the kingdom; take up the kingdom in dharma and fulfill the wish of those who love you. May this sea-clad earth, gaining you for her husband, cease to be a widow, as the autumn night ceases to be widowed when it gains the clear moon. With these ministers I bow my head and beg you; be gracious to me, your brother, your pupil, your servant. Do not spurn the prayer of this ancient ministry of your fathers, honored by you.” So saying, the tearful Bharata again touched Rama’s feet with his head.
Taking into his embrace Bharata, who sighed again and again like a rutting elephant, Rama said, “How can a man such as I, well-born, of good nature, radiant, keeping his vows, do a sin for the sake of a kingdom? Slayer of foes, I see in you not the least fault, and you too must not, in your ignorance, blame your mother. Wise one, over a fit wife and sons the elders have their free right, as the scriptures allow. Gentle one, as a householder’s wives, children, and pupils are held to be under him, so are we all under the great king.
“Whether the great king Dasaratha kept me in the forest in bark and deerskin or set me on the throne, he had full power to do either. And the mother honored by the world is as worthy of honor as the father. Both my mother and father said ‘Go to the forest,’ so what else should I do? Raghava, enjoy the kingdom of Ayodhya, honored by the world, and let me pass fourteen years in bark in the Dandaka forest. The command my high-souled father, worshipped in the worlds, equal to Indra, gave me is my highest good, above the lordship of the imperishable world of Brahma.”
A note on the father’s two commands: Rama holds his father’s word to be one single command in two parts, the first, the exile of the eldest, which binds him; the second, the kingdom to Bharata, which binds Bharata. Only if each brother keeps his own part is the father’s truth made whole.
The gist: Bharata returned the kingdom and begged Rama to be consecrated, cursing Kaikeyi; Rama forbade the blame of Kaikeyi, held parents above all, and, dividing the father’s command into two parts, declared both his own exile and Bharata’s kingship to be binding.
Bharata delivers the news of the father’s death
Hearing Rama’s words, Bharata said, “What has the law of kings to do with me, who am shut out from dharma? Best of men, in all of us this eternal dharma stands firm, that while the eldest son lives the younger does not become king. Therefore, Raghava, come back with me to rich Ayodhya, and, for the rise of this house, have yourself consecrated. A king whom men call a man, but whose conduct, joined with dharma and wealth, is called more than human, seems to me equal to the gods.”
“When I was in the land of Kekaya and you in the forest, that wise, sacrifice-loving king, honored by the good, went to heaven. The moment you left Ayodhya with Sita and Lakshmana, the king, overcome with grief, went to the third heaven. Tiger among men, rise, offer the water to your father. This Shatrughna and I have already given him the water. The water given by a beloved son is undying in the world of the ancestors, the wise say; and you were most dear to your father. Parted from you, remembering you, longing to see you, sunk in grief for you, the king gave up his life.”
The gist: Bharata repeated the law of the house, that while the eldest lives the younger is not king, and begged again for the kingdom, and delivered the news that King Dasaratha had died in grief for Rama, asking Rama to offer him the water.
Rama’s swoon, and the offering to the father
The moment he heard the piteous news of his father’s death, Rama fainted and fell where he stood. Hearing Bharata’s words, terrible as thunderbolts, the scorcher of the foe, Rama, threw up his arms and fell to the ground like a flowering tree cut down by an axe in the forest. On Rama fallen to the ground, stricken with grief like an elephant worn out from goring a bank and sunk in exhausted sleep, the three brothers with Sita, weeping, sprinkled water.
In a little while, coming to himself, Rama, shedding tears from his eyes, lamented piteously. He said to Bharata words in keeping with dharma, “My child, if my father has gone the way appointed, what shall I do now in Ayodhya? Who will care for that Ayodhya, robbed of the best of kings, Dasaratha? For that high-souled father who died of grief for me, whose last rites I could not even perform, what can I do now, unlucky as I am? Blameless Bharata, you are blessed, who with Shatrughna performed all the funeral rites of the king.”
“Even when the exile is over, my mind will not turn to going back to an Ayodhya without a king, scattered. Scorcher of the foe, with my father gone to the other world, when I return after the exile, who will teach me? Seeing my good conduct, my father would say things sweet to the ear; from whom will I hear them now?” Saying this, Rama turned to his full-moon-faced wife and to Lakshmana, and, scorched with grief, said, “Sita, your father-in-law is no more. Lakshmana, you are fatherless. Bharata brings the news of the king’s passing to heaven.” Hearing this, the eyes of all the princes brimmed with tears. Hearing of her father-in-law’s death, Sita, her eyes full of tears, could not even look at her dear husband.
Comforting the weeping daughter of Janaka, the grieving Rama said to the grieving Lakshmana there, “Bring the crushed pulp of the ingudi and a cloth to wear. I will go to the riverbank to offer the water to our high-souled father. Let Sita go first, you behind her, and I last of all; on an occasion of grief this is the harshest of customs.” Then the wise, gentle, self-controlled Sumantra, sole devotee of Rama, servant of his father, comforted Rama with the princes and, lending his hand, brought them down to the blessed Mandakini.
Reaching a clear, quick-flowing, blessed bathing-place free of mud, all sprinkled water for the king, saying, “Father, may this water reach you.” Taking a cupped handful of water, facing the southern quarter ruled by Yama, Rama said, weeping, “Tiger among kings, may this pure water I give reach you, gone to the world of the ancestors, undying.” Then, returning to the bank of the Mandakini, with his brothers Rama made the offering of rice-balls to his father. Setting on a bed of kusha grass the pulp of the ingudi mixed with jujubes, deeply stricken, Rama said, weeping, “Great king, be pleased to accept what we ourselves eat; for the food a man eats is the food of his gods.”
Climbing back up the same path from the riverbank, Rama, tiger among men, came to the lovely-peaked mountain of Chitrakuta, and, reaching the door of the leaf hut, took Bharata and Lakshmana in both his hands and wept aloud. The echo of the lion-like weeping of those brothers with Sita rang through the mountain.
Hearing that great sound, Bharata’s soldiers were afraid and said, “Surely Bharata has met Rama; this is the great sound of the four brothers grieving for their dead father.” Leaving their carriages, all the soldiers ran in that direction. Some on horses, some on elephants, some on fine chariots, and the delicate on foot, they set out. The ground of Chitrakuta, trampled by chariot wheels and hooves, gave off a tumult like the sky when the clouds meet. Frightened by that sound, the forest elephants went off with their mates to another forest, scenting the quarters with their fragrance; boars, wolves, lions, buffaloes, tigers, gavayas, and spotted deer took fright; chakravakas, swans, water birds, cuckoos, and cranes, losing their wits, flew off in all directions.
Suddenly the people saw the glorious, blameless tiger among men, Rama, seated on the altar. Cursing Kaikeyi and Manthara, the people came to Rama with tearful faces. Seeing those deeply wretched people, their eyes full of tears, the dharma-knowing Rama embraced them as a father and mother would; some he clasped to his chest, some greeted him and passed on. With love he honored his friends and kinsmen, each as befitted. The sound of the weeping of those high-souled ones rang on and on, like the sound of a drum, through earth, sky, the mountain caves, and the four quarters.
The gist: hearing of his father’s death, Rama fainted, then, lamenting, told the news to Sita and Lakshmana, offered the water on the Mandakini and the ingudi rice-balls to his father; hearing the brothers’ weeping, the army ran to him, and Rama honored them all as befitted.
The mothers arrive, and Sita meets Kausalya
Setting the widows of Dasaratha before him, Vasishtha, thirsting for the sight of Rama, went toward that place. Going slowly toward the Mandakini, the queens saw the bathing-place used by Rama and Lakshmana. Her face wet with tears and dry with grief, Kausalya said to the forlorn Sumitra and the other queens, “For those helpless princes, robbed of their kingdom, who now live so hard a life, this is the first bathing-place chosen in the forest.”
“Sumitra, along this path your son Lakshmana, never lazy, fetches water himself for my son. Though your son does a lowly service, it is not to be blamed; whatever cannot be used for an elder brother, who is as a father, is condemned by good men. Now, since the elder brother is soon to return to Ayodhya, let your son too give up this hard, lowly work.” Just then the wide-eyed Kausalya saw, on the kusha grass with its tips to the south, the ingudi pulp Rama had set out for his father.
Seeing it, the lady Kausalya said to all the queens, “See this water-offering, given in due form to his father by the high-souled Raghava, lord of the Ikshvakus. For the godlike emperor who enjoyed every comfort, I do not think this food of ingudi pulp is fitting. How can the emperor, equal to Indra, who enjoyed the whole earth to its four seas, accept the pulp of the ingudi? In this world I see no grief greater than this, that the prosperous Rama should offer his father ingudi pulp. Seeing this ingudi pulp given by Rama, why does my heart not break into a thousand pieces with grief? Yet this saying of the world seems surely true, that the food on which a man lives is the food of his gods.”
Comforting the stricken Kausalya, the queens who came with her went on and saw Rama seated in the hermitage like an immortal fallen from heaven. Seeing Rama robbed of all comforts, the mothers, worn with grief, wept aloud. Rama rose and clasped the lotus feet of all his mothers. The true-vowed Rama, and Lakshmana, son of Sumitra, right after him, bowed to them. With their lovely hands, whose fingertips were most soft, those wide-eyed ladies wiped the dust from Rama’s back. As with Rama, so with the fair-marked Lakshmana all the queens dealt.
Sita too, in grief, clasped the feet of all her mothers-in-law and stood before them with tears in her eyes. Kausalya embraced her like a daughter and said to the forlorn Sita, worn thin by exile, “Daughter of the king of Videha, daughter-in-law of Dasaratha, wife of Rama, how do you bear this sorrow in this lonely forest? Daughter of Videha, seeing your face, like a lotus scorched by the sun, like a crushed lily, like gold dulled with dust, like the moon veiled by cloud, grief born of the fire-stick of calamity burns me as fire burns its own hearth.”
As the stricken mother spoke, Rama, elder brother of Bharata, clasped the feet of Vasishtha. Clasping the feet of the priest bright as fire, as Indra clasps the feet of Brihaspati, Rama sat down beside him. Then the righteous Bharata, best of those who know dharma, sat down behind his elder brother with his ministers, the chief citizens, and the soldiers. Seeing Raghava in ascetic’s dress yet radiant with glory, Bharata beside him folded his palms as Mahendra folds his before Brahma, lord of creatures.
Among the noble ones seated there rose a great eagerness to know what good thing Bharata would say, having bowed to Rama and honored him. Ringed by their loved ones, the true and steadfast Raghava, the noble Lakshmana, and the righteous Bharata shone like the three sacred fires, Garhapatya, Ahavaniya, and Dakshinagni, with their attendants on the ground of sacrifice.
The gist: Vasishtha brought the mothers to the hermitage; on the way Kausalya lamented seeing Rama’s ingudi offering; at the hermitage Rama and Lakshmana bowed to the mothers, Sita fell at her mothers-in-law’s feet, and Rama sat down after clasping Vasishtha’s feet.
Bharata’s renewed plea, and Rama’s teaching on the impermanence of the world
The night passed in grief for those lions among men ringed by their loved ones. At dawn, having made their offerings and prayers on the Mandakini, the brothers came with their loved ones to Rama. All sat in silence; no one spoke. Then Bharata, among the loved ones, said to Rama, “You comforted my mother and gave me this kingdom; I give it back to you. Enjoy this kingdom with no thorn in it.
“As a dam broken by the great rush of water in the rains is not easily rebuilt, so this vast kingdom will not easily be held by any but you. As a donkey has not the pace of a horse, nor a common bird the flight of Garuda, so, lord of the earth, I have not the power to follow your gait. Rama, happy is the life of one on whom others depend; hard is the life of one who depends on others.
“As a tree planted and watered by a man grows so tall that it is hard for a dwarf to climb, and, though it flowers, if it gives no fruit the planter does not get the joy for which he planted it, just such is this, mighty-armed one, when you, our lord and bull, will not, at this hour, give us servants your rule. Great king, let the guilds and chiefs of merchants see you shining on the throne like the sun; at your entry into Ayodhya let the rutting elephants trumpet and the women of the inner apartments rejoice.” The citizens cried “Well said, well said” and praised Bharata’s word.
Seeing the glorious Bharata lamenting in grief, the self-possessed Rama comforted him, “A man is not his own master, not free; fate drags him this way and that. All that is gathered ends in loss, all that rises ends in a fall, all meeting ends in parting, and all life ends in death. As a ripe fruit has no fear but of falling, so a man once born has no fear but of death. As a house with firm pillars grows old and falls, so men fall under the power of old age and death.
“The night that passes does not return; the Yamuna, full of water, does empty into the sea. As the rays of summer drink up the water, so the passing days and nights swiftly wear away the life of all creatures. Grieve for yourself; why grieve for another? Whether one stays at home or has gone abroad, the life of each shrinks with every moment. Death walks with us, sits with us, and, though we go a great way off, returns with us. Wrinkles come on the body and the hair turns white; by what means shall a man worn by old age hold them off?
“Men rejoice at sunrise and at sunset, and do not see the wearing away of their own life. They rejoice to see the new turn of a season, and do not see that with the turning of seasons their life is spent. As on the great ocean two logs meet and after a while are parted, so wife, son, kinsmen, and wealth meet and are parted; their parting is certain. No creature can turn aside the course of its own birth and death; and so one who grieves for the dead has no power to turn it aside.
“As a man standing on the road might say to a passing band of travelers, ‘I too will come along behind you,’ so, when our forefathers have gone by that unturning road, how should one who has reached it grieve for his own ancestors? Seeing life run on like flowing water, never returning, one should set the soul upon its own good. Our father was a righteous man; performing most holy sacrifices, giving abundant gifts, washing away all sin, he went to heaven. By the keeping of his servants, the protection of his people, and the gathering of taxes in dharma, our father went to heaven. Having enjoyed a full life and its comforts, Raghava our father, gone to the heaven honored by the good, is not to be grieved for. Casting off the worn human body, our father has gained a divine, glorious state, wandering in the world of Brahma.
“No one wise and learned like you or me should grieve for such an emperor. The steady and wise should give up, in all conditions, these many griefs and laments and weepings. So make yourself whole, do not grieve, go back and dwell in Ayodhya; this is the command our self-controlled father gave you. Best of men, follow your own nature toward your own good, and remember the good conduct of our father Dasaratha.” Having given this weighty teaching, the noble lord Rama fell silent in a moment.
The gist: Bharata begged again for the kingdom with the figures of the tree and the dam; Rama, teaching the power of fate, the parting of all that meets, and the certainty of birth and death, comforted him and bade him return to Ayodhya.
Bharata’s vow, and the mothers’ entreaty
When Rama fell silent after his weighty words, the righteous Bharata, on the bank of the Mandakini, said to the people-loving Rama a wonderful word full of dharma, “Slayer of foes, who in this world is like you? Sorrow does not trouble you, nor joy gladden you. Honored by the elders, you still ask them your doubts. One whose mind is such that, though living, he is as one dead, and who holds the real and the unreal alike, why should he ever grieve? Lord of men, one like you, who knows the higher and the lower, is not cast down even by calamity.”
“A man godlike, full of goodness, high-souled, true to his vows, all-knowing, all-seeing, and wise as you, should not be touched by unbearable grief. In my absence my base mother did that sin for my sake; it was hateful to me, and I beg you be gracious to me. I am bound by the bond of dharma, and so I do not put my sinful, punishment-deserving mother to the sharp death she deserves. Being the son of Dasaratha of good birth and good deeds, knowing right from wrong, how should I do a deed as vile as the killing of a mother?
“My father was a doer of works, aged, a king, a god; he has gone to the other world; I do not revile him in the assembly. At the hour of death creatures fall into delusion, and the king, by doing this, has shown that old saying true. But you, with good intent, set right his overstepping, done in anger, confusion, and rashness. The son who sets right his father’s overstepping is held in the world to be a true son. So be a true son, and do not approve your father’s ill deed. For the saving of Kaikeyi, of me, of our father, of our friends, of our kinsmen, and of all the townsfolk and country folk, accept this prayer of mine.
“What has the forest to do with the warrior’s dharma, matted locks with the care of the people? The first dharma of a warrior is consecration, from which the care of the people can flow. What warrior would leave a duty of plain fruit for a doubtful, uncertain dharma? Here let all these people, with the mantra-knowing Vasishtha and the other priests, consecrate you. Consecrated by us, like Indra consecrated by the Maruts, conquer the worlds and go to care for Ayodhya. Paying the three debts to the gods, the sages, and the ancestors, destroying your enemies and gladdening your friends, give me your rule from there. Today let your friends rejoice and your enemies flee in fear. Wipe away the disgrace of me and of my mother, and save our father from sin.
“I beg you with bowed head; be gracious to me and to all our kinsmen, as Maheshvara is to all creatures. Or, if you turn a deaf ear to my prayer and stay on in the forest, then I too will go with you to the forest.” Even though Bharata pleaded with bowed head, Rama’s mind, firm in his father’s word, did not turn to going back to Ayodhya. Seeing Rama’s wonderful steadiness, the people of Ayodhya were filled with both joy and grief, grieved that Rama would not come, gladdened by the firmness of his vow. The priests, the citizens, the chiefs of the herds, and the mothers, their wits gone, shedding tears, all praised Bharata, bowed to Rama, and joined Bharata in the prayer.
The gist: praising Rama’s evenness and steadiness, and giving the reasons of the true son’s dharma and the warrior’s dharma, Bharata begged for the consecration, and said that if Rama would not agree he would go with him to the forest; but Rama stood firm, and the mothers and citizens joined Bharata in the prayer.
The boons given to Kaikeyi, and the father’s truth
To Bharata, still speaking so, the noble Rama, honored among his kinsmen, answered, “Bharata, what you say is right. But hear this. Long ago, when he married your mother, our father gave your grandfather a pledge, as the bride-price, that the kingdom would go to your line. Later, in the war of the gods and demons, your mother helped our father, and, pleased, the king granted her a boon. Then your glorious mother, having bound him by his word, asked two boons, one the kingdom for you, the other exile for me; and the king granted them.
“For this reason, best of men, my father commanded me to live fourteen years in the forest. With no rival to it, standing firm in my father’s truth, I have come with Lakshmana and Sita to this lonely forest. Lord of kings, you too, to make our father’s word true, be consecrated at once. Free the king of this debt for my sake, save our father, and gladden our mother.”
Rama told the story of the royal sage Gaya, that he who saves his father from the hell called Put is called a putra, a son; and so many worthy sons are wished for, that even one may go to Gaya and perform the rite. “So, best of men, save our father from hell. Hero, with Shatrughna and all the brahmins, go back to Ayodhya and care for the people. I too, with Sita and Lakshmana, will enter the Dandaka forest without delay. Bharata, be the king of men; I will be the king of the forest beasts. Go you to Ayodhya, I to the Dandaka. Let the royal parasol give you cool shade, and I will take the shelter of the dense shade of these forest trees. Let the peerlessly wise Shatrughna be your helper and Lakshmana my chief friend. Let us four excellent sons keep our father in truth; do not be cast down.”
A note on the bride-price and the war-boon: Rama tells Bharata that Kaikeyi’s demand was not mere self-interest; the pledge given to Kaikeyi’s father at the marriage, and the boon won in the war of the gods and demons, were both debts upon their father. To pay them is to save the father’s truth.
The gist: Rama told the history of the bride-price and the war-boon to prove that keeping their father in truth was the dharma of both brothers, and bade Bharata become king of Ayodhya and free the father of his debt.
Jabali’s atheist argument, and Rama’s refutation
As Rama comforted Bharata, the eminent brahmin Jabali spoke words against the Vedic religion, “Raghava, this vain thinking, fit for an ordinary man, does not become you, an ascetic of noble mind. Who is the kinsman of whom, and what is gained by anyone from anyone? A creature is born alone and perishes alone. One who clings to another, saying ‘this is my mother, this my father,’ should be reckoned a madman; no one is anyone’s kin. As a traveler on his way to another village stays a night in some lodging and moves on the next day, so a man’s mother and father, his house and wealth, are only a lodging; the wise do not cling to them.
“Do not, best of men, forsake the kingdom of your father and tread a painful, rough, thorny wrong road. Consecrate yourself in prosperous Ayodhya; the city, wearing a single braid like a widow in mourning, awaits your return. Prince, enjoy the royal delights of great worth in Ayodhya as Indra enjoys them in heaven. Dasaratha was nothing to you and you nothing to him; the king was one and you are another, so do what is urged. A father is only the efficient cause of a creature; the seed and the blood, joined in the mother at the fertile time, are what make a man’s birth. The king has gone where he was bound to go, back into the five elements; and you are being harassed for no purpose.
Jabali went on, “I grieve only for those who cling to wealth and religious merit, not for others; for having suffered in this life for the sake of wealth and merit, they met with destruction even after death. ‘The Ashtaka and other ancestral rites gratify the manes,’ people act in this belief; but see the waste of food, for what will a dead man eat? If food eaten by one man here reached the body of another in the other world, then let ancestral rites be offered for those who travel from home, and they would need no food for the journey. These books were written by clever men to urge men to give, saying, ‘Sacrifice, give, be consecrated, do austerity, renounce.’ Wise one, come to this conclusion, that there is nothing beyond this visible world. Rely on what meets the eye; discard what is beyond the reach of your senses.”
Hearing Jabali’s words, the truly valiant Rama answered, with firm mind and out of the fine sayings of the Veda, against his doctrine, “What you said for my good, though it seems fit, is not fit to be done, and, though it seems wholesome, is unwholesome. A man without restraint, sinful in conduct, of divided character, wins no honor among the good. Conduct alone shows whether a man is well-born or base, brave or a mere boaster of bravery, pure or impure.
“One who walks the road you show would be, under a noble seeming, ignoble; under a seeming of purity, impure; under a fair mark, ill-marked; under a seeming of good conduct, ill-conducted. If I took up unrighteousness in the dress of dharma, throwing the world into confusion, I would give up holy works and do forbidden ones. What wise man would honor me, knowing me for a man of ill conduct and a corrupter of the world? If I gave up my vow of exile and walked in so lawless a way, then whose conduct should I follow to reach heaven? As the king acts, so do the people become.
“Truth free of cruelty is the eternal dharma of kings; therefore the kingdom is made of truth, and the world rests on truth. The sages and the gods honored truth alone; the speaker of truth reaches the imperishable, highest state. Men shrink from a liar as from a snake. Truth is the root of dharma, truth is God in the world, and there is no state higher than truth. Gifts, sacrifices, offerings, austerity, and the Vedas all rest on truth; and so one should be devoted to truth.
“Knowing all this, why should I not keep my father’s true command? Not from greed, nor from confusion, nor from ignorance will I break the bridge of my father’s truth. The gods and the ancestors take no offerings from one who breaks the bond of his father’s promise. Having given up the vow of forest life my father laid on me, how could I do as Bharata says? Before my father and the lady Kaikeyi I made a firm vow, at hearing which Kaikeyi was glad. Jabali, my father made you his minister and priest, and I blame this deed of his; it was not right that he should keep the company of one like you, a godless man strayed from the road of dharma.
“As a thief deserves punishment, so does a godless man; the wise should not stand even face to face with a godless man. Men and brahmins before you did many holy works according to the Veda; and so the brahmins practice non-violence, truth, austerity, giving, and offering. Only the sages devoted to dharma, like the good, radiant, generous, non-violent, and pure, are honored in the world.”
To Rama, who spoke so in anger, with a spirit undaunted, Jabali again spoke words true, wholesome, and in keeping with belief, “I do not speak the words of the godless; I am no atheist, nor is it true that nothing is. Seeing the time, I become a believer; when the time comes, I speak again as though a godless man. Rama, the time had come when, to bring you back from exile and to persuade you, I spoke those godless words.”
The gist: Jabali, with an atheist’s arguments, urged Rama to take the kingdom; Rama refuted him, holding truth to be the root of dharma and of the world, and Jabali at last admitted that he had raised the argument only to bring Rama back.
Vasishtha’s account of the Ikshvaku line, and the law of the eldest’s consecration
Knowing Rama to be angry, the royal priest Vasishtha spoke for Jabali, “Jabali too knows the going and coming of the world, its round of birth and death; he said this only from the wish to bring you back. Lord of the world, hear from me the beginning of creation. In the beginning all was water alone, and in it the earth was made; then the self-born Brahma appeared with the gods. Taking the form of the Boar, he lifted the earth out of the water and, with his mind-born sons, made the whole world.
Vasishtha told the order of the line: from ether came Brahma, from Brahma Marichi, from Marichi Kashyapa, from Kashyapa Vivasvan, from Vivasvan Manu, and from Manu Ikshvaku, who became the first king of Ayodhya. From Ikshvaku came Kukshi, from Kukshi Vikukshi, from him Bana, from him Anaranya, in whose reign there was neither famine nor thief. Then Prithu, then Trishanku, who by the power of the true-vowed Vishvamitra went bodily to heaven; from him Dhundhumara, then Yuvanashva, then Mandhata, then Susandhi, then Dhruvasandhi and Prasenajit.
Dhruvasandhi’s son was Bharata, and from him Asita. Asita found enemies in the Haihayas, the Talajanghas, and the Shashabindus; defeated, the king took to the forest as an ascetic. Of his two queens with child, one gave the other poison to destroy her rival’s foetus; but by a boon of Chyavana, son of Bhrigu, the other queen, Kalindi, brought forth a son together with that very poison, and so he was called Sagara, born with poison. This Sagara was the king who had the ocean dug out by his sixty thousand sons. Sagara’s eldest, Asamanja, was a doer of evil deeds, and so his father cast him off even while alive; Asamanja’s son was Anshuman, then Dilipa, then Bhagiratha.
From Bhagiratha came Kakutstha, after whom his line were called Kakutsthas; from Kakutstha came Raghu, after whom they were called Raghavas. Raghu’s son was Pravriddha, known also as the man-eater, Kalmashapada, and Saudasa; then Shankhana, then Sudarshana, then Agnivarna, then Shighraga, then Maru, then Prashushruva, then Ambarisha, then Nahusha, then Nabhaga, then Aja and Suvrata; and from Aja came the righteous King Dasaratha.
Vasishtha said, “You are his eldest son, known by the name of Rama, his heir; therefore take up your kingdom and protect the world. Among the Ikshvakus the eldest son alone becomes king; while the eldest lives, a younger is never consecrated. Do not this day break this eternal law of the house of Raghu. Glorious as your father, rule the earth full of jewels and many realms.”
A note on the law of the eldest: the whole of Vasishtha’s history of the line comes to this one conclusion, that among the Ikshvakus the eldest son alone becomes king. This teaching urges Rama, by the custom of his house, to take up the kingdom.
The gist: Vasishtha told the line of the Ikshvakus from Brahma down to Dasaratha, showing that in this house the eldest son alone becomes king, and bade Rama, as the eldest, take up the kingdom and rule the earth.
Parents above the teacher, and Bharata’s fast unto death
Having said this, the royal priest Vasishtha spoke again words full of dharma, “Kakutstha, three are always to be honored by a man: the teacher, the father, and the mother. The father only brings a man into being, but the teacher gives him wisdom, and so is called guru, the weightier. Scorcher of the foe, I am the teacher of your father and of you; heeding my word, you will not overstep the road of the good. Here are the assembly, the kinsmen, and the king’s people; doing your duty by them, you will not leave the right road. Do your duty by your aged mother of righteous conduct; heeding even Bharata’s prayer, you will not overstep your bounds.”
Hearing the guru’s sweet words, Rama answered Vasishtha, seated there, “What a mother and father do for a son, giving all they can, letting him sleep, anointing him, always speaking kindly, and nourishing him, cannot easily be repaid. King Dasaratha was the father who gave me birth; the command he gave will not be made false.” Hearing this, the broad-chested Bharata, deeply grieved, said to the charioteer Sumantra, “Charioteer, spread kusha grass here quickly on this level ground; I will sit at my noble brother’s door and fast unto death until he shows me his favor. Like a poor brahmin who cannot pay his debt, without food or water, my face covered, I will lie before Rama’s hut until he returns to Ayodhya.”
Seeing Sumantra look toward Rama, the grieving Bharata spread the kusha grass with his own hands and sat on the ground. Then the greatly radiant Rama, best of royal sages, said, “My child Bharata, what wrong have I done you, that you fast unto death against me? To lie at a door and block men’s way is the right of a brahmin, not of a warrior anointed on the brow. Rise, give up this harsh vow, and go back to Ayodhya at once.” But Bharata sat on and said to the townsfolk and country folk, “Why do you not beg my noble brother?”
They said, “We know that you speak rightly; but this blessed Rama too stands firm in his father’s word, and so we cannot easily bring him back.” Hearing this, Rama said, “Bharata, hear this word of your dharma-seeing friends. Rise, mighty-armed one, and touch me and the water,” meaning that he should give up the vow. Then Bharata rose, touched the water, and said, “Let the assembly and the ministers hear: I did not ask the king for the kingdom, nor tell my mother to do so, nor approve of Raghava’s exile; these are the words of one who most truly knows dharma. But if the father’s word must be kept and the forest lived in, then I myself will live fourteen years in the forest.”
Amazed at his brother’s true vow, the righteous Rama looked at the townsfolk and country folk and said, “What our father sold, pledged, or bought while he lived, neither I nor Bharata can undo. In the exile I cannot send a proxy in my stead, for it would be blamed; a proxy is sent only when the man himself is unable. Kaikeyi’s demand was right, and my father did a good deed in granting the boons. I know Bharata to be forgiving and an honorer of elders; with this high-souled, true-vowed man all will be well. Returning from the forest, with this righteous brother I will be a fine lord of the earth. Kaikeyi asked the king for a boon, and I have kept his word; now do you, by ruling, free the king our father from untruth.”
A note on the fast and the proxy: Bharata took up the brahmin’s custom of fasting unto death at another’s door, but Rama called it unfit for a warrior. He also refused the idea of a proxy in the exile, for a proxy is sent only when the man himself is unable.
The gist: Vasishtha argued the teacher’s supremacy, but Rama held the parents higher still; Bharata resolved to fast unto death and to go to the forest himself, but Rama refused the notion of a stand-in and bade Bharata free the father of untruth by ruling.
Canto 112: The gift of the sandals, and Bharata’s vow
Seeing that thrilling meeting of the two brothers, the great sages gathered there were struck with wonder. The sages standing unseen in the sky and the great sages present in the flesh praised those two lamps of the house, Rama and Bharata, in these words, “These two princes have always been noble; they know dharma and walk in dharma too. Hearing this exchange between them, our minds long again and again to hear it.”
Then the sages who wished for the death of Ravana gave Bharata this counsel with one voice, “Prince of high birth, of uncommon wisdom, of excellent conduct and great fame, if you have any regard at all for your father, you should accept this word of Rama’s. We wish Rama to be freed forever of his father’s debt; for by Rama’s glad going to the forest Kaikeyi’s debt is paid and King Dasaratha has gone to heaven.”
Saying this, the gandharvas, the great sages, and the royal sages went each his own way. Gladdened by their word, the fair Rama grew more radiant still, and with a beaming face honored those sages as befitted.
Bharata’s limbs were trembling. With folded hands, in a faltering voice, he pleaded again, “Rama, consider this dharma that comes down through the house. Scion of Kakutstha, you should do it, and grant the prayer of me and of our mother Kausalya. I cannot alone guard so vast a kingdom, nor keep glad your townsfolk and country folk, who are devoted to you.”
Setting the dark, lotus-eyed Bharata in his lap, Rama, whose voice was like a rutting swan’s, answered, “Dear one, this natural humility that has woken in you, born of modesty, is the very thing by which you can guard the whole earth, let alone Ayodhya. Take counsel, calm of mind, with your ministers, your friends, and your wise advisers, and accomplish even great works.
“The moon may lose its light, the Himalaya cast off its snow, the sea overstep its shore, but I will never break my father’s vow. Dear one, whatever your mother did, from love or from greed of the kingdom, do not take it to heart, and treat her as a mother even so.”
A note on the sandals: the paduka are Rama’s wooden sandals, wrought with gold. In the old statecraft this is no mere shoe but the token of the king’s presence. As the badge of an absent officer holds the power of decision in his name, so the sandals hold Rama’s royal office. Bharata goes to rule not as king but as the deputy of the sandals.
As Rama, radiant as the sun and lovely as the moon on the first night of its bright half, was speaking so, Bharata set before him a pair of wooden sandals dressed with gold and said, “Noble brother, set your feet on these gold-worked sandals. These will care for the whole world’s welfare and safety.” Rama, best of men, set his feet on the sandals, took them off at once, and gave them to the high-souled Bharata. Bharata bowed to them and said, “Joy of the house of Raghu, for fourteen years, wearing matted locks and bark, living on fruit and roots, staying outside the city, I will await your return. Scorcher of the foe, into these sandals of yours I will give over the rule and live. Best of the Raghus, if, on the day after the fourteenth year is complete, I do not see you returned, I will enter the fire.”
Rama said “So be it,” embraced Bharata and Shatrughna with love, and said, “Guard our mother Kaikeyi, do not be angry with her. Joy of the house of Raghu, of this Sita and I both put you under oath.” Saying this, Rama’s eyes filled with tears, and he took his leave of Bharata.
The righteous Bharata took the shining sandals with reverence, walked around Rama from the right, and set them on the head of a fine elephant. Then, honoring in due order all the people gathered there, the gurus, the ministers, the citizens, and his two younger brothers Bharata and Shatrughna, Rama, unmoving as the Himalaya in dharma, took leave of them all. The mothers’ throats were choked with grief; they could not say even a word of farewell. Bowing to all his mothers, Rama too, weeping, went back to his hut.
The gist: after the sages’ plea and Bharata’s last entreaty, Rama held firm to his vow to stay in the forest. Bharata asked for Rama’s sandals in place of the kingdom and vowed to enter the fire if Rama did not return the day the fourteen years were complete. Rama handed over the sandals, took leave of all, and returned to his hut.
Canto 113: Bharata’s return to Ayodhya, and the meeting with Bharadvaja
Then Bharata took the sandals upon his head and, glad, mounted his chariot with Shatrughna. The ministers, honored in counsel, Vasishtha, Vamadeva, and the firm-vowed Jabali all went ahead. Keeping the lovely Mandakini river and the great mountain of Chitrakuta to their right, they set out facing east. Bharata, looking at the thousands of lovely, many-colored mineral-slopes, went on with the army along the flank of the mountain.
A little way from Chitrakuta, Bharata saw the hermitage where the sage Bharadvaja had made his dwelling. The valiant Bharata came down from his chariot and bowed at the sage’s feet. The glad Bharadvaja asked, “Dear one, did you meet Rama? Was your purpose accomplished?”
The dharma-loving Bharata answered, “When the guru Vasishtha and I begged Raghava, firm and valiant as he is, to return to Ayodhya, he was most glad and yet said to Vasishtha, ‘I will keep to the letter that vow of my father’s, which he gave to my mother Kaikeyi, that I would live fourteen years in the forest.’ Hearing this, the eloquent Vasishtha spoke this weighty word to the speech-skilled Raghava, ‘Wise one, with all gladness give these gold-worked sandals to Bharata. Standing in the form of these sandals, care for the welfare of the people of Ayodhya.’
At this word of Vasishtha’s, Raghava, facing east, stood upon the sandals and gave those gold-worked sandals to me to run the kingdom. Taking leave with the high-souled Rama’s permission, I am returning to Ayodhya with these blessed sandals.”
A sub-tale: the translators of the Gita Press note here that in those days there was another hermitage of Bharadvaja on the southern bank of the Yamuna near Chitrakuta, distinct from the one between the Ganga and the Yamuna where Rama’s party had first stayed and where Bharata’s host had been so grandly received. From the later mention of Bharata crossing the Yamuna, it seems that the sage had probably come to this nearer place to stay close to the doings at Chitrakuta.
Hearing this good news of the high-souled Bharata, Bharadvaja spoke sweeter words still, “Best of men, best of those who know good conduct, it is no wonder, that as water poured from above fills the hollow below, so good conduct has come to dwell in you. Your father Dasaratha is freed of his debt, having a son as righteous and dharma-loving as you.”
Joining his palms, Bharata clasped the feet of the wise sage, took his leave, and, walking around him again and again, the noble Bharata set out for Ayodhya with his ministers. That vast army, mounted on chariots, carts, horses, and elephants, returned by the same road. Then, crossing the divine, wave-garlanded Yamuna, all saw again the holy-watered Ganga. Crossing that river full of lovely water with his kinsmen, Bharata entered with the army the pleasant Shringaverapura.
Going on beyond Shringaverapura, Bharata saw Ayodhya again. Seeing Ayodhya emptied of his father and his elder brother Rama, the grief-scorched Bharata said to the charioteer Sumantra, “Charioteer, see, this Ayodhya lies ruined, her grace is gone. Graceless, joyless, forlorn, and as though lifeless, this city no longer shines as she did before.”
The gist: setting the sandals on his head, Bharata returns to Ayodhya. On the way he tells Bharadvaja the whole story of Chitrakuta and of the sandals; the sage praises him. Crossing the Yamuna and the Ganga, passing through Shringaverapura, Bharata sees Ayodhya from afar, and, robbed of Rama, she looks ruined.
Canto 114: The portrait of a desolate Ayodhya, and entering the father’s palace
Riding in a chariot that gave a deep, sweet sound, the mighty and greatly glorious Bharata soon entered Ayodhya. Here Valmiki draws the picture of that empty city with many figures. Full of cats and owls, wrapped in darkness, her people’s doors shut, the city looked like a dark night. She was mournful as Rohini, the moon’s beloved wife, a star, seized by Rahu and stricken with grief for her lord the moon.
She was thin as a drying hill-stream whose little water is warmed and stirred by the sun’s rays, whose birds are scorched with heat, and whose fish and crocodiles, great and small, hide in the mud. She looked like a smokeless golden flame quenched with sprinkled milk. She seemed a beaten army in a great war, its armor broken, the banners of its elephants, horses, and chariots torn, its best heroes slain.
She was as silent as an ocean wave that has risen high with foam and roar in a fierce gale and then fallen mute in the still air. She was as hushed as an altar, silent when the time of sacrifice has passed, all the vessels put away, and the brahmins gone. She was like a cow without her bull, standing forlorn in the byre, not even grazing fresh grass. She was dull as a new pearl necklace robbed of its finest rubies and gems, dull as a star that has fallen from its place to earth when its merit ran out.
She drooped like a forest creeper flowered at spring’s end, graced with drunken bees, then scorched by a wildfire. She was like a sky overcast with cloud that veils the moon and stars; like an empty tavern strewn with broken vessels, its drinkers slain; like a broken, caved-in watering-shed whose water has run dry; like a bowstring cut by the arrows of heroes and fallen to the ground; and like a mare struck down by an enemy army.
Seated in his chariot, the glorious Bharata, son of Dasaratha, said to Sumantra as he drove, “Why does the deep, ringing sound of song and music not rise in Ayodhya today as it once did? Why do the heady scent of wine, the fragrance of flowers, and the perfume of sandal and aloe, which once spread everywhere, no longer flow? With Rama gone to the forest, no sound of chariots is heard, no neighing of horses, no trumpeting of rutting elephants. Grieving for Rama, the young men no longer wear sandal and aloe paste or fine garlands, nor go out to walk.
Stricken with grief for Rama, this city holds no festivals now; surely with my elder brother Rama the grace of this city has gone. Like a bright-fortnight night with no steady rain, Ayodhya without Rama has no grace. When will my brother bring joy to Ayodhya like a festival, as summer’s cloud brings rain? The young men in fine dress, who walked proud, no longer grace the highways of Ayodhya.”
Talking so with the charioteer, the grieving Bharata entered Ayodhya, and, in that city without its king, came to his father’s palace, empty as a cave without its lion. Seeing that inner court lightless and in disarray, like a day without the sun, Bharata, self-controlled though he was, wept in his deep grief.
A sub-tale: the figure of “a day without the sun” the commentators trace to a tale of the Puranas. In the war of the gods and demons the gods were losing, and Rahu struck down the sun-god. With that, the difference of day and night in the world was undone. The gods went to Brahma, who for one week set the sage Atri in the sun’s place. One of those doom-like days is what is meant here by “the day without the sun for which the gods grieved.”
The gist: Valmiki paints the gloom of an Ayodhya without Rama with a run of figures: a quenched flame, a beaten army, a drying river, a cow without her bull. Bharata, speaking to Sumantra of the city’s emptiness, enters his father’s palace, empty as a lion’s cave, and weeps.
Canto 115: The consecration of the sandals at Nandigrama
Having brought his mothers to Ayodhya, the grief-scorched, firm-vowed Bharata said to his elders, “I take leave of you all here; I will go now to Nandigrama. There I will bear all this sorrow, without Raghava. Alas! The king has gone to heaven and my elder brother has gone to live in the forest. I will await Rama for the kingdom; he, the greatly glorious one, is the king of Ayodhya.”
Hearing this good word of the noble Bharata, all the ministers and the priest Vasishtha answered, “Bharata, the word you speak out of love for your brother is most praiseworthy and worthy of you. What man would not approve this vow of yours, who ever seek the good of your kinsmen, are firm in love of your brother, and walk the highest road of dharma?”
Hearing this welcome answer, so close to his own mind, Bharata said to the charioteer, “Let my chariot be yoked.” With a most glad face he took gracious leave of all his mothers and mounted the chariot with Shatrughna. Ringed by the ministers and priests, the two brothers, most glad, set out at once. Vasishtha and all the elders and brahmins went ahead, facing east, on the road that leads to Nandigrama. When Bharata set out, the whole army full of elephants, horses, and chariots, and the townsfolk, followed without being called.
A note on the place, Nandigrama: Nandigrama was a small village a few kos from Ayodhya, held today to lie near the Faizabad-Ayodhya region of Uttar Pradesh. Bharata does not sit on the throne within the capital; he lives outside the city in this village, wearing the ascetic’s dress, so that the kingdom remains Rama’s by right and he himself stays only the guardian and deputy.
Riding in his chariot, the righteous, brother-loving Bharata, bearing the sandals on his head, soon reached Nandigrama, and, coming down from the chariot, said to his elders, “This kingdom my elder brother has handed to me as a sacred trust, and with it these gold-worked sandals, which will care for all our welfare and safety.” Then, bowing his head and giving over this trust to the sandals, the grief-scorched Bharata said to the whole ministry,
“Set the royal parasol over these sandals at once; they are held to be the very feet of my guru and elder brother. In these sandals of my elder brother dharma will stand established in the kingdom. My brother, out of love, has given me this trust; I will keep it until Raghava returns. The moment Raghava returns, giving these sandals back to him, I will look upon my brother’s feet with the sandals on them. Then, laying down the burden, meeting Raghava, giving the kingdom back to my guru, I will take up the life of my brother’s servant.
Giving back to Raghava this kingdom, this Ayodhya, and these fine sandals, I will be freed of the stain of sin. When the consecration of Kakutstha is done and the people rejoice, I will have four times the joy and fame that I would from gaining the kingdom myself.” Lamenting so, forlorn yet greatly glorious, Bharata, with the ministers, ran the kingdom from Nandigrama with a heavy heart.
Wearing bark and matted locks, in the dress of a sage, the steadfast Bharata lived at Nandigrama with the army, longing for Rama’s return. Obedient to his brother, faithful to his vow, Bharata consecrated the sandals as king and dwelt there. He himself held the royal parasol and the fly-whisk over the sandals and offered up all his rule to them. Having consecrated the sandals, the noble Bharata ran the kingdom always under their authority; whatever business of the realm came, or whatever costly gift was offered to the kingdom, Bharata first laid it before the sandals and only then decided it in due form.
The gist: with the leave of the elders and the people, Bharata goes not to the capital but to Nandigrama. There he consecrates Rama’s sandals as king, takes up the bark-clad, matted-locked life of an ascetic, and, as the deputy of the sandals, laying every matter of the realm before them, runs the kingdom until Rama’s return.
Canto 116: The ascetics depart from Chitrakuta
When Bharata had returned to Ayodhya, Rama, dwelling in the forest, saw at that time a kind of unease and disturbance among the ascetics. In that hermitage on Chitrakuta the sages who had once lived happily under Rama’s shelter now looked anxious and troubled. Uneasy, they pointed toward Rama with looks of their eyes and brows, and, calling one another aside, whispered among themselves. Seeing their unease, Rama grew fearful for himself, and, joining his palms, said to the head of the hermitage,
“Holy one, has any lapse from my former conduct shown in me, that the ascetics are so troubled? Has the conduct of my forefathers slipped from me in some way, that they are disturbed? Has some fault fallen from my high-souled younger brother Lakshmana, that the sages have marked? Or has Sita, who serves you and is intent on serving me, fallen short in the respect a young woman owes you?”
The sage, aged in both years and austerity, as though trembling, said to Rama, who held mercy to all creatures the highest dharma, “Dear one, what lapse could there be in the blessed daughter of Videha, always given to goodness and above all reverent toward ascetics? This trouble has come upon the ascetics because of you, but through fear of the demons; they speak of it among themselves.
Having uprooted all the ascetics of Janasthana, a part of the Dandaka forest, a man-eating demon named Khara, the younger brother of Ravana, insolent, victorious in war, cruel, arrogant, and sinful, cannot bear even you. Dear one, since you came to live in this hermitage, the demons have tormented the ascetics. They appear in shapes fearsome, hideous, foul, and monstrous, the mere sight of which is misery. They defile the ascetics by touching them with impure and forbidden things, and kill outright those who stand before them.
Hidden and unseen about the hermitage, these dull-witted creatures kill the ascetics and roam there glad. At the time of the offering they snatch away the ladles and vessels the moment they come to hand, throw water on the fires, and break the pots. Eager to leave forever the hermitages fouled by these evil ones, the sages today urge me to go elsewhere. Therefore, Rama, before these wretches lay open hands on the ascetics, we will leave this hermitage.
A little way from here is a forest rich in roots and fruit; I will go with my company to the hermitage of the sage Ashva. Rama, if your mind is the same, come away with us from here before Khara does you too some wrong. Raghava, watchful and able though you are, to live here with your wife has now become full of danger and grief.”
Rama could not, even with reasons, hold back that ascetic so eager to leave. Praising Rama, taking a fitting leave, and comforting him, the head of the hermitage went off with his company of sages. Rama went a little way behind those sages, bowed to the head of the hermitage, and, having received his instruction in his duty, returned with his leave to his holy dwelling. The mighty Rama did not leave that hermitage empty of sages even for a moment; and those ascetics, their minds set on Rama, stayed with him always in their hearts.
The gist: after Bharata’s return, Rama sees the ascetics of Chitrakuta troubled. The head of the hermitage tells him that Ravana’s brother Khara and his demons are tormenting the ascetics, and that the danger has grown with Rama’s presence. The sages leave for the hermitage of the sage Ashva; Rama sees them off with honor and returns to his dwelling.
Canto 117: Leaving Chitrakuta, and Anasuya’s counsel to Sita at Atri’s hermitage
When all the ascetics had gone, Rama, thinking it over again and again, found for many reasons that it was no longer right to stay there. Rama thought, “Here I saw Bharata, my mothers, and the people of Ayodhya; that memory still gnaws at me, and I grieve for them each day. And with the camp of Bharata’s army the ground is much fouled with the dried dung of horses and elephants. So let us go elsewhere.” Thinking this, Rama set out from Chitrakuta with Sita and Lakshmana.
The greatly glorious Rama reached the hermitage of Atri and bowed to the sage; and the holy Atri received him as a son. Ordering hospitality himself and honoring him in every way, he comforted the greatly blessed Lakshmana and Sita too. Then, calling his aged and greatly fortunate wife Anasuya, given to austerity and the practice of dharma, the best of sages said, “Daughter of Videha, accept the company of this greatly fortunate Anasuya, devoted to austerity and dharma.”
To Rama he told of that righteous ascetic woman so, “Blameless prince, this Anasuya, a mother to you, is adorned with harsh austerity and holy vows. When for ten years without rain the world was scorched, she brought forth roots and fruit by her austerity and made the Jahnavi, the Ganga, flow near this hermitage. She did austerity for ten thousand years, removed the hindrances of the sages, and for the work of the gods swiftly turned ten nights into one. Blameless one, let the daughter of Videha go humbly to this aged ascetic woman, worthy of the homage of all creatures, and ever free of anger.”
A sub-tale: for “turning ten nights into one” the commentators tell a tale of the Puranas. The sage Mandavya cursed Anasuya’s friend, the ascetic Shandili, that within the next ten days her husband would die one morning. Shandili cursed him back, that now there would be no morning at all. The gods, alarmed, went to Anasuya, who by her austerity turned ten nights into a single night, and so put off the death of Shandili’s husband and accomplished the work of the gods as well.
The sage said “So be it,” and Rama, looking at the dharma-knowing Sita, said to her, “Princess, you have heard the sage’s word. For your own good, go quickly and with reverence to this ascetic woman. She who in the world is known by her deeds as Anasuya, the one free of envy, go quickly to that honored ascetic.”
Hearing this word of Rama, the glorious princess of Mithila, Sita, went to meet the dharma-knowing wife of Atri, her limbs slack, wrinkled, aged, her hair whitened with age, her body shaking without cease like a plantain in a high wind. Bowing calmly to the chaste Anasuya, Sita gave her name and made herself known. Greeting that self-controlled ascetic woman, the glad Sita, with folded hands, asked after her welfare.
Seeing the righteous Sita, the aged Anasuya comforted her and said, “By good fortune your eyes are fixed on dharma. Proud lady Sita, blessed are you, who, giving up your kinsmen and your rank and honor, follow Rama into the forest. Women to whom their husband is dear, whether he be in the city or the forest, kind to them or unkind, win worlds of great glory. To women of noble nature the husband is the highest god, be he ill-natured, a lover of pleasure, or without wealth.
Daughter of Videha, however deeply I think, I see for a woman no kinsman greater than her husband, who is her benefit everywhere like the undying fruit of austerity. But wicked women whose hearts are ruled by desire, who lord it over their husbands and follow their own will, do not follow their husbands so. Princess of Mithila, mastered by that desire that ought to be cast off, they fall from dharma and win disgrace as well. But women of good qualities like you, who know the good and the ill of the world, will roam in heaven like the doers of holy deeds.
So, devoted to the service of this prince, holding your husband your highest object of worship, serving him in due time, walk in dharma with your husband; by this you will gain both fame and dharma easily.”
The gist: because of the memories and the fouled ground, Rama leaves Chitrakuta and reaches the hermitage of Atri. Atri sings the greatness of his ascetic wife Anasuya and sends Sita to her. Anasuya gives Sita her counsel on the dharma of a devoted wife.
Canto 118: Sita’s reply, the divine gifts, and the story of her wedding
At this counsel of Anasuya, the envy-free princess of Videha, Sita, praised her word and slowly began to answer, “It is no wonder that the noble lady teaches me this; I too know that for a woman the husband is her guru. Even if my husband were base and without a livelihood, I would owe him this same conduct without a doubt; this is my dharma. How much more when he is praised for his virtues, full of compassion, master of his senses, steady in his love, righteous, and dear as both mother and father; then he is worthy of worship all the more.
As the mighty Rama behaved toward Kausalya, so he behaved toward the other queens, his stepmothers. Devoted to his father, righteous, brave, Rama, casting off pride, treated even the women his father had once looked on with love like a mother. As I came to this fearsome, lonely forest, the counsel my mother-in-law gave me stands firm in my heart. And I remember, too, the teaching my mother gave me long ago beside the fire, at the time of my marriage, when my hand was joined to his.
Righteous lady, your words have made all that teaching fresh in my mind again; for a woman there is no austerity greater than the service of her husband. Savitri, by serving her husband, is honored in heaven; and by such conduct you too, by the service of your husband, have as good as reached heaven. Best of all women, Rohini is seen even in heaven, a goddess, never for a moment without the moon. And other women too, steadfast in the vow of devotion to their husbands, are honored in the world of the gods by their holy deeds.”
Hearing this word of Sita, the deeply glad Anasuya smelled her head, and, gladdening the princess of Mithila, said, “Great is my power of austerity, gathered by many vows; pure-vowed Sita, resting on that power, I bid you ask a boon. Princess of Mithila, your word is right and fitting, and I am pleased. Tell me, what shall I do that is dear to you?” Amazed at this word of Anasuya, Sita, with a little wonder, said to that ascetic rich in the power of austerity, “By your grace all is already done.”
At this answer the dharma-knowing Anasuya grew gladder still and said, “Then I will crown this joy-born gladness of yours with a gift of love. Daughter of Videha, take this fine divine garland, this cloth, these ornaments, and this precious body-paint and unguent. Sita, this gift of mine will grace your limbs and will suit you; through constant use it will never grow dull. Daughter of Janaka, with your limbs anointed with this divine unguent, you will grace your husband as Lakshmi graces the imperishable Vishnu.”
The princess of Mithila took the cloth, the unguent, the ornaments, and the garlands as that peerless gift of love. Taking the gift of love, the glorious, steady Sita sat with folded hands beside the ascetic rich in austerity. Then the firm-vowed Anasuya, wishing to hear from Sita some pleasing tale, began to ask her, “Sita, I have heard that in the svayamvara this glorious Raghava won you. Princess of Mithila, I wish to hear that story in full; tell it to me just as it happened.”
Saying “Listen,” Sita told the dharma-practicing ascetic that story, “There is a king named Janaka, lord of Mithila, righteous and brave, who rules the earth with justice, devoted to the works of a warrior. Ploughing the ground for a sacrifice, plough in hand, he says I rose up, cleaving the earth, and from then was the king’s daughter. Seeing me covered with dust, Janaka, busy sowing the seed, was struck with wonder. Being childless, out of love he took me himself into his lap and said, ‘This is my daughter,’ and poured out on me a boundless love. A voice came from the sky, ‘Lord of men, so be it; by dharma she is your daughter.’
Then the righteous lord of Mithila, my father, was most glad, and, gaining me, he gained great prosperity. I was given to his holy elder queen like a longed-for child, and that loving woman reared me with a mother’s tenderness. Seeing me come to the age fit for a husband, my father grew troubled, like a man made poor by the loss of wealth. Knowing me one not born of a womb, he could not, though he thought long, find a fit and matching husband for me.
Ever troubled, this thought woke in his mind: ‘By the warrior’s law I will hold a svayamvara for my daughter.’ At a great sacrifice the high-souled Varuna had given my ancestor Devarata, out of love, a fine bow and two quivers of undying arrows. That bow was so heavy that men could not move it even with effort; kings could not bend it even in dream. Having got that bow, my true-speaking father invited the kings and proclaimed, ‘The man who lifts this bow and strings it, my daughter will be his wife; of this there is no doubt.’
Seeing that fine bow, heavy as a mountain, and bowing to it, the kings could not so much as hold it in their hands and went away. After a long time this greatly radiant Raghava came, with Vishvamitra, to see the bow-sacrifice. The truly valiant Rama came with his younger brother Lakshmana, and the righteous Vishvamitra was well honored by my father.
Vishvamitra said to my father, ‘These are the two sons of Dasaratha, Rama and Lakshmana, who wish to see the bow; so show the prince Rama this divine bow.’ At the brahmin’s word my father had the bow brought and showed it to the prince. The mighty, valiant Rama bent it in a moment, and, quickly stringing it, drew it with all his strength. The moment he drew it hard, the bow broke in two in the middle, with a fearsome sound like a thunderclap.
Then my true-vowed father took up a fine vessel of water, ready to give me to Rama. But the lord of Ayodhya, Raghava, not fully knowing his father’s mind, did not then accept me offered in marriage. So my father summoned the aged King Dasaratha and gave me in marriage to the self-knowing Rama. My younger sister, the chaste, fair-faced Urmila, my father himself gave to Lakshmana as wife. In that svayamvara I was given to Rama, and from then, in dharma, I am devoted to my husband, best of heroes.”
The gist: Sita accepts the dharma of the devoted wife, tying it to the teaching of her mother-in-law and her mother. The glad Anasuya gives her divine cloth, ornaments, and unguent. Then, at Anasuya’s request, Sita tells the story of her birth, rising from the earth as Janaka ploughed, and of Rama’s breaking of the bow and their wedding.
Canto 119: The coming of evening, and entering the Dandaka forest
Hearing that great tale, the dharma-knowing Anasuya smelled the head of the princess of Mithila, took her in both arms, and said, “The sweet words you spoke, in clear syllables and clear phrases, are wonderful. I have heard in full how your svayamvara took place. Sweet-spoken one, I would gladly hear more of your tale, but the glorious sun has set, bringing on the blessed night.
The birds scattered all day in search of food, hidden now at evening in their nests, make the sound of settling to sleep. These sages too, wet from their bath and in wet bark, come back in company, their water-jars full. On the fire-offering duly done by the sage Atri, the smoke rises, blue as a pigeon’s neck, in the still air. In the far distance the thin-leaved trees too look dense, and so the quarters are not clearly seen. The night-roaming demons walk everywhere, and the deer of the hermitage lie by the holy altars.
Sita, the night adorned with stars has fully come; the moon, veiled in its own light, is seen risen in the sky. Now I give you leave to go; go, be in Rama’s service. Speaking such sweet words, you have gladdened me too. Princess of Mithila, deck yourself now before me in the very cloth and ornaments I gave you; adorned with the divine ornaments, my child, make me glad.”
Then Sita, like a daughter of the gods, adorned herself well and, bowing her head at Anasuya’s feet, set out toward Rama. Raghava, best of speakers, saw Sita so decked and was glad at the ascetic woman’s gift of love. The princess of Mithila told Rama the whole story of the ascetic’s gift of love, the cloth, the ornaments, and the garlands. Seeing this honor, rare among men, Rama and the great warrior Lakshmana were most glad.
Then, honored by that holy woman’s welcome, seeing the moon-faced Sita honored by all the ascetics, Rama, joy of the house of Raghu, glad, passed that holy night there. When the night had passed, the two best of men, Rama and Lakshmana, after their bath, took leave of the forest-dwelling ascetics who tended the fire. Those dharma-walking forest ascetics told the two brothers of the demon-infested road through the forest,
“Raghava, in this great forest live man-eating demons of many shapes and blood-drinking beasts of prey. They devour any ascetic or celibate in this great forest who is careless or defiled about the mouth; guard yourself from them, Raghava. This is the road by which the great sages go to fetch fruit in the forest; Raghava, by this road it will be fitting for you to go into the hard forest.”
Thus addressed with folded hands by the ascetic brahmins, and sent off with flowers and with blessings and good wishes, the scorcher of the foe, Raghava, with Sita and Lakshmana, entered the heart of that forest as the sun enters a mass of cloud.
A note on what comes next, the Aranyakanda: Rama’s entry into the Dandaka forest is the threshold of the coming Aranyakanda, the third book, where Shurpanakha, Khara and Dushana, and at last the carrying off of Sita will fall out. Here the politics of Ayodhya are left behind, and the story turns toward the struggle of Rama wandering from forest to forest.
The gist: after the tale, Anasuya describes the lovely evening to Sita, adorns her in the divine ornaments, and sends her back to Rama. Seeing Sita so adorned, Rama and Lakshmana are glad. Passing the night, and learning from the ascetics the road and its dangers through the Dandaka forest, Rama, with their blessings, enters the forest with Sita and Lakshmana.
Source: Srimad Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhyakanda, Cantos 65-119 (Gita Press, Gorakhpur).
Basis: Valmiki Ramayana (Gita Press, Gorakhpur)