Ramayana · The Exile of Rama, the City’s Lament, Guha, and Chitrakuta

About 195 min read · 33,046 words

The night was thinning and Ayodhya lay awake, though what kept the city stirring was no festival but a wrong it could not yet name. In the palace the makings of a coronation stood arranged: water from the meeting of the Ganga and the Yamuna, jars of gold, white yak-tail whisks, a moon-pale parasol, a rutting bull elephant, and the eight maidens made ready for the rites of blessing. Away from all that, in the seclusion of the inner rooms, the great king Dasharatha lay on the bare floor, barely conscious, while his beloved queen Kaikeyi loaded onto him a weight of bark cloth: forest exile in exchange for the crown. This was the dawn on which Rama, Ayodhya’s most beloved prince, would set his face toward the Dandaka wilderness and away from the throne, and that turning left the whole city in tears. We tell it in Valmiki’s own order, from Canto 14 through Canto 56, as it happened, as it was spoken, nothing taken away and nothing added.

Truth Invoked, and Kaikeyi’s Iron Will

Seeing the great king Dasharatha wild with grief, half-conscious, writhing on the ground, the wicked-minded Kaikeyi spoke. “You granted the boons, so why do you lie here as though you had committed some sin? Hold steady in the code your forefathers kept. Those who know dharma (sacred duty) call truth the highest dharma, and it is truth I have leaned on in reminding you of yours.”

She counted off her instances of truth. King Shaibya, to save a dove that had begged shelter from a hawk, weighed out flesh from his own body and gave it to the bird, and won the highest state. The lustrous king Alarka, when a brahmin deep in the Vedas asked it of him, drew out his own eyes and gave them away without a flinch. The ocean, lord of the rivers, bound by its vow of truth, does not overrun its shore even at the flood tide. “Truth is the one-syllabled Brahman, the supreme reality that Om points to, and dharma itself stands rooted in truth. Best of kings, if your mind is set on dharma, then keep your truth and make my boon come good.”

Then she said the same demand three times over. “For the love of dharma, and because I ask it, send your eldest son Rama to the forest now. I say it three times. If you will not honor this word, then before your very eyes I will lay down my life.”

Bound by the demand of a Kaikeyi who felt not a flicker of doubt, the king turned as helpless as Bali caught in Indra’s noose. He thrashed like an ox wedged between the two wheels of a cart, and his face went the color of ash. With unseeing eyes, as if he could make out nothing, mustering his composure at great cost, he said to Kaikeyi, “You sinful woman, this hand of yours that I took before the fire to the chant of sacred verses, and your son Bharata born of me, together with you, I now release. The night is spent. Seeing the sunrise, people will press me to hasten Rama’s crowning. But I will not be alive now. When I am gone, let Rama pour the funeral water for me with these very things gathered for the consecration. You woman of vile conduct, if you block Rama’s crowning, then let neither you nor your son offer me a drop of water at my death.”

Dasharatha went on, “The faces on which I have always seen joy, to see them today drained of gladness and bowed low will be more than I can bear.” As he was still speaking, that holy night, wearing its garland of moon and stars, passed on and morning broke. Then Kaikeyi, brimming with rage and nimble with words, spoke harshly again. “King, why do you talk this way, like poison, like a sickness? Without working yourself into a fever, call your son Rama here.” “When you have seated my son Bharata on the throne and made Rama a wanderer of the woods, when you have left me without a thorn at my side, then and only then will your duty be done.”

Goaded over and over like a fine horse cut by the sharp lash, the king answered, “I am bound in the cords of dharma, my reason is broken. I long to see my devoted, beloved eldest son Rama.”

The gist: Among the very materials laid out for the crowning, Kaikeyi extracts, in the name of truth, those two old boons: Bharata’s kingdom and Rama’s exile. Dasharatha breaks and curses Kaikeyi, and still cannot cut the noose of his own word.

Sumantra Arrives, and the King Is Praised

Just then the charioteer and minister Sumantra, born of the suta line, came into the inner apartments. Knowing nothing of the king’s condition, he wished to wake him with pleasant words. With folded hands he offered his praise. “As the radiant ocean gladdens at sunrise, so may you, with a glad heart, gladden us. On a dawn like this one, Indra’s charioteer Matali once sang Indra’s praises, and by them Indra conquered all the demons; in the same way I wake you now. Rise, tiger among kings, the goddess of night has passed, your work is done. Everything for Rama’s consecration stands ready. The townsfolk, the country people, and the merchants wait at the gate with joined hands. The venerable Vasistha himself stands there with the brahmins. King, give the order for Raghava’s crowning without delay.”

“As cattle scatter without a herdsman, an army without its general, night without the moon, and cows without the bull, so it is with a realm where the king is nowhere to be seen.” Hearing these well-meant and weighty words of comfort, the lord of the earth felt his grief cut deeper still. With eyes reddened by sorrow for his son, the king looked up and said, “Charioteer, with these praises spoken at the wrong hour you are cutting me to the quick again and again.”

Hearing those piteous words and seeing the king so wretched, Sumantra drew back a little, hands still joined. When the king himself, undone by his own misery, could say nothing, Kaikeyi, ever skilled in counsel, answered Sumantra for him. “Charioteer, the king lay awake all night in his joy over Rama, and, worn out, has fallen into sleep. So go quickly and bring the illustrious prince Rama here; do not hesitate over it.” Sumantra said, “Lady, how am I to go without hearing the king’s own word?” At that the king himself said, “Sumantra, I wish to see Rama; bring that beautiful one here quickly.”

Taking this for good fortune, Sumantra rejoiced in his heart and set off gladly on the king’s command. Thinking to himself that surely Rama was being called at once for the crowning, he came out burning to see Raghava.

The gist: Sumantra, all unknowing, sings the king a coronation blessing that only deepens the wound. Dasharatha cannot speak, Kaikeyi answers in his place, and in the end the king himself sends for Rama.

Sumantra Goes to Rama’s House

At the gate stood Vasistha, Vamadeva, and the other brahmins versed in the Vedas, the royal chaplains, along with the ministers, the commanders, and the leading merchants, all waiting for the consecration. The clear sun was up, the constellation Pushya stood with the moon, and the sun was in the sign of Cancer, the very conjunction that had held at the hour of Rama’s birth. Golden water jars, the well-adorned auspicious seat, a chariot spread with tiger skin, and water from the holy confluence of the Ganga and the Yamuna were all made ready; water too was set out from the Narmada and other east-flowing rivers, from the streams that run crosswise off the mountains, from milk-white currents like the Ganga, the Gandaki, and the Son, and from the seas.

Not seeing the king, the people gathered with the coronation gear began to say to one another, “Who will tell the king we are here? The sun is up, and still the king is nowhere in sight.” Just then the honored Sumantra addressed them all, and the kings present there. “By the king’s command I am going to bring Rama. You are all worthy of the king’s respect, and above all of Rama’s. It is I who will ask after the king’s welfare and the reason he has not come.”

So saying, Sumantra moved off toward the royal road, where the people’s joyful talk of Rama rang everywhere. Then he came in sight of Rama’s lovely mansion, bright as the dwelling of Kubera and of Indra, guarded by wide gates, adorned with hundreds of lattice windows, gleaming with archways of gem and coral and with statues of gold. Steeped in the fragrance of sandal and aloe, graced by curlews and peacocks, the mansion rose like a peak of Meru. Along the path to the gate, country people stood with their gifts, hands joined, their carts left far behind. Sumantra saw too Rama’s mount, the tall lordly elephant named Shatrunjaya. Sending the ministers to one side, he passed into the rich inner apartments.

The gist: The city is drowned in the joy of the crowning; Sumantra makes his way in through Rama’s splendid mansion. This is the same gladness that will curdle into grief before the day is out.

Rama Sets Out in Royal State

At the inner gate, where earringed young men stood guard with lances and bows, and where middle-aged wardens in ochre robes, staffs in hand, kept the apartments, Sumantra said to the doorkeepers, “Tell prince Rama that Sumantra waits at the gate.” They went in swiftly and told Rama, who was with his beloved. Rama had the charioteer, his father’s trusted man, called into that very chamber.

Sumantra beheld Rama seated on a golden couch like Kubera, anointed with fine sandal, and at his side Sita with the whisk in her hand, as though the moon sat with the star Chitra. Well-versed in courtesy, Sumantra bowed low to Rama, radiant as the sun, the giver of boons. With joined hands he said, “Rama, Kausalya is blessed in a son like you. Your father, the great king Dasharatha, wishes to see you, and Queen Kaikeyi is with him. Go there, and do not delay.”

Overjoyed to hear it, Rama honored Sita and said, “Lady, the king and the queen must together be taking some counsel about me, about my crowning. My mother Kaikeyi, dark-eyed and shrewd, dear to the king and a well-wisher of mine, is surely urging the king on in my favor. By good fortune the king has sent, with his beloved queen, my own well-wisher Sumantra as messenger. Such a messenger has come, and such is the assembly there; surely the king will today anoint me heir apparent. I will go quickly and see the great king; stay you here in comfort with your companions.”

Sita, honored by her husband and wishing him well, walked her lord to the door. Rama said, “The king, with brahmins rich in dharma and in his own realm, ought even to consecrate you for the Rajasuya sacrifice, as Brahma consecrated Indra. Initiated, keeping your vows, clad in deerskin and holding an antelope’s horn, I would gladly wait upon you when I see you so.” (These were her wishes, spoken back to him with love.)

Coming out of his mansion like a lion from a mountain cave, Rama saw Lakshmana already standing at the first gate with folded hands. At the middle gate he met his friends and kinsmen, gladdened them, and then mounted the excellent chariot, bright as fire and dressed with tiger skin. Sounding like thunder in the clouds, studded with gem and gold and yoked to fine horses, the chariot Rama drove like Indra. Bearing a bright, patterned whisk in his hand, Lakshmana took his seat behind on the chariot to guard his elder brother. The moment the chariot rolled, a shout of victory rose from the crowds on every side. Hundreds and thousands of fine horses and mountain-tall elephants came on behind Rama; ahead marched brave soldiers dressed in sandal and aloe, swords and bows in hand, and people calling blessings.

Along the way came the strains of instruments, the praises of bards, and the lion-roars of warriors. Women adorned with ornaments, standing at the lattices of the mansions, rained flowers on Rama and said, “O joy of your mother’s heart, seeing you crowned to your father’s realm your mother Kausalya will rejoice.” Of Sita they said she was the beloved of Rama’s heart, the best of all women, and they said, “Surely this lady did great austerity in a former birth, that she has won union with Rama as Rohini won the moon.”

On the royal road Rama heard the people say, “By the king’s grace Raghava today wins vast royal fortune; he will be our ruler, and all our wishes will come true. As long as this lord of men lives, no one will know any sorrow.” Rama saw that clean royal road, thronged with rutting elephants and cows, chariots and horses and crowds, lined with shops of gems and precious wares.

The gist: Certain of the crowning, Rama moves in royal state toward his father’s house through praise and showers of flowers. The reader knows this splendor is a thing of a moment, though neither Rama nor the city knows it yet.

Through Ayodhya’s Splendor to the Palace

Seated on the chariot, the noble Rama took in Ayodhya, hung with pennants and banners, scented with aloe, filled with people of every kind. Passing along the central avenue graced with cloud-white mansions, he came onto that fine royal road bright with shops of sandal and aloe, of choice perfumes, of linen and silk, of unpierced pearls and crystal; on either side lay flowers and things to eat, and the crossroads were forever worshiped with curd, whole grains, parched rice, incense, and sandal.

Hearing his friends’ many blessings and honoring each in turn as was fitting, Rama moved ahead. People said, “Walking the road your father and grandfather and great-grandfather walked, may you be crowned and walk it too. With Rama as king we will be happier than ever before. If we may only see Rama consecrated and set on the throne, we have no need even of pleasure or release. Nothing is dearer to us than this, that the crowning of Rama of boundless glory should come to pass.”

Hearing this self-praise with an indifferent heart, Rama went on. Even after he had passed, no one could pull mind or eyes from that best of men; whoever could not see Rama, and whom Rama did not see, was scorned in all the worlds and reproached himself. That righteous prince had pity on all people of the four orders and beyond them, of every age, and so all were bound to him in love. The crossroads, the shrine-paths, the sanctuaries, and the schoolhouses the prince respectfully kept to his right.

Reaching the royal house, its palace turrets rising like cloudbanks and Kailasa peaks, its white pleasure-halls set with gems, the prince, ablaze with his own splendor, entered his father’s mansion, like the dwelling of great Indra, finest of all houses on earth. Guarded by bowmen, the first three courts Rama crossed on the chariot, and the last two on foot. Turning everyone gently back, he came into the pure inner apartments. As Rama passed within to his father, the whole crowd waited joyfully for his return, as the ocean waits for the rising of the moon.

The gist: Rama gathers the honor of the whole city and, crossing all five courts, reaches his father’s apartments. Outside the people wait; inside, the scene that will change everything waits too.

The Sentence of Exile

Rama saw his father on the auspicious seat with Kaikeyi, sunk in gloom, wretched, his face gone dry. He bowed with careful mind first at his father’s feet, then at Kaikeyi’s. The grief-stricken king could say only “Rama,” and no more; with eyes blind from tears he could neither look at him nor speak. Seeing that strange and dreadful state of the king, Rama felt fear too, as one does when a foot touches a snake.

Rama thought, “On other days my father was glad to see me even in his anger; today why is he so worn at the sight of me? Can it be I have done some wrong without knowing? Or has some harm come to Bharata, or to Shatrughna, or to any of the mothers? Having gone against my father or left him displeased, I would not wish to live even an hour. How can anyone be without devotion to the father from whom he was born, a visible god?” Then he put the question to Kaikeyi herself. “Lady, have you in pride or anger said some hard thing to my father, that his mind is so troubled? Tell me truly, for I would know; what is the cause of this strange change?”

Grown shameless now, Kaikeyi answered him boldly. “Rama, the king is not angry, nor is any illness on him. But there is something in his mind that he will not say, for fear of giving you pain. What is dear to you, yet unwelcome, will not come off his tongue. Still, the word he has given me you must certainly fulfill. Having granted the boons, he now repents like an ordinary man, and wishes to dam a river already in flood. Truth is the root of dharma; take care that the king does not, for your sake, cast that truth away. If you will promise to do the king’s bidding, be it good or ill, then I will tell you everything; otherwise he will not open his mouth before you.”

There in his father’s presence the troubled Rama said, “Ah, shame on it, lady, do not speak to me so. At my father’s word I would leap into fire, swallow keen poison, drown in the sea. Whatever my father, my elder, my well-wisher the king desires, let him command it; Rama does not speak twice.”

Then the ignoble Kaikeyi spoke to that guileless, truthful Rama the hardest words. “Long ago, in the war of gods and demons, your father, guarded by me, gave me two boons. In return for them I have asked the king today for Bharata’s crowning and your going to the Dandaka forest. If you would keep your father, and yourself, true to your word, then hear me; by your father’s pledge you are to live fourteen years in the forest, nine and five. Bharata’s crowning will be done with the very things gathered for you. Give up this consecration and take on matted hair and bark cloth. Let Bharata rule this earth. Out of tenderness toward you the king has granted me these boons, and out of grief he cannot look at you. Delight of the Raghus, fulfill this word of the king’s, and by your own great truth deliver the lord of men.”

At these harsh words of Kaikeyi’s Rama felt no sorrow; but the king, seared by the pain of parting from his son, was thrown into deep distress.

The gist: Rama asks Kaikeyi herself the cause of his father’s pain, and she spells out the bargain of the two boons: fourteen years of exile, and Bharata’s crowning. Rama does not waver; Dasharatha breaks.

Rama Accepts, and Turns Toward His Mother

Hearing that unwelcome word, deadly as death itself, Rama did not flinch, and said to Kaikeyi, “Let it be so. Keeping the king’s pledge, I will put on matted hair and bark cloth and go from here to dwell in the forest. Only I would know why the king no longer welcomes me as he used to. Lady, do not be angry at me for asking. Having the command of a friend, an elder, a grateful father, what dear task would I not do without a second thought? One thing alone frets my mind: that the king himself does not speak to me of Bharata’s crowning. Gladly would I give Bharata the kingdom, my wealth, even Sita and my life, of my own will; how much more, then, at my father’s command and for your gladness. So set this shamed lord of the earth at ease. Yet why does the king keep his eyes fixed on the ground and shed slow tears?”

“This very moment, at once, I go to the Dandaka forest, that my father’s word may stand unquestioned, and I will stay there fourteen years.” Hearing this, Kaikeyi was pleased and began to urge Rama to hurry. “So be it; messengers on swift horses will go to fetch Bharata from his uncle’s house. There should be no delay now in your going to the forest; until you leave the city quickly, the king will neither bathe nor eat.” The king cried, “Shame on it, what agony,” drew a long breath, and, sunk in grief, fell senseless on the gold-inlaid couch. Rama lifted him up, and, urged on again by Kaikeyi, made ready to go to the forest like a horse under the whip.

Even after hearing the ruthless words of that ignoble woman, Rama, untouched by pain, said, “Lady, I do not wish to cling to life for the sake of wealth; know me to be settled, like the sages, in pure dharma. Whatever was dear to my father and lay in my power, take it as done, though it cost my life. There is no dharma greater than serving one’s father and keeping his word. Though my honored father does not say it to me plainly, at your word I will live fourteen years in the empty forest. Kaikeyi, you have more claim on me than my father does, and yet you asked the king for so small a thing; it seems you find no worth in me. Taking leave of my mother and settling Sita’s mind, I will go to the Dandaka woods this very day. Let Bharata rule the realm and serve our father; that is the eternal dharma, and let it be your care.”

Hearing Rama’s words, the father, undone by grief, cried aloud. Bowing at the feet of his senseless father and of the ignoble Kaikeyi, the greatly lustrous Rama set out. Behind him came Lakshmana, son of Sumitra, eyes full of tears and fierce with anger. Walking around the vessels of the consecration, keeping his eyes from them, Rama went slowly forward.

The loss of the kingdom took nothing from his luster, as the moon of cool rays loses none of its beauty when it wanes. Bound for the forest, ready to give up the earth, he showed no change of heart, like a yogi risen above the pairs of opposites. Refusing the fine parasol and whisks, turning back his people, his chariot, and the townsfolk, holding his grief within and reining in his senses, the self-possessed Rama went to his mother’s house to carry the unwelcome news. Honoring all he met with sweet words, the righteous Rama came to his mother, and behind him came Lakshmana, his equal in every virtue and vast in valor, holding down the grief in his own heart. Entering that house so full of joy, and seeing the ruin of his own fortunes, Rama let no change show, for fear that the loss might cost his loved ones their lives.

The gist: Rama accepts the order without anger or grief; he sees no dharma higher than guarding his father’s truth. Dasharatha falls senseless, an enraged Lakshmana walks with him, and Rama, wholly composed, goes to break the news to his mother.

Kausalya’s Lament

The moment the noblest of men, Rama, with folded hands, stepped out of the inner apartments, a great wail went up among the women. Those queens cried like cows parted from their calves, and they cursed their own husband too. “That same Rama, who without being asked used to watch over all the affairs of the palace, who was our refuge and our way, today goes to exile in the forest. He who felt no anger even when he was scolded, who soothed the angry, today he goes. A witless king, who casts away Rama, the recourse of all living things, still walks this world of the living.” Hearing that hard wailing, the king, seared already by sorrow for his son, hid himself in his bedclothes for very shame and grief.

The self-controlled Rama, drawing long breaths like an elephant, reached his mother’s house with Lakshmana. At the door sat aged and much-honored keepers and many other guards; the moment they saw Rama they all rose and hailed him with cries of victory. Crossing the first court and coming to the second, he met old brahmins deep in the Vedas whom the king had honored, and in the third the women set to guard the gate, and children, and the old.

Kausalya had kept vigil the whole night, and at dawn, longing for her son’s good, she was worshiping Vishnu. Clad in white linen, thin from her fasting, she was having oblations poured into the fire to the chant of sacred verses. Rama saw there curd, whole grains, ghee, sweet cakes, sacrificial fare, parched rice, white garlands, milk pudding, a rice-and-sesame dish, and pots full of kindling. Seeing her son come after so long, she rose in great gladness and went to him like a mare running to its foal. Rama clung to her arms, and the mother gathered him into her embrace and smelled his head.

Out of a mother’s love Kausalya spoke words dear and kind. “May you win the long life, the fame, and the dharma worthy of the righteous, great-souled royal sages, and of your line. Raghava, go and meet your father, the king true to his word; that righteous man will this very day anoint you heir apparent.”

Barely touching the seat offered him, spreading his palms a little, Rama, humble by nature and bowed with a graver weight, said, “Lady, surely you do not know that a great terror has come upon us. What I have to say will bring grief to you, to Sita, and to Lakshmana. I am to go to the Dandaka forest; what use now this gem-set seat? For me the hour of the seat of kusha grass has come. Fourteen years I will pass in the empty forest like the ascetics, on roots and fruits, leaving royal fare behind. The king is giving the office of heir apparent to Bharata and sending me, made an ascetic, to the Dandaka forest. Six and eight, that is fourteen years, I will live on the fruit and root of the woods.”

Hearing this bitter news, the lady Kausalya fell all at once like a branch of a sal tree cut by an axe in the forest, and lying senseless she seemed a goddess fallen from heaven. Undeserving of any grief, sunk down like a plantain tree, the mother was lifted by Rama, who wiped the dust from her limbs with his own hands. Then, with Lakshmana listening, Kausalya said,

“Rama, had you never been born to be my sorrow, even then this grief would not have found me; had I stayed childless, my only pain would have been the mind’s pain of knowing myself barren, and no more. From my husband’s manhood I have never known welfare or ease; I had hoped to see it in my son’s reign, and now even that is gone. Senior queen though I am, I will hear the heart-piercing words of my younger co-wives. Even with you near me I am slighted; once you are gone, death is certain. My husband holds me of no account, and I have always been kept down, reckoned as one of Kaikeyi’s serving women or lower still. Whoever waits on me or follows me will, at the sight of Kaikeyi’s son, no longer even speak to me. How, brought so low, shall I bear to see the ever-angry Kaikeyi’s harsh-tongued face?”

“The seventeen years since your birth and your rite of initiation I spent in the hope that my sorrow would end, and this unending grief I will not be able to bear for long. Not seeing your face, full as the moon, how shall I live out my mean life? All my fasts, my vows, my toil, all the pain I bore to raise you, has come to nothing. Surely my heart is made of iron, that it does not split even at this grief; surely no early death is meant for me. My vows, my gifts, my self-restraint, and the austerity I did in longing for a child, all have proved as fruitless as seed sown in barren ground. If one worn thin by grief for a loved one could die at will, I would go this very day to the realm of death, like a cow bereft of its calf. Without you my life is empty; frail as I am, I will follow you to the forest like a cow after its calf.” So Kausalya lamented on and on, like a kinnari watching her captured son.

The gist: Rama lays the truth of the exile before Kausalya. She grieves over her neglected, widow-like life, the scorn of her co-wives, and her wasted motherhood, and she says she will go with Rama to the forest.

Lakshmana’s Fury, and Rama’s Sense of Dharma

To Kausalya, Rama’s grieving mother, the downcast Lakshmana spoke words to fit the hour. “Noble lady, it does not please me either that Raghava should leave the royal fortune and go to the forest, caught in the word of one woman. What will an aged king, his judgment twisted, drunk on his pleasures, not say when Kaikeyi goads him on, a slave to his desire? I see no fault or offense in Rama for which he should be driven from the realm. There is no one in the world, not even Rama’s bitterest enemy, who could point to a fault in him, even behind his back. Who would abandon without cause a son godlike, guileless, self-controlled, a well-wisher even to his foes? And what son schooled in statecraft would take to heart such words from a king fallen back into childishness?”

Turning to Rama, Lakshmana said, “Before anyone comes to know of this, let me help you crown yourself and take the reins of the kingdom in hand. With me standing guard, bow in hand, and death itself before you in me, who can show greater force than you? If Ayodhya stands against you, I will strip it of its people with my keen arrows. Bharata’s partisans, his well-wishers, all of them I will kill; softness is what gets scorned. If our father, goaded by Kaikeyi, acts like an enemy, then without a scruple he too should be bound or set aside. When a teacher is drunk with pride, blind to what should and should not be done, walking the wrong road, even he may be checked.”

“By what strength or right does he mean to give the kingdom, yours by justice, to Kaikeyi’s son? What power has he to hand Bharata the royal fortune while taking on your bitter enmity and mine?” To Kausalya, Lakshmana said, “Lady, by my bow and by the merit of my truth, my gifts, and my worship of the gods, I swear that with a true heart I am wholly devoted to my elder brother. If Rama enters blazing fire or the forest, know me to have entered there first. Like the rising sun I will lift away your grief with my valor. Let the lady and Raghava behold my strength. I will kill my father, his mind captive to Kaikeyi, a miser, aged, disgraced by his old age.”

Hearing these words of Lakshmana’s, the grief-stricken Kausalya wept and said to Rama, “Son, you have heard your brother’s word; if it seems good, do what is right. It is not fitting that you leave me, seared by sorrow at hearing my co-wife’s unrighteous words, and go. If you are a knower of dharma and wish to walk in dharma, then stay here, serve me, and keep the highest dharma. The son of Kashyapa too, serving his mother, went to heaven by his great austerity. The king is worthy of your reverence; by love and by weight I am no less. I do not give you leave to go to the forest. Without you, what have I to do with life or comfort? To eat grass at your side is better for me. If you leave me in my grief and go to the forest, I will fast to death here, I will not be able to live; and then you too must suffer the notorious hell, as the ocean, lord of rivers, suffered for a sin like the killing of a brahmin.”

The righteous Rama spoke words in keeping with dharma. “It is not in me to overstep my father’s word; that is why I mean to go to the forest. Bowing my head, I beg your grace. The forest sage Kandu, though he knew dharma, killed a cow at his father’s command. In our own line the sons of Sagara, digging the earth at their father’s word, met a great death. Parashurama, son of Jamadagni, at his father’s command struck off in the forest the head of his own mother Renuka. These, and many other godlike men, fulfilled their fathers’ word without a scruple; I too will do my father’s good. This is no strange, unwelcome dharma I set going; I only follow the path of the forefathers. No one falls from dharma by keeping his father’s word.”

To Lakshmana, best of the wielders of speech and of the bow, Rama said, “Lakshmana, I know your matchless love, your valor, your strength, and your unassailable luster. But my mother, not grasping the drift of truth and calm, is suffering a great and measureless grief. In this world dharma is supreme, and in dharma truth stands fixed, and this word of my father’s, being founded on dharma, is the best of things. Having given his word to a father, a mother, or a brahmin, the one who stands in dharma must not make it come to nothing. Bound by my father’s word and by Kaikeyi’s urging, I cannot overstep this charge. So put aside this resolve that rests on the warrior’s code, take refuge in dharma, do not show your edge; follow the way of my mind.”

Having in love turned his brother from his purpose, with folded hands and bowed head Rama spoke again to his mother. “Lady, give me leave to go to the forest; I swear by my life, do the rites of blessing for me. Having fulfilled my pledge, I will come back to the city, as the royal sage Yayati returned from heaven. Mother, hold your grief within, do not sorrow; keeping my father’s word I will return from exile. You, and I, and Sita, and Lakshmana and Sumitra, all of us must stand within my father’s charge, for this is the eternal dharma. Mother, holding the grief of your heart within, clearing away the coronation gear, follow this righteous resolve of mine.”

Hearing Rama’s word, so full of dharma, so steady and unshaken, the mother came back to her senses as if brought to life again, and said, “Son, as your father is worthy of reverence, so by dharma and by love am I. I do not give you leave; it is not right for you to leave me in my great grief and go. Dearer to me than the company or the rule of the whole world of the living is one hour of your company.”

Hearing this piteous lament of his mother’s, Rama blazed up like a great elephant that has entered a cave of darkness and is goaded by the torches of men. Settled in dharma, Rama spoke to the near-senseless mother and the burning Lakshmana the words of dharma that only he could speak. “Lakshmana, I know your steady devotion and your valor; but not grasping my purpose, you and my mother together fill me with a deep grief. Without you, what have I to do with life, or with the world of nectar and the offerings to the ancestors? One hour of your company is dearer to me than the whole world of the living.”

“Dharma, wealth, and desire, which are called in this world the means of happiness, all follow after dharma, as an obedient wife brings dharma, joy, and children. Whatever is empty of all three should be cast off, and one should do only what makes for dharma; a man given to wealth without dharma is hateful, and clinging to desire is not praised either. When an aged father, a teacher, or a king gives an order, even out of anger or gladness or desire, what man not cruel would fail to do it, taking it for dharma? So I cannot rest without fulfilling this pledge of my father’s; he is the teacher of us both, and the lady’s husband, her way and her dharma. While such a lord of dharma lives, how shall the lady come with me as though she were a widow? Therefore, lady, give me leave to go to the forest and do the rites of blessing, that having fulfilled my pledge I may return like Yayati. For the sake of a kingdom I will not fling behind me the high glory that is mine; life is so short that I do not, by unrighteousness, desire today this paltry earth.”

Gladdening his mother and making his sense of dharma fully clear to Lakshmana, that best of men, ready to go to the Dandaka forest, walked around his mother in his mind.

The gist: Lakshmana, in his fury, proposes force against Dasharatha and Kaikeyi and the seizing of the throne; Kausalya too tries to hold Rama back. Rama answers with patience: his father’s word rests on dharma, the forefathers did the same, and glory and dharma outrank a kingdom.

Rama on Fate, and the Comforting of Lakshmana

Coming to Lakshmana, who was wretched with pain, past all endurance, his eyes wide with anger, like an angry king of serpents, the self-possessed Rama, holding his own mind steady, said, “Sumitra’s son, hold back your anger and grief, take on a matchless composure, let this slight go by, and, taking the deep joy of being a helper in the keeping of your father’s word, quickly send back the gear gathered for my crowning and do the work without hindrance. Let the readiness that went into gathering the coronation things go now into undoing it. Our mother Kaikeyi, who is seared with anxiety over my crowning, let her be freed of her fear; see to it. I cannot slight the pain of the fear in her mind even for an hour.”

“I do not remember ever having done wrong, knowingly or unknowingly, to my mothers or my father. My father is always true, true to his word, and afraid of the world to come; let him be freed of fear when his word is fulfilled through me. Until this crowning is undone, the pain of not keeping his truth will burn in his mind too, and his pain burns me. So, Lakshmana, having wound up the coronation rite, I wish to go quickly to the forest. Made complete by my exile, let Kaikeyi this very day crown her son Bharata at ease. Only when I have gone to the forest in bark cloth and deerskin, with matted locks, will Kaikeyi’s mind be content.”

“Sumitra’s son, in my banishment look to fate alone, which put this thought and this settled mind into Kaikeyi; so I should give her no grief, and I will set out without delay. In my banishment and in the snatching back of the kingdom once given, fate alone is answerable. Had this urge not been driven by fate, how would the thought of tormenting me have entered Kaikeyi’s mind? You know I never made any difference among my mothers, and Kaikeyi never made a difference between her own son and me. What then, but fate, could be the cause of these harsh, cruel words to block the crowning and send me away? How else would a princess so rich in good qualities speak, like a common woman, words to wound me before her husband?”

“What cannot be reckoned, that is fate, and it is not turned aside even among the gods; plainly this reversal has fallen on me and on her. What man dares to fight with fate, whose only sign is the fruit of past deeds? Joy and sorrow, fear and anger, gain and loss, birth and death, whatever is of this kind, is the work of fate. Even fierce ascetic sages, driven by fate, fall from their vows into lust and rage. What is broken off before it is finished, and what happens suddenly, without a cause, is the work of fate. Holding my mind steady with this true understanding, I feel no grief, even though the crowning is stopped.”

“So you too, casting off your grief, following my lead, quickly have the crowning rite stopped. With these very jars of water gathered for the crowning, my rite of vows will be bathed. Or what need have I of this water of the royal treasury? The water I draw myself will begin my vow. Lakshmana, do not grieve at the reversal of fortune; for me, kingdom or exile, exile is the higher glory. Lakshmana, my younger mother Kaikeyi and my father, neither should be doubted, for they are in the grip of fate; you know that fate is of unfailing power.”

The gist: Rama holds Kaikeyi and his father blameless and lays the whole burden on fate. He tells Lakshmana to give up anger and grief and send back the coronation gear; he will bathe his vow with the water in those very jars.

Lakshmana’s Rebuttal, and the Case for Human Effort

At Rama’s words Lakshmana stood with bowed head, swaying between dejection and joy. Then, knitting his brows between them, that best of men hissed like an angry great serpent in its hole; and his knotted-browed, hard-to-look-at face took on the beauty of an angry lion’s. Flinging out his forearm like an elephant, bending his neck sideways and up, looking from the corner of his eye, Lakshmana spoke.

“This great confusion has risen in you out of place, from fear of the fault of unrighteousness and to still the world’s doubt. But you are no weakling; you are a bold bull among the warriors. How do you praise this poor, powerless fate? How do you not doubt those two sinners, Dasharatha and Kaikeyi? O righteous one, do you not know that there are people who wear the mere show of dharma? If the two of them, who wish by deceit to serve their own ends, had not meant just this, the crowning would never have been begun; and if the bargain of the boons were true, it would have been given long before the preparations.”

“What was begun is unwelcome to the world; I cannot bear the crowning of anyone but you; forgive me this unforbearance. Even the dharma is hateful to me in whose spell your judgment has gone astray. The father, in Kaikeyi’s power, speaks an unrighteous, blamable word; why do you fulfill it when you could stop it by act? This split, made by deceit, you take to be the work of fate, and it grieves me, and such a false clinging to dharma is worthy of blame.”

“This dharma-yoking of yours is blamed in this world. Lust-driven, forever harmful, these two enemies who bear the name of father, who but you would fulfill their wish even in thought? Even granting your belief that their resolve too is driven by fate, still it should be ignored; such a verdict of fate does not please me either. It is the shaken and the strengthless who follow fate; the self-confident and the brave do not worship fate. He who can check fate by his own effort does not sink down even when fate spoils his work.”

“Today people will see the strength of fate and the strength of man; today the difference between fate and human effort will stand revealed. Those who saw your crowning checked by fate will today see fate beaten by my effort. The fate that charges like an elephant maddened with rut-juice, kept off only by the goad, I will turn back by my effort. All the guardians of the worlds, or the dwellers in the three worlds, cannot today stop Rama’s crowning, much less the father. Let those who backed your exile themselves live fourteen years in the forest. I will burn the hope of my father and of Kaikeyi that reaches, through the wrecking of the crowning, toward the son’s kingdom. To whoever stands against my strength, the strength of fate will not be so much a help as my fierce valor will be a torment.”

“Exile after thousands of years is fitting, in the manner of the royal sages, when a king hands the people over to his sons. If, from fear of revolt in the realm while the king’s mind is unsettled, you do not want the kingdom, then have no doubt either; like the shoreline against the sea I will guard you and your kingdom; may I not win the world of heroes if I fail. Be consecrated with the auspicious things, set to that very work; to hold off enemy kings by force I alone am enough.”

“These arms of mine are not for show, nor is the bow an ornament, nor the sword a mark on the waist, nor the arrows meant to prop anything up; they are all for the crushing of enemies. With a sword keen-edged and flashing like lightning, even were the enemy Indra the wielder of the thunderbolt, I would not wish to leave him uncut. With the limbs of horsemen, horses, and elephants cut by my sword, the ground will grow hard to cross; the slain enemies will fall like blazing fire or lightning-charged clouds. With the leather guard bound on my fingers and my bow raised before me, who will boast of his manhood? Killing one with many arrows and many with one, I will pierce the vitals of men, horses, and elephants. Today the power of my weapons will stand revealed, to prove the king powerless and, my lord, to prove your power. These arms, fit for sandal-paste, for armlets, for the giving of wealth and the guarding of friends, will today be set to hold off the wreckers of the crowning. Say the word, and today whom shall I strip of life, of fame, and of kin; give the order, that this earth may come into your power, for I am your servant.”

Wiping Lakshmana’s tears, giver of increase to the Raghu line, Rama comforted him again and again and said, “Gentle one, know me to be firmly fixed in my father’s word; this is the path of the good.”

The gist: Lakshmana names the creed of fate a weakness and insists on the supremacy of human effort, vowing to hold off every foe alone. Rama wipes his tears and calms him; he is immovable in his father’s word.

Kausalya’s Last Farewell

Seeing Rama firm in the keeping of his father’s command, Kausalya, her throat choked with tears, spoke words of dharma. “Ah, this righteous one born of me and Dasharatha, a stranger to sorrow, sweet-spoken to every creature, how will he live on the leavings of grain in the market? He whose very servants and slaves eat the finest fare, how will that same Rama eat roots and fruit in the forest? Who will believe it, and who will not be afraid, that Kakutstha, the king’s beloved and full of virtue, is being cast out? Surely in this world fate is the strongest and gives all its orders, when one lovely as you goes to the forest.”

“This great fire of grief, born of dread over your return, kindled in my mind, fanned by the wind of your coming absence, blazing with the kindling of a lament’s sorrow, fed with the offering of weeping tears, and thick with the great smoke of anxiety, will wear me thin and burn me as a wildfire burns dry grass at winter’s end. As a cow goes after its calf, so, my child, wherever you go, I will come after you.”

Hearing these words, Rama said to his deeply grieving mother, “The king, cheated by Kaikeyi, once I am gone to the wilderness, will surely not live if he is forsaken by you too. For a wife to abandon her husband is a woman’s cruelty, and it is most blamed; do not do such a thing even in thought. As long as my father, Kakutstha, lord of the world, lives, serve him; that is the eternal dharma.” The fair-faced Kausalya, well pleased, said, “So be it.”

Rama said again, “The father’s word both you and I must keep. He is king, husband, teacher, elder, master, and lord of us all. Having sported nine years and five in the great forest, I will come back to your word with the deepest love.” With a tear-drenched face, past all patience, the loving Kausalya said, “To live among these co-wives is more than I can bear; Kakutstha, if your father’s wish sets your heart on going, then take me too, like a doe of the wild.”

To his weeping mother Rama said, weeping himself, “A living woman’s husband is her god and her lord; today the king has lordship over you and over me. While the wise lord of the world, the king, lives, we are not orphaned. Bharata too is righteous, sweet-spoken to every creature, devoted to dharma; he will serve you. See to it, with care, that when I am gone the king is not crushed by grief for his son, and that this dreadful sorrow does not destroy him. Serve the good of the aged king, ever collected in mind.”

“The woman who, though given to vows and fasts, does not follow her husband, comes to a sinful end; by service to her husband alone a woman wins the highest heaven. She who bows to no other and turns from the worship of the gods still wins heaven by serving her husband; to do her husband’s dear good is a woman’s eternal dharma, so say the Veda and the remembered law. For my sake, lady, in the fire rites, honor the gods and the brahmins with flowers and the rest. Taking regular, measured food, given to the service of your husband, wait for my return; on my return you will win your dearest wish, if the king, best of the righteous, keeps his life.”

With tear-filled eyes Kausalya said, “Dear one, brave son, I cannot change your well-considered resolve to go; fate is not to be overstepped. So go, my lord, with a mind at one, and may it always be well with you. Only on your return will I be free of my grief; great one, having gained your end, kept your vow, and paid off your father’s debt, then, seeing you, I will sleep in perfect ease. The way of fate is hard to fathom, Raghava, that turns aside my pleading and drives you to go. Go now, mighty-armed one, and coming home safe, gladden me with sweet words of comfort. Will that day come when I see you returned from the forest, in matted hair and bark cloth?” Seeing Rama set on the exile, the lady spoke him words of blessing and made ready the rite of well-wishing.

The gist: Kausalya voices her wish to go along, but Rama teaches her that serving a living husband is a wife’s eternal dharma, and that guarding the aged king’s welfare is her duty. The mother yields at last and sets about the rite of farewell.

The Mother’s Rite of Benediction

Bearing that anguish of parting through her good sense, sipping pure water, the high-minded Kausalya, Rama’s mother, performed his rites of blessing. She said, “Best of the Raghus, your going cannot be turned back; so go now, walk the path of the good, and finish the term of exile and come home quickly. May the very dharma you keep with love and rule protect you, tiger of the Raghus. May the gods you bow to at the crossroads and in the temples guard you in the forest with the great sages. May the weapons the wise Vishvamitra gave you guard you. Guarded by service to your father and mother and by your truth, may you live long.”

“May the kindling, the kusha grass, the sacred purifiers, the altars of sacrifice, the temples, the brahmins’ sacred grounds, the mountains, the trees, the shrubs, the pools, the birds, the serpents, and the lions, all guard you. May the Sadhyas, the Vishvedevas, the host of the Maruts with the great sages, the Ordainer and the Disposer, Pushan, Bhaga, and Aryaman, Indra and the other guardians of the worlds, the six seasons, the months, the year, the day and night and the hours, forever work your welfare. May the Veda, the remembered law, and dharma guard you on every side. May Lord Skanda, and Soma with Brihaspati, the Seven Seers, and Narada guard you. May the Siddhas and the lords of the quarters, praised by me, forever guard you in that forest.”

“May all the mountains, the seas, King Varuna, the sky, the middle air, and the earth, the wind with all that moves and stands still, all the stars and planets with their gods, day and night and twilight, guard you. May you have no fear of demons, ghouls, cruel-deed doers, and eaters of flesh. May monkeys, scorpions, stinging things, gnats, and mosquitoes, reptiles and insects, keep away from your forest. May great elephants, lions, tigers, bears, tusked beasts, and horned buffaloes bear you no malice. May the other man-eating tribes, whom I have worshiped here, not harm you. May your roads be blessed, your ventures crowned, and all the riches of the forest be yours; go in comfort, my son. May Shukra, Soma, Surya, Kubera, and Yama, worshiped by me, guard you, dwellers of the Dandaka forest. May Agni, Vayu, the smoke, and the mantras that come from the mouths of the sages guard you at your bath and your sipping of water. May Brahma, lord of all worlds, the maker of beings, and the rest of the gods guard you, dwellers of the forest.”

So saying, the illustrious Kausalya worshiped the hosts of gods with garlands, perfumes, and fitting praises. Then, through a great-souled brahmin, in due form, she had oblations poured into the fire for Rama’s welfare; ghee, white garlands, kindling, and mustard she gathered. The officiant, after the offering for peace and health, offered the remaining oblation as an outer gift. Then, with honey, curd, whole grains, and ghee, she had the brahmins recite the mantras for Rama’s safe forest journey, and, giving the chief among the twice-born the fee he desired, she said to Rama,

“May the blessing that came to thousand-eyed Indra, honored by all the gods, at the slaying of Vritra, come to you. May the blessing that Vinata gave to Garuda when he sought the nectar come to you. May the blessing that Aditi gave to Indra as he slew the demons in the churning of the nectar come to you. May the blessing that came to the boundless-lustered Vishnu as he set his three strides come to you, Rama. May the sages, the seven seas, the seven islands, the Vedas, the three worlds, and the four quarters give you the blessing of blessings, mighty-armed one.”

So saying, marking her son’s brow with whole grains and perfume, the large-eyed Kausalya bound on him the potent, wound-healing herb Vishalyakarani for his guard, and murmured her mantras. Sunk though she was in grief, so that Rama’s spirit might not break, she spoke the mantras with her voice alone, seeming glad, without the answering gladness of her heart. Then, bowing his head, smelling it, embracing him, she said, “Rama, go in comfort, your end gained. May I in comfort see you back in Ayodhya, free of illness, your every wish fulfilled, at one on the royal roads with all. May I see you come from the forest with the resolve of sorrow gone and your face bright with joy, like the full moon risen. Having kept your father’s word, may I see you seated again on the auspicious throne. Home from the forest, adorned in festive robes, may you ever fulfill my daughter-in-law’s wishes. May the gods led by Shiva whom I worship, the great sages, the hosts of spirits, the gods and serpents, and the quarters, long seek your good.”

The rite of well-wishing duly done, the tear-eyed Kausalya walked around Rama and, looking at him again and again, embraced him. Circled by his mother, pressing his mother’s feet over and over, kindled by the luster of her blessing, the greatly glorious Raghava went off toward Sita’s house.

The gist: Kausalya prays to all the gods, the quarters, the seasons, and the creatures for Rama’s protection, makes the fire offering and binds on the guarding herb, and, holding down her grief, blesses him in a glad voice. Rama circles his mother and moves on toward Sita’s house.

Sita’s Question

Having bowed to Kausalya and won her blessing, Rama, set on the road of dharma, went toward the forest, stirring people’s hearts with his virtues, gracing the royal road with his nearness. Sita, devoted to her vows and given to austerity, had not yet heard any of what had stopped the crowning and made the exile; so Rama’s consecration as heir apparent was still the only thing in her heart. Having worshiped the gods, the princess, well-schooled in the dharma of kings, waited for her husband with a glad heart.

Then Rama, his face a little bowed with shame, came into his well-adorned house, full of glad people. Rising from her seat, trembling, Sita saw her husband seared with grief, his senses wild with worry. Seeing her, the righteous Rama could not hide the grief of his mind; it showed. Seeing his pale face, his sweat, and his agitation, Sita, seared with sorrow, said, “Lord, what is this? Today the blessed constellation Pushya, ruled by Brihaspati, is joined with the moon, the hour the learned brahmins call auspicious for a crowning; then what has cast you down? Why is your lovely face not shaded by the white parasol with its hundred ribs, pale as the foam of water? Why is your lotus-eyed face not fanned with the fine whisks white as moon and swan?”

“The eloquent men and the bards are nowhere today, singing your praise in gladness; the reciters do not chant their auspicious verses. The brahmins deep in the Vedas do not pour honey and curd on the head of the anointed king in due form. The whole people, the guild chiefs, the townsfolk and country folk in their ornaments, are not set to walk behind you. Why does the chief flower-chariot, decked in gold, with four sound horses, not go before you? Why is there no lordly elephant marked with all good signs, dark as a rain cloud or a hill, going ahead? Why is there no herald before you bearing the auspicious seat painted in gold? When the crowning is ready, then what is this; the color of your face is strange, and there is no gladness in you.”

The gist: Sita, still in the dark, sees Rama downcast and counts off each royal token one by one (parasol, whisk, praise, elephant, chariot), asking why his face is sad on the blessed day of the crowning.

Rama Explains to Sita

To the grieving Sita, Rama said, “Sita, my revered father is sending me to the forest. Janaki, you are highborn, a knower of dharma and a keeper of dharma; hear how this has fallen on me today, in order. My father, King Dasharatha, true to his word, once gave my mother Kaikeyi two great boons. Today, when by the king’s own effort the readiness for my crowning was complete, she bound the king with those very boons and, on the ground of dharma, brought him wholly under her will. I am to live fourteen years in the Dandaka forest, and my father has appointed Bharata to the office of heir apparent. So, bound for the empty forest, I have come to see you.”

“Never praise me before Bharata; men rich in fortune cannot bear the praise of others. Do not tell my virtues before him, nor set me especially high; only by fitting your conduct to him will you be able to live at his side. The king has given him the everlasting office of heir apparent; so, Sita, keep him, and above all the king, well pleased. I too, keeping my father’s pledge, will go to the forest this very day; steadfast woman, be firm. When I am gone to the forest, sinless one, keep to your vows and fasts. Rising at dawn, worshiping the gods in due form, bow to my father, King Dasharatha. Honor my aged mother Kausalya, worn thin with grief, setting dharma first. My other mothers too are always to be honored; in love, in affection, and in care they are all mothers to me alike.”

“Bharata and Shatrughna, who are dearer to me than life, look on them especially as your brothers or your sons. Sita, never do what displeases Bharata; he is now, as it were, king of our land and our line. Kings are pleased by good conduct and unbroken service, and angered otherwise. Rulers, when harmed, cast off even their own sons, and take up well-wishers who are not their kin. So, blessed one, live in Ayodhya under the king’s protection, in favor with Bharata, given to dharma and true to your vow. I go to the great forest, lady; you are to stay here. Live so that no one is hurt; this is my counsel to you.”

The gist: Rama tells Sita the tale of the two boons and the truth of the fourteen-year exile, and counsels her to stay in Ayodhya, keep in favor with Bharata, serve his parents, and treat Bharata and Shatrughna as brothers and sons.

Sita’s Resolve

At this, the sweet-spoken Sita, worthy of her husband’s grace, grew a little angry out of love and said, “Rama, what light thing is this you speak, that makes me laugh to hear it, best of the noblest men? It is a word unworthy and shameful for brave princes trained in the science of arms, not fit to be heard. My lord, father, mother, brother, son, and daughter-in-law all reap their own merit and lean each on their own fortune; but a wife alone shares her husband’s fortune. And so I too am charged to live in the forest at your side.”

“For a woman there is neither father, nor son, nor self, nor mother, nor friends; in this world and the next the husband is her one and only way. Raghava, if you set out this very day for the hard forest, I will walk ahead of you, crushing the kusha grass and the thorns. Fling out jealousy and anger, as one throws away the water left after drinking, and take me with you without a scruple, brave one; there is no sin in me. Higher than a palace roof, a sky-chariot, or a flight through the air, in every state, is for a woman the shade of her husband’s feet.”

“My mother and father taught me my conduct toward you in every way; there is no need now to tell me how to live. I will go with you into that hard forest thick with herds of deer and haunted by tigers; thinking on the vow of a faithful wife, caring nothing even for the three worlds, I will live in the forest happily as in my father’s house. Serving you always in self-restraint and chastity, I will roam with you the honey-scented woods. You could protect even others in the forest; how much more, then, your own obedient wife, giver of honor?”

“I will surely go to the forest with you today; no one can stop me, set as I am on it, blessed one. I will eat roots and fruit always, and living at your side I will never give you pain. I will walk ahead of you and eat only after you have eaten. With you I long to see, unafraid, the hills, the pools, and the lakes; in lotus lakes full of swans and waterfowl, in fair-flowered ponds, I will bathe each day as one devoted, and sport in the deepest joy. Even to pass thousands or hundreds of thousands of years with you would be no grief; without you, heaven itself is not welcome to me. Tiger among men, though a dwelling in heaven were offered me without you, it would not please me.”

“I will go into that hardest of forests, thick with deer and apes and elephants, and, taking the shelter of your feet, honored by you, I will live as in my father’s house. Devoted to you and to no other, sure of death if I am parted from you, take me, dear one, and grant my prayer; I will be no burden on you.” Even at these words of the dharma-loving Sita, that best of men, Rama, did not want to take her to the forest; telling out at length the sorrows of forest life, he set to turning her from her resolve.

The gist: Out of love and a touch of anger, Sita declares that the husband is a woman’s one and only way, and holds her husband’s company in the forest higher than heaven. Still Rama does not want to take her, and counting up the forest’s hardships tries to turn her back.

Rama Counts the Forest’s Thorns, and Sita’s Unshaken Heart

Rama, who loved dharma, still wished that Sita be spared the sorrows of the forest. Comforting her, her eyes blurred with tears, and meaning again to turn her back, he said, “Sita, you were born into a great house and are ever devoted to dharma. Stay here and keep to dharma, that our mind may find ease.”

Then he began to count off the perils of exile one by one. “Tender woman, the forest has many faults; hear them from me. Give up this thought of exile; a thick forest is called a wilderness full of dangers. I say this out of care for your good; there is no lasting comfort in the woods, and to my knowledge they are one long sorrow.”

“The roar of lions, made louder still by the din of the mountain streams, is hard on the ear. The wild beasts that sport at ease without fear, seeing a human, rush at him from every side. The rivers are full of crocodiles and thick with mud, and even rutting elephants cannot cross them. The trails are waterless and cruelly rough, choked with creepers and thorns and loud with the cry of jungle fowl. Worn out by the labor of hunting for fruit, one must sleep at night on a bed of dry leaves fallen of themselves.”

“Day and night, holding the mind in check with self-restraint, one must ease hunger only with fruit fallen of itself from the trees. Princess of Mithila, one must fast to the limit of one’s strength, bear the weight of matted hair on the head, and wear bark cloth, the garment of tree bark. In due form one must worship the gods and the ancestors and honor day by day the guest who arrives unlooked-for. Those living under the rule must bathe three times, at dawn, at noon, and at dusk. One must worship at the altar, in the sages’ way, with flowers gathered by one’s own hand.”

“The wind there blows very hard, thick darkness hangs, hunger is forever fierce, and there are great terrors too. Radiant one, serpents of many kinds crawl proudly along the trails. Snakes that live in the rivers and wind like a river’s own bends lie across the path and block it. Moths, scorpions, insects, gadflies, and mosquitoes torment one without end. Thorn-trees, kusha and kasha grass spread their branches on every side. Anger and greed must be given up entirely, the mind must be set on austerity, and one must not fear even what should be feared.”

“So give up the thought of going to the forest; the forest is no safe place for you. The more I think of it, the more the forest shows itself full of faults.” Even at all this from the great-souled Rama, Sita’s mind would not consent, and, in deep grief, she gave him her answer.

The gist: Rama counts off each hardship of the forest to hold Sita back, but the dharma-loving Sita’s heart does not stir. Valmiki’s forest here is the real, forbidding wild, no lovely grove of penance.

Sita’s Answer: With You, the Forest Is Heaven

Hearing this word of Rama’s, Sita, full of love and shedding tears, said tenderly, “Raghava, the faults you named in forest life, take them, for your love of me, to be virtues instead. Raghava, deer, lions, elephants, tigers, sharabhas (an eight-legged beast of fable, said to be stronger even than the lion), yaks, and the other creatures of the wild, never having seen your form before, will flee the moment they see you, for all things fear you.”

“By the command of my father and mother I must go with you, for I am your other half and cannot live without you. Rama, parted from you, I must give up my life here. With you near me, not even Indra in the flesh could master me by his strength.”

“Deeply wise one, long ago in my father’s house I heard from the brahmins that I would one day have to live in the forest. Hearing it from the brahmins who read the marks of the body, I have ever been eager for the exile. Dear one, that prophecy of forest life I must make come true, and so I will go with you, my husband, and it can be no otherwise. The hour is now come; let the brahmins’ word prove true.”

“Many are the sorrows of forest life, I know; but they fall only on men who have not mastered their senses. Brave one, in my girlhood in my father’s house a gentle nun said this very thing before my mother, that I would have to keep exile with you. My longing to go to the forest with you is from very long ago.”

“Raghava, I have waited for this hour of going to the forest with you; may it be well with you. Pure-souled one, walking behind my husband to the forest, I will be freed in love from all sins, for to a woman the husband is the highest god. This holy teaching I heard from the glorious brahmins, that a man to whom, in this world, father and mother gave a daughter with water in their hands, according to their dharma, remains her husband in the world beyond as well.”

“Lord, for this very reason I have asked you before, more than once, to take me to the forest. A well-conducted, faithful wife like me, why are you unwilling to take from this city? Kakutstha, one who shares alike your joy and sorrow, devoted, humble, a faithful wife, I am fit to be taken along. Kakutstha, if you will not take poor me to the forest, then I will turn to poison, or fire, or water, for my death.”

So Sita begged in many ways to go to the forest, and still the mighty-armed Rama would not consent to take her to that empty wild. Then Sita sank into thought, and from her eyes the hot tears fell as if to wet the earth. To turn her from her resolve, the self-possessed Rama comforted in many ways that princess of Videha, filled with an anger born of love.

The gist: Sita presses her unshakable plea to come along, invoking her wifely dharma, her parents’ command, and a prophecy heard in childhood; she declares she would rather die than be parted from him.

Let No One Say “Rama Has No Valor”

At Rama’s comforting, Sita of Mithila loosed at Raghava, out of love and pride, what was almost a barbed arrow. She said, “Rama, did my father, the lord of Mithila, King Videha, when he won a son-in-law like you, take you for a woman in the form of a man? If you do not take me along, the people of Ayodhya will say in their ignorance the untruth that ‘Rama, for all his blaze like the sun, has no great valor.’ That would be a grief to me.”

“What thought casts you into gloom, or what do you fear, that you would abandon me, who am wholly devoted to you? As Savitri followed the brave Satyavan, son of Dyumatsena, so take me to be one who walks in your will. Sinless one, unlike some woman who shames her line, I will not look, even in mind, on any man but you; Raghava, I must go with you.”

“Rama, your own wedded, faithful wife, married in girlhood and long at your side, do you mean to hand over to others like some strolling player? Sinless one, in whose keeping and for whose sake you tell me to stay, may you forever remain that one’s obedient servant. Do not go to the forest without taking me along. Austerity, or forest, or heaven, all are welcome to me only with you.”

“Walking behind you on the forest roads, I will feel no more weariness than in strolling a pleasure garden or lying on a couch. The kusha, kasha, reeds, and thorn-thickets, while I am with you, will touch my soles like cotton or soft deerskin. The dust the storm-wind casts on me, beloved, I will hold as priceless sandal-paste. When I lie with you on the grass in the heart of the forest, will a couch of soft bedding be sweeter than that?”

“Leaf, root, or fruit, little or much, whatever you yourself bring and give me, will taste to me like nectar. Enjoying there the flowers and fruits of the season, I will remember neither mother, nor father, nor home. My being with you will bring you no unwelcome sight, no grief on my account, nor will I prove a burden. Life with you is heaven, life without you is hell; knowing this to be my highest love, Rama, take me and go to the forest.”

“If you are truly resolved not to take me to the forest, then I will drink poison this very day, but I will not fall into the power of enemies. Parted from you I could not live on after; better, lord, to die before you than that. This grief I cannot bear even for a moment, and how then for fourteen years?”

Wailing so piteously, worn out, Sita clung to her husband and wept aloud. Pierced by many hard words, she loosed the long-held tears as wood pressed hard gives out fire. From her eyes a water clear as crystal, born of anguish, flowed like the water streaming from two lotuses. Her large-eyed face, bright as the spotless full moon, dried with the hot tears like a lotus drawn from the water. Gathering the near-swooning, grieving Sita in his arms, Rama, reassuring her fully, said,

“Lady, I have no taste for heaven itself if it costs you pain. Like Brahma, I have no fear from any quarter. Fair-faced one, it was only because I did not know your whole mind, though I have the power to protect you, that I did not consent to your exile. Mithila’s daughter, since you were fashioned to live with me in the forest, then, as one who knows the self cannot give up his love, so I cannot give you up. Graceful one, I will follow the dharma that the good followed in ages past, as Suvarchala (Sanjna, the sun’s wife) follows the sun; so follow me. Janaka’s daughter, it is not that I would not go to the forest; my father’s word, bound by truth, carries me there. To stay in the will of one’s mother and father is dharma; overstepping their command I do not wish to live. Heaven, wealth, grain, learning, sons, and comfort, nothing is beyond reach for one who keeps the command of his elders. There is no truth, no gift or honor, no fee-laden sacrifice, that gives the joy in the world beyond that service to father, mother, and teacher gives. Sita, since you are now fully resolved to go with me to the Dandaka forest, my old resolve to leave you behind has loosened.”

“Faultless-limbed, timid one, come with me now to the forest and be my partner in the dharma of forest dwellers. Sita, in every way you have resolved as befits me and your own line. Fair one, now begin the tasks fit for exile; without you, not even heaven pleases me now. Give the brahmins gems and the beggar-monks food, and make haste, do not delay.”

“The costly ornaments, the fine garments, the things of play, the couches, the carriages, all the means that are mine and yours, and whatever is left after the brahmins are given, share among your servants.” Learning her husband’s mind, the greatly pleased Sita set at once to giving, and the high-souled, glorious lady began to hand out wealth and gems to the righteous.

The gist: Moved by Sita’s firmness and by the argument that leaving her behind would brand him a coward, Rama at last agrees to take her along and tells her to give away all her wealth in charity.

Lakshmana’s Plea: I Will Walk Ahead of You

Hearing this exchange of Rama and Sita, Lakshmana, who had come with Rama from Kausalya’s house, could not bear the grief of parting; his face was wet with tears. Clasping his elder brother’s feet hard, Lakshmana said to the great-vowed Rama and the glorious Sita, “If you have made up your mind to go to the forest thick with deer and elephants, then, bow in hand, I will walk ahead of you and go along. With you I will roam the lovely woods loud with the cries of birds and herds of deer. Without you I want neither the world of the gods, nor deathlessness, nor lordship over the worlds.”

Rama held him back with many sweet words, and still Lakshmana, firm on the exile, said again, “When you had already given me leave before to come along, why am I held back now? Sinless one, I would know for what cause I am stopped; there is doubt in my mind.” To the steady Lakshmana, standing with joined hands, eager to walk ahead, the greatly lustrous Rama said, “Sumitra’s son, you are loving to me, devoted to dharma, steady, fixed on the good path, dear to me as life, obedient and biddable; you are my friend as well, and so wholly fit to come along.”

“But, Sumitra’s son, if you too go with me today, who will serve the glorious Kausalya and Sumitra? The great king who used to shower grace like rain on the earth has been bound in the noose of desire. The daughter of the king of the Kekayas, Kaikeyi, having won this kingdom, will not deal well with her grieving co-wives. And Bharata, king now and bound to Kaikeyi, will not maintain the deeply grieving Kausalya and Sumitra. So, Sumitra’s son, by your own effort or by the king’s kind favor, look after Kausalya here; do this task of mine. By it your devotion to me will show, and there will be great dharma too.”

Lakshmana, who knew the heart of speech, answered softly, “Brave one, driven by your very luster, Bharata will honor Kausalya and Sumitra, of that there is no doubt. And if, having won the fine kingdom, Bharata should in pride and folly fail to protect his mothers, then that hard-hearted wretch I will kill, and his partisans too, though the three worlds stand for him. Besides, the noble Kausalya, whose dependents have received thousands of villages in gift, can maintain a thousand men like me; she is able to keep herself, my mother, and men like me. So make me your follower; there is no unrighteousness in this. Bow in hand, spade and basket on my back, I will walk ahead and show you the way. Each day I will bring you roots and fruit; you will roam the hilltops with Sita, and I will serve you at every hour, waking and sleeping.”

Greatly pleased at this, Rama said, “Sumitra’s son, go and take leave of all your kin. And the two divine bows the great-souled Varuna gave the king at Janaka’s great sacrifice, the two impenetrable coats of mail, the two quivers of unfailing arrows, and the two gold-mounted swords bright as the sun, which Janaka gave me in dowry, all lie honored and stored in the house of our teacher Vasistha; bring them quickly.” Taking leave of his loved ones and going to Vasistha, the teacher of the Ikshvakus, Lakshmana, resolved on exile, brought those excellent weapons. Wreathed in garlands and worshiped in their divine form, the son of Sumitra showed them all to Rama. To Lakshmana, returned, Rama said with love, “Gentle one, you are back within the hour, just as I wished.”

“Scorcher of foes, now with your help I want to give away all my wealth to the ascetic brahmins, to the best of the brahmins who are devoted to their teachers, and to all my dependents. Quickly fetch the noble Suyajna, son of Vasistha, and the other worthy brahmins; honoring them all, I will set out for the forest.”

The gist: Lakshmana insists on coming along; Rama first wants to keep him back to care for the mothers, then, seeing his devotion, agrees, and sends for Suyajna and the other brahmins to receive gifts.

Suyajna, Trijata, and the Giving Away of All Wealth

Taking his elder brother’s command on his head, Lakshmana went at once to Suyajna’s house. Bowing to the brahmin seated in his fire-hall, he said, “Friend, come to the house of Rama, doer of hard deeds, and see him with your own eyes.” Finishing his midday devotions, Suyajna went with Lakshmana to Rama’s rich and lovely mansion. Seeing the Veda-knowing Suyajna come, Rama rose with Sita and joined his hands, as though welcoming the worshiped fire itself.

Rama honored Suyajna with fine armlets of gold, lovely earrings, gems strung on gold thread, upper-arm ornaments, bracelets, and many other choice ornaments. Then, at Sita’s prompting, he said, “Gentle one, your wife’s friend Sita wishes to give her a necklace, a golden cord, and a girdle; carry them to her. Going to the forest, your wife’s friend wishes also to give your wife a painted armlet and a fine upper-arm band. Sita wishes too to send to your house a couch set with many gems and spread with fine bedding. Best of the twice-born, the elephant named Shatrunjaya that my uncle gave me, that too, with a thousand gold coins, I give you.” Accepting all of it, Suyajna gave Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita his blessings of good fortune.

Then, as Brahma might speak to Indra, Rama said to his dear brother Lakshmana, “Sumitra’s son, summon the two best of brahmins, the son of Agastya and the son of Kaushika (Vishvamitra), and honor them with gems, and, mighty-armed one, as a cloud drenches the earth with rain, sate them with a thousand cows each, with gold and silver and precious jewels. The brahmin who daily, with Kausalya’s blessing, serves her, the teacher of the Taittiriya branch and knower of the Veda, give him a carriage, serving maids, silk garments, and wealth enough to content him.”

“The noble Chitraratha, the charioteer and minister who has served us long, content him with precious gems, garments, wealth, and beasts of every kind, and with a thousand cows. The many staff-bearing celibate students given to the study of the Katha and Kalapa branches, honored even by great men, have eighty camels laden with gems, a thousand bullocks loaded with rice, and two hundred oxen for the plow given to them. Sumitra’s son, gather a thousand more cows to give milk and curd for the flavor of their food. And the celibate students who, on finishing their vows, serve Kausalya in the wish to marry, give them a thousand cows each, that my mother Kausalya may be pleased.”

Then Lakshmana, best of men, gave away all that wealth of Rama’s among the brahmins like Kubera himself. To his dependents, weeping, Rama said, “Until my return, keep this house of mine and Lakshmana’s, each of you in turn, in safe hands.” Then he said to the treasurer, “Let my wealth be brought here.” A vast heap of wealth, worth the sight, was piled up there, and Rama, with Lakshmana, had it shared out among the brahmins, the children, the old, and the poor and wretched.

A sub-tale: In those days, in the forest near Ayodhya, there lived a poor brahmin of the line of Garga named Trijata, who lived by digging fields and carried a spade and an axe. His young wife, taking their children with her, said to him, “A husband is a woman’s god, and it is not for me to command him; still, hear my word. Set down the axe and spade and go to the righteous Rama; you will surely get something.” Wrapping a torn cloth about him, Trijata set off for Rama’s mansion. In luster the equal of Bhrigu and Angiras, he passed unchecked to the fifth gate and said to Rama, “Prince, I am poor and have many children; protect me.” Rama said with a laugh, “I have not yet given away even a thousand cows; you shall have as many cows as the ground you can cover by flinging your staff.” Trijata cinched his cloth tight, whirled the staff with all his strength, and flung it; it crossed the Sarayu and fell near a bull in a herd of many thousands of cows. Rama embraced him and had all the cows from that spot to the bank of the Sarayu driven to Trijata’s hermitage, and said, “Do not be angry; that was only my sport. If you wish anything else, ask; my wealth is earned only for the brahmins, and only by giving to men like you do I win fame.” Trijata, with his wife, took the herd of cows in gladness and gave Rama blessings to increase his fame, his strength, and his ease.

Rama gave away all his wealth, as was fitting, to his kin, his friends, his servants, the brahmins, and the poor who live on alms; at that time there was no one left in Ayodhya who was not sated with honor, gift, and welcome.

The gist: Before leaving for the forest, Rama and Sita give away all their splendor to the brahmins, servants, and the poor; the Trijata episode shows both Rama’s open hand and his taste for good-humored play.

The City’s Lament on the Way to the Farewell

Having given the brahmins ample wealth along with Sita, the two Raghavas set out to meet their father Dasharatha. Behind them, in the hands of two servants, garlanded and touched by Sita with sandal, the weapons of the two brothers gleamed. Climbing to the roofs of temples, mansions, and seven-storied houses, the well-to-do looked down on them in sorrow. The lanes were packed with crowds, so people watched Rama from the rooftops in grief. Seeing Rama on foot, with his younger brother and Sita, the people, wild with sorrow, began to say:

“That Rama, behind whom a four-limbed army once marched, walks today alone with Sita, and behind them only Lakshmana. Though he has known the joys of lordship and is a storehouse of pleasures, driven by the glory of dharma he will not make his father’s word a lie. That Sita, whom even the creatures of the air could not see before, the people on the royal road see today. Sita, used to unguents and red sandal, the rain, the heat, and the cold will soon leave sallow and worn.”

“Surely Dasharatha speaks today from some evil spirit; no king could ever give his beloved son to exile. To banish even a worthless son is hard; how much more one who has conquered the whole world by his character alone? By the grief of this lord of the world the whole world is stricken, as the water-creatures are by the drying of the water. This greatly lustrous Rama is the root of men, and the rest of us the flowers, fruit, leaves, and branches; so come, let us too, like Lakshmana, leave our gardens, fields, and homes, and, with wives and kin, sharing joy and sorrow alike, follow the righteous Rama.”

“Let Kaikeyi enjoy our houses, left empty, stripped of grain and wealth, buried in dust, forsaken by the gods. Let the forest where Rama goes become a city, and this city we leave become a forest. Let the snakes flee their holes for fear of us, the deer and birds the hilltops, the elephants and lions the woods. Let Kaikeyi, with son and kin, enjoy the tract where cruel beasts and birds live; we will all dwell happily in the forest with Raghava.” Even hearing all these many words of the crowd, Rama’s mind did not waver in the least.

Moving with the gait of a rutting elephant, the righteous Rama went toward Kaikeyi’s mansion, bright as a peak of Kailasa, where his father was staying. Entering the royal house, he saw the downcast Sumantra standing near. Though he saw the people of Ayodhya in grief, Rama, who looked untroubled, went forward as if smiling, to see his father and carry out his order in due form. He paused a moment to have his coming announced and said to Sumantra, “Tell the great king of my arrival.”

The gist: On Rama’s way to take his farewell, all Ayodhya laments along the road; the people talk even of following him to the forest, but Rama’s mind stays unmoved.

Dasharatha Faints, and Rama Holds Firm

The lotus-eyed, dark, matchless Rama said to the charioteer, “Give the king word of me.” Going in, Sumantra saw the king drawing long breaths, like the sun in eclipse, like a fire buried in ash, like a pool without water. With joined hands, offering the blessing of victory, in a low, gentle voice trembling with fear, the charioteer said, “King, having given all his wealth to the brahmins and his dependents, your best of sons, Rama, waits at the gate. Having taken leave of all his kin, he wishes to see you; he is bound for the great forest, so look upon the prince, endowed with royal virtues, like the sun ringed with its rays.”

Truthful Dasharatha, deep as the sea and clear as the sky, said, “Sumantra, bring me all my queens who are here; I wish to see Raghava ringed by all my wives.” Sumantra went into the women’s quarters and told the queens the king’s command. Three hundred and fifty young women, gathered around the true-vowed Kausalya, their eyes red with grief for Rama, came slowly to the king. Seeing his wives come, the king said to the charioteer, “Now bring my son to me.” Sumantra returned quickly with Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita.

Seeing his son coming from afar with joined hands, the stricken king rose from among his women and rushed toward Rama, but before he could reach him he fell to the ground, senseless with grief. Rama and the great chariot-warrior Lakshmana sprang to him at once. Through the royal house rose a great tumult of “Alas! Alas! Rama!” mingled with the jangle of ornaments. Rama and Lakshmana, with Sita, took the king up in their arms and, weeping, laid him on the couch.

Come to himself within the hour, sunk in an ocean of grief, the king heard Rama say with joined hands, “Great king, you are lord of us all; I ask your leave. Look with a kind eye on me as I set out for the Dandaka forest. Give the word to Lakshmana, and let Sita go with me to the forest; for many true reasons I held them back, and they will not stay. Giver of honor, put aside your grief and give the three of us leave, Lakshmana, Sita, and me, as Prajapati gave leave to his sons Sanaka and the rest.”

Seeing Rama wait for his leave, the king, urged in private by Kaikeyi and bound in the noose of his truth, wept and said, “Raghava, blinded, I was deceived into granting Kaikeyi her boons; take me captive and make yourself this very day king of Ayodhya.” The dharma-bearing, speech-skilled Rama answered with joined hands, “King, may you rule the earth a thousand years more; I have no craving for the kingdom, I will live in the forest. Nine and five, fourteen years passed in the forest, my pledge fulfilled, I will take hold of your feet again.”

Shedding tears, the king said, “Dear son, go on the road, blessed, auspicious, and free of fear, with an easy mind. Delight of the Raghus, you are by nature devoted to truth and dear to dharma; your resolve of exile cannot be turned. Yet do not go this one night by any means; let me have my ease from even a single day’s sight of you. Stay this night, looking on me and on your mother; sated with every wish, go tomorrow at dawn.”

“Dear son, you are doing a hard thing indeed, for it is for my sake that you have taken to the forest. But, Rama, I swear by truth, this is not dear to me; a woman who deceives like fire hidden under ash has turned me from my path.” Rama said, “Lord of men, my resolve of exile will not shake now. The boon you gave Kaikeyi in the war, fulfill it wholly and prove your truth. I will live fourteen years in the forest with the forest dwellers; make no objection to it. Give this earth to Bharata.”

“I want no kingdom, no comfort, no earth, none of these pleasures, no heaven, no life; I want only that you stay true and not become a speaker of untruth. By your truth and your good deeds I swear it: for the stain that untruth would lay on you, I would not take even an everlasting kingdom, all these pleasures, the whole earth, and Sita too; let your word stand true. A father is called even the god of the gods; so I will keep my father’s word as the word of a god. When fourteen years are past, best of kings, you will find me returned; give up this grief. Best of men, you who should comfort all people whose eyes are full of tears, why have you yourself come to such distress? Lord, it is not possible for me to stay here even a moment; let your grief pass.”

“God, do not long for me; we will roam the forest in comfort, where the gentle deer and many birds dwell. A father is even the god of the gods, so I will do my father’s word as a god’s word. Let Bharata rule this earth I leave, with its ranges of hills, its cities, and its groves; let him not enjoy it or take pride in it, but hold it, only for the king, within its blessed bounds. It is only that no stain of untruth touch you that I go to the forest.” Embracing Rama as he spoke, the king, torn with anguish and grief, fell wholly senseless to the ground and could make no motion. Every queen there but Kaikeyi began to weep; Sumantra too fainted weeping, and the whole house was filled with wailing.

The gist: At the mere sight of Rama, Dasharatha faints and begs to be made a prisoner so that Rama may reign; Rama shows his utter disinterest in the throne and sets his father’s truth above all else.

Sumantra’s Rebuke, and Kaikeyi’s Hardness

Then Dasharatha’s charioteer Sumantra, suddenly beating his head, drawing breath after breath, wringing his hands, grinding his teeth, his eyes red with rage, filled with a dire distress, as though shaking Kaikeyi’s heart with keen arrows of speech and piercing all her vitals with words like matchless thunderbolts, spoke:

“Lady, you who forsook your own husband Dasharatha, lord of all that moves and stands still, no deed is now beyond you. I hold you a slayer of your husband and, in the end, a slayer of your line, you who by your acts torment a husband unconquerable as great Indra, unshakable as a mountain, unmoved as the sea. Do not slight the boon-giving husband Dasharatha; for a woman, the will of her husband is worth more than a crore of sons. On a king’s death, sons win the kingdom by order of age; while the lord of the Ikshvakus lives, you would blot out this rule.”

“Let your son Bharata be king and rule the earth; we for our part will go where Rama goes. No brahmin will wish to stay in your kingdom. If you do this lawless deed today, then we will all walk in Rama’s path. Forsaken by all your kin, the brahmins, and the good, what joy will you find in your gain of a kingdom? It is a wonder that the earth does not split beneath your feet as you do this, and that the curses of the great brahmin-sages do not burn you to ash.”

“Who will cut down a mango tree and water a neem? Even watered with milk the neem does not turn sweet. I hold your very family the equal of your mother; the old saying is that honey does not drip from the neem.”

A sub-tale: Sumantra recalled the folly of Kaikeyi’s mother. A certain boon-giver had granted the king of the Kekayas, Kaikeyi’s father, the rare gift of understanding the speech of all creatures, on the one condition that he never reveal the secret. One night on his couch, hearing the speech of some bird, the king laughed. Kaikeyi’s mother pressed him, “Tell me the cause of your laughter, whether you live or die.” The king said, “If I tell, I will die at once.” Still the queen would not let it go. The king told the whole matter to the boon-giver. That kindly boon-giver said, “Let her die or be cast out, but do not tell the secret.” The king at once forsook that queen and lived on happily as Kubera. Sumantra said, “You too, walking the path of the wicked, in your delusion drive the king onto the wrong road; the old saying seems true, that men take after the father and women after the mother.”

Sumantra went on, “Do not do this; accept what the king says; keeping your husband’s wish, become the protectress of these people. Do not, taken in by the wicked, drive your world-guarding, Indra-like husband into unrighteousness. Let the eldest, generous, capable, self-abiding, strong Rama, guardian of the world of the living, be crowned. If Rama leaves his father and goes to the forest, lady, great blame will spread over you in the world. Let Rama rule his kingdom, and be at ease; in this best of cities no king but Rama will be pleased with you. With Rama made heir apparent, the great archer Dasharatha, remembering the conduct of his forefathers, will himself go to the forest.” So in the royal assembly, with joined hands, Sumantra shook Kaikeyi again and again with words both hard and gentle; but that lady was neither disturbed, nor grieved, nor did the color of her face change.

The gist: Sumantra, with words both hard and gentle, reminds Kaikeyi of dharma and its bounds and cites the example of her own mother; but Kaikeyi does not budge an inch.

The Example of Asamanja, and Siddhartha’s Counsel

Bound by his pledge, Dasharatha, tears welling, drawing a long breath, said again to Sumantra, “Charioteer, let a four-limbed army rich in gems be made ready at once to go with Raghava. Let eloquent courtesans and rich merchants add to the splendor of the prince’s train. Let the wrestlers who depend on him, in whose trials of strength Rama took delight, be sent along too with many gifts. Let choice weapons, cultured men, oxcarts, and huntsmen who know the forest go with Kakutstha. Hunting deer and elephants, drinking wild honey, seeing many rivers, he will not miss the kingdom. Let both my granary and my treasury go with Rama, bound for the empty forest. Offering sacrifices at holy places, giving fees, meeting the sages, he will live happily in the forest. Mighty-armed Bharata will guard Ayodhya; let the noble Rama be sent forth with every comfort.”

At these words of Dasharatha’s, Kaikeyi took fright; her mouth went dry and her voice failed. Vexed and afraid, she turned to the king and said, “Good lord, Bharata will not take a kingdom stripped of its wealth, empty and joyless, like the flat dregs of wine with the spirit drawn off.” At this most shameless and hard word, the king said to the large-eyed woman, “You who wear the shape of an enemy, ignoble one, having laid this burden on me, why do you now goad me as I bear it? Why did you not stop the thing at the outset, when it was begun?” Hearing these angry words, Kaikeyi, doubly enraged, said, “In your own line Sagara cast out his eldest son Asamanja; in the same way let Rama too go without any support.” Hearing this the king said only, “Shame!” and all present were abashed, but she did not waver in the least.

A sub-tale: There the king’s honored old minister, the pure and worthy Siddhartha, said to Kaikeyi, “Asamanja used to seize children at play and fling them into the Sarayu, and took delight in it. Seeing this cruelty, the enraged citizens said to King Sagara, ‘Increaser of the realm, either keep Asamanja alone, or save us.’ When the king asked the cause of their wish, the people told of the boy’s madness and his killing of children. To please the people the righteous Sagara set that harmful son on a chariot with his wife and, saying, ‘Let him be banished for life,’ drove him out. Spade and basket in hand, he wandered the quarters like a wretch.” Siddhartha went on, “But what sin has Rama done, that he is being stripped of the kingdom? We see no fault in Raghava; to find a fault in Rama is as hard as to find a blemish in the new moon. Lady, if you see any fault, tell it truly this very day, and then let Rama be sent to the forest. To cast out one who is faultless and fixed on the good path is against dharma; whoever does it burns up even the luster of Indra. So, fair one, do not steal Rama’s royal fortune; save yourself, too, from the world’s reproach.”

Hearing Siddhartha’s word, the king, his voice thin with grief, said to Kaikeyi, “You of sinful form, do these wholesome words not please you? Walking the road of pain, you know neither my good nor your own; your striving is far from the good path and wrong. Today, giving up kingdom, comfort, and wealth, I will go to the forest after Rama with all the people of Ayodhya; enjoy you this kingdom long with Bharata.”

The gist: When Rama is to be sent off with army and treasury, Kaikeyi holds out with the example of Asamanja; the minister Siddhartha calls the comparison unjust, and the king, sickened by Kaikeyi, speaks even of going to the forest himself.

The Bark Garments, and Vasistha’s Anger

Hearing the minister’s word, the courteous Rama said humbly to Dasharatha, “King, having given up pleasures to live in the forest on roots, and having let go of all attachment, what use have I for an army? He who gives away a fine elephant and then sets his heart on the tether-rope is a fool; what is a rope worth to one who has given up the great elephant? Best of the good, so what is an army to me? I leave everything for Bharata. Let my mother Kaikeyi’s serving women bring me bark garments, and for me, who am to live fourteen years in the forest, a spade and a basket.”

Then Kaikeyi herself brought the bark garments and, shameless amid that crowd, said to Rama, “Put these on.” Rama, best of men, took the two bark garments from Kaikeyi, cast off his fine robes, and put on the dress of a hermit. Lakshmana too, there and then, laid aside his fair garments and put on two bark cloths before their father. But Sita, clad in silk, seeing the bark cloth, took fright as a doe does at a snare. Deeply pained, the fair-marked Janaki took the kusha-bark garment Kaikeyi held out, as if ashamed, and said to her husband, handsome as the king of the gandharvas, “How do the sages who dwell in the forest tie their bark cloth?” Unused to wearing bark, Sita fumbled again and again. She threw one bark cloth over her neck and held the other in her hand and stood there, abashed. Then the dharma-bearing Rama came near and himself tied the bark cloth over her silk garment.

Seeing the bark cloth being tied on Sita, the women of the harem began to weep and, grieving, said to the lustrous Rama, “Lord, this steadfast lady had no order of exile; child, by your father’s word go to the forest with Lakshmana alone, and let this blessed one not have to live in the forest like an ascetic woman. Son, grant our prayer, let Sita stay here; you, whose one companion is always dharma, will not stay yourself.” Still Rama went on tying the bark cloth for Sita, just as Sita wished and as suited her character, in harmony with his own.

Seeing Sita take the bark cloth, the royal teacher Vasistha, his eyes brimming, stopped her and said to Kaikeyi, “You witless, family-shaming Kaikeyi, gone too far, having deceived the king you still do not stop at any bound! Shameless one, the lady Sita should not go to the forest; she will sit on the seat marked for Rama. For a householder his wife is his own self; being Rama’s self, it is Sita who will rule the earth. If the princess of Videha goes to the forest with Rama, then we too will go after them, and so will this city. The guardians of the harem too will go where Rama dwells with his wife; the whole realm of Kosala and Ayodhya with all its wealth will go too. Bharata and Shatrughna too, in bark cloth as forest dwellers, will follow their eldest brother into the forest.

“Then, ill-conducted one, wishing the people’s harm, you will rule alone an earth left empty of people, with only its trees. The realm where Rama is not king will not endure, and the forest where Rama dwells will become the realm. Bharata will not rule an earth not freely given by his father, and if he is truly the king’s own son, he will not so much as stay under you as a son. Even if you leave the earth and fly up into the sky, Bharata, who knows the conduct of his forefathers, will do no otherwise. Son-craving woman, you have done your son only harm, for in the world there is no one who is not a follower of Rama. Kaikeyi, this very day you will see beasts, serpents, deer, birds, and the very trees bent toward him, all eager to go to the forest with Rama.

“So, lady, take away the bark cloth and give your daughter-in-law fine ornaments; the bark cloth is not marked for her.” So saying, Vasistha stopped Sita from putting on the garment, and said, “Princess of the Kekayas, you asked only for Rama’s exile; so let Sita, ever fit to be adorned, go well decked with Rama to the forest. Let the princess go with fine carriages, servants, garments, and every means; when you asked the boon you did not ask their banishment.” Even at all this, Sita, longing to follow her husband, did not swerve in the least from her resolve.

The gist: Rama refuses the army and asks for bark garments; Kaikeyi herself brings them. Rama and Lakshmana put them on, Rama helps Sita tie hers, and Vasistha, with a hard rebuke of Kaikeyi, establishes Sita’s right to go honored to the forest.

Dasharatha Rebukes Kaikeyi, and Worries for the Mother

Seeing Sita, though under her husband’s protection yet orphaned as it were, put on bark cloth, all present cried out, “Shame on you, Dasharatha, that you do not stop this cruel wrong!” At that great outcry the grieving king’s whole love of life, of dharma, and of his own fame broke apart. Drawing a hot breath, he said to his wife Kaikeyi, “Kaikeyi, Sita is not fit to go clad in kusha-bark. My teacher Vasistha speaks the truth: Sita, tender, young, and ever used to comfort, is not fit for the forest. Why does this faultless princess, who harms no one, stand among the people half-swooning in bark cloth? Let Sita cast off the bark cloth; let the princess go to the forest in comfort with all her gems. I bound myself by a base pledge, but this wrong of clothing Sita in bark cloth you have done out of childish folly; it will burn me as the bamboo burns itself when it flowers. Sinful one, if Rama has done you any harm, what harm has Sita done you, base woman? What wrong did Janaka’s daughter do you, doe-eyed, gentle-natured, high-minded? It was enough for you to send Rama to the forest in a hermit’s dress; what more do you seek with these mean sins? When you asked the boon at Rama’s crowning, I kept silent hearing it; but now, going beyond it, clothing Sita too in bark cloth, you would go to hell.”

To the father sitting with bowed head and saying this, Rama, already setting out for the forest, said, “Father, my glorious mother, the righteous Kausalya, is old, of a generous nature, and never speaks ill of you. Boon-giver, honor my mother, parted from me and cast into an ocean of grief, who has never known sorrow before, all the more, that she may not die of the grief of losing her son. Honored by your revered honor, thinking of me, may that ascetic mother of mine live under your care. Peer of great Indra, keep my mother, who longs for her son, so that she may not, wasted by grief in my exile, go to the realm of death.”

The gist: Seeing Sita in bark cloth, the people and Dasharatha curse Kaikeyi; taking his leave, Rama begs his father to care for his mother Kausalya.

Kausalya’s Counsel, and the Waiting Chariot

Hearing Rama’s word and seeing him in a hermit’s dress, the king lost his senses among his queens. Burning with anguish, he could neither look at Rama nor speak to him. Senseless for a while, the mighty king, thinking only of Rama, began to lament. “It seems that in some former birth I parted many cows from their calves, or did violence to living things; that is why this misfortune has fallen on me. But the breath does not leave the body before its time, and so, tormented by Kaikeyi, I do not die, and I look on my son, bright as fire in his ascetic’s dress, standing before me, his fine robes cast off. All this is the work of one Kaikeyi alone, who took the shelter of deceit only for her own ends.” So saying, and having said “Rama” but once, the king, his throat choked with tears, could say no more. Come to himself within the hour, with tear-filled eyes he said to Sumantra, “Yoke fine horses to the chariot of pleasure and come back quickly, and carry this blessed son beyond this land. This, it seems, is the fruit that virtue bears in the virtuous, that a good and brave man should be sent to the forest by his own father and mother.”

Obeying the king’s command, the swift Sumantra brought the chariot yoked with adorned horses and, with joined hands, gave word to the prince. Then the king, knowing time and place and wholly pure, called the treasurer and said, “Counting all the years of Sita’s exile, bring quickly costly garments and grand ornaments for the princess.” Bringing all from the treasury, he set them before Sita. Ready to go to the forest, the highborn princess adorned her fair-marked limbs with those wondrous ornaments, and, well decked, Sita lit up that house as the rays of the rising sun light up the clear sky.

Taking her in her arms and smelling her head, her mother-in-law Kausalya said, “In this world, women who, though ever honored by their loving husbands, do not honor a husband fallen into misfortune, are called wicked. Women who, having enjoyed comfort, revile or forsake their husbands the moment a little misfortune comes, this is the way of wicked women. Neither birth, nor kindness, nor learning, nor gifts, nor the marriage bond binds the hearts of such fickle women. But for faithful wives fixed in character, truth, and the word of scripture, the husband is the highest thing, most sacred of all. Let my son Rama, being sent to the forest, not be slighted by you; rich or poor, he is a god to you.”

Hearing this word, true to dharma and to good sense, Sita said with joined hands, “Noble lady, whatever you command, all this I will do; I know how to live with a husband, and I have heard it too from my elders. Let the noble lady not think me like wicked women; as moonlight cannot be parted from the moon, so I cannot part from dharma. Without its string the lute does not sound, without its wheels the chariot does not roll, and without her husband a woman finds no happiness even with a hundred sons. A father gives measured happiness, a brother and a son measured too; so what woman would not worship the husband who gives happiness without measure? Having learned a wife’s dharma from my elders, noble lady, how should I slight my husband, when the husband is a woman’s god?” Hearing this heart-touching word of Sita’s, the pure-hearted Kausalya shed the tears that spring both from the grief of parting and from joy at Sita’s holy spirit.

Seeing Kausalya, most honored among the mothers, the deeply righteous Rama said with joined hands, “Mother, do not look on my father in grief; the end of the exile too will come soon. As you sleep, these nine and five, fourteen years, will pass, and one day you will see me returned safe with my friends and kin.” Then, seeing his three hundred and fifty stepmothers grieving just as much, he said with joined hands, “If, while I lived among you, some harsh word or deed came from me unawares, forgive it; now I take my leave of you all.” Hearing this quiet word of dharma from Raghava, from the mouths of all the grief-wild queens rose a piteous cry like the calls of ospreys. That house of Dasharatha’s, which once rang with drums and thunder-like instruments, was now, wild with wailing and weeping, fallen into misfortune, deep in grief.

The gist: Kausalya counsels her daughter-in-law in the dharma of a faithful wife, and Sita takes it humbly; Rama begs forgiveness of his mothers and takes his leave, and the harem fills with wailing.

The Chariot Boarded, and Ayodhya Gives Chase

Then Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana, with joined hands and downcast hearts, touched the king’s feet and walked around him. Taking their leave, Rama, near-senseless with grief, bowed with Sita to Kausalya. Behind his brother, Lakshmana too bowed to Kausalya, then touched the feet of his own mother Sumitra. As the mighty-armed Lakshmana bowed, his loving mother smelled his head and said, weeping, “Son, devoted to your kin, I have given you leave to go to the forest with your elder brother; but, my son, do not be slack in serving your brother Rama as you go. In misfortune or in fortune, Rama is your recourse; the dharma of the good in the world is that the younger stays in the elder’s will.

“Giving and initiation at sacrifices, and the laying down of the body in battle, this is the fitting and eternal conduct of the Raghu line.” Then to Rama, whose resolve was set and who was dear to all, Sumitra said over and over, “Go, go; may it be well with you.” To Lakshmana she said again, “Take Rama for Dasharatha, Sita for me your mother, and the forest for Ayodhya, and go in comfort, dear son.” Then the courteous Sumantra said to Rama, with joined hands, as Matali to Indra, “Greatly glorious prince, mount the chariot; may it be well with you; wherever you bid me, I will bring you swiftly. Rama, the fourteen years of which Queen Kaikeyi spoke must be counted as beginning from this very day.”

Adorned in the garments and ornaments her father-in-law had given, the fair-limbed Sita mounted with a glad heart that chariot bright as the sun. Placing at the back of the chariot the garments and ornaments her father-in-law had given, counting all the years of exile, and the array of weapons and armor given to the two brothers, and securing the leather-covered basket and the hard spade, Rama and Lakshmana climbed onto that fire-bright, gold-mounted chariot. Seeing the three, with Sita as the third, aboard the chariot, Sumantra urged on the fine horses, swift as the wind.

The moment Rama set out for the great forest for good, a swoon fell over the city; the army, the horses and elephants, and the people from the countryside all fainted too. The whole city, wild with the frenzied trumpeting of elephants and the jangle of the horses’ ornaments, rang and reeled. With young and old alike, the sorely stricken city rushed toward Rama as a heat-scorched creature rushes to water. Hanging onto the sides and the back of the chariot, their faces turned that way, tears streaming, they all cried aloud to Sumantra, “Charioteer, draw in the reins, go slowly; let us see Rama’s face, which will be so hard to see now.

“Rama’s mother Kausalya must have a heart of iron, that it does not split though she sees her god-child son go to the forest.” Made complete in her wish, Sita followed her husband like a shadow, and devoted to dharma she did not leave him, as the sun’s light does not leave Mount Meru. The people walking behind said, “Blessed are you, Lakshmana, who will serve your godlike, ever-sweet-spoken brother; to follow Rama is your great wisdom, your great rise, and your road to heaven.” So saying, they could not hold back their tears and walked on behind Rama, delight of the Ikshvakus.

Meanwhile the king, ringed by his grieving queens, downcast in heart, came out of the house saying, “I will see my beloved son.” Ahead of him rose the great cry of weeping women, like the trumpeting of she-elephants when the lord elephant is bound. At that hour the noble Dasharatha, Rama’s father, looked as lightless as the full moon seized by Rahu. With a composure past all thought, Rama urged the charioteer, “Drive the chariot fast.” Rama said “Go,” and the people said “Stop”; goaded from both sides on the road, the charioteer could do neither the one nor the other.

As Rama set out for the forest, the dust raised by the chariot was laid by the falling tears of the citizens. Seeing his stricken, bewildered father and mother coming behind, Rama, bound in the noose of dharma, could not look at them openly, as a calf caught in a snare cannot look at its mother. From the eyes of the women, at the pain of not seeing Rama’s face, the tears fell like water streaming from lotuses shaken by the stir of fishes. Seeing his father and mother, fit for a chariot and used to comfort and undeserving of grief, going on foot, Rama said to the charioteer, “Drive fast”; like an elephant goaded by the driving-arrow, he could not bear the piteous sight of his parents.

Rama’s mother Kausalya ran behind the chariot like a cow whose calf is bound and who runs to reach it. Crying “Rama, Rama, alas Sita, alas Lakshmana,” shedding tears, running as if dancing, the mother Rama watched again and again. The king cried “Stop, stop,” and Raghava said “Go, go”; Sumantra’s mind, caught as if between two turning wheels, sank into a dilemma. Rama said to the charioteer, “Even if he reproaches you, tell the king afterward that you did not hear; the lengthening of this grief is the worst harm of all.” Taking Rama’s word, and taking leave of the crowd, the charioteer drove the advancing horses harder still. The king’s men, walking around Rama in their minds, turned back, but the common people did not turn back even in body. The ministers said to the great king Dasharatha, “One who wishes to see a man returned should not go far after him.” Hearing this, the king, endowed with every virtue, wretched, his body soaked with sweat and utterly worn, stopped with his wives and stood gazing at his son Rama.

The gist: Taking leave of the mothers, the three board the chariot; all Ayodhya runs after it, and Rama urges the charioteer to drive fast so that his parents’ grief may not be drawn out. The king stops at last and stands gazing after his son.

The Women’s Lament, and a World Gone Empty

The moment the noblest of men, Rama, with joined hands, left Ayodhya, a great wail rose from the mouths of the women of the harem. They began to say, “Alas, where is he going, the lord who was the way and the shelter of us who are orphaned, weak, and wretched? He who felt no anger even when he was slandered, who let go of angry words and won over all the vexed, Rama, alike in joy and sorrow, where is he going? He, the greatly lustrous, who dealt with us as with his own mother Kausalya, where is that great-souled one going? Rama, guardian of the whole world, sent to the forest by a king goaded by Kaikeyi, where is he going? How pitiless this king, who sends the righteous, true-vowed Rama to the forest as if to the ruin of the world of the living!” So all the queens, like cows bereft of their calves, wept in grief and cried aloud.

Hearing that dread wail in the harem, the king, already seared by grief for his son, grew more wretched still. The offerings of the fire rite were not made, householders cooked no food, the people did no work, and even the sun hid behind clouds out of season. The elephants let the mouthfuls fall from their mouths, the cows did not suckle their calves, and mothers took no joy even in a firstborn son. Trishanku, Mars, Jupiter, and Mercury, all the planets, came near the moon and stood there in a fearful shape. The stars lost their light and the planets their luster; the star Vishakha showed dim as smoke in the sky. Under a mass of clouds risen like an ocean in a storm-wind, the moment Rama went to the forest, that city shook. All the quarters, veiled in darkness, grew wild; no planet, no star, gave light.

Suddenly all the citizens fell into wretchedness; no one’s mind turned to food or pleasure. Seared by the eddies of grief, drawing long breaths, all the people of Ayodhya cursed the king. The faces of those on the royal road were smeared with tears; no one looked glad, all were sunk in grief. No cool breeze blew, the moon did not look gentle, the sun did not warm the world; the whole world was in torment. Sons did not think of mothers, husbands of wives, brothers of brothers; leaving all else, all thought only of Rama. Those who were Rama’s friends, crushed under the weight of grief, dull-witted, could not even sleep. Then Ayodhya, bereft of Rama, ablaze with fear and grief, reeled in a dread shape, like the earth with its mountains bereft of Indra, and cried out with its elephants, warriors, and horses.

The gist: The moment Rama goes to the forest, the harem and all Ayodhya drown in grief; even nature is thrown into disorder, the planets and stars grow dim, and the city trembles like the earth bereft of Indra.

When Even the Dust Is Gone, Dasharatha Falls

Dasharatha, best of the Ikshvakus, rich in policy, dharma, and modesty, did not take his eyes away as long as even the shape of the dust raised by the forest-bound Rama could be seen. As long as the king could see his deeply righteous, beloved son, though only as dust, so long his body seemed to strain forward on the ground toward the receding glimpse of him. But the moment even the dust of Rama’s chariot was gone from sight, the king, stricken and downcast, fell to the earth. His senior queen Kausalya came toward his right hand to lift him, and the fair-limbed Kaikeyi herself came toward his left side.

The king, endowed with policy, dharma, and modesty, seeing Kaikeyi, said with a wounded heart, “You of sinful resolve, Kaikeyi, do not touch my limbs; I do not even wish to look at you; you are neither my wife nor my kinswoman. Those who depend on you, of them I am not the master, nor are they mine; I forsake you, given wholly to self-interest, forsaker of dharma. The hand of yours that I took in marriage, and the circling of the fire I made you do, and all the fruit of them in this world and the next, I forsake. If Bharata is glad to win this everlasting kingdom, then after my death let the funeral offering he makes me not reach me though it is given.” Then, lifting the dust-covered king, the lady Kausalya, worn with grief, took him and returned to the palace. As one repents who has knowingly killed a brahmin or touched blazing fire with his hand, so the righteous Dasharatha, having under Kaikeyi’s pressure sent his son Rama to the forest, began to repent, thinking deeply on his son Raghava.

The gist: When even the dust is lost from sight, Dasharatha falls to the earth; when Kaikeyi comes to hold him up, he rebukes her and renounces every fruit of their bond, and Kausalya leads him back to the palace.

Kausalya’s Lament: The Fire of Losing a Son

Seeing the great king lying worn with grief on the couch, Kausalya, wild with a mother’s sorrow, said to him, “Had Rama stayed in Ayodhya itself, in his own home, and lived on alms, even that would have seemed to me better than this exile. Yes, to give away this son of mine as Kaikeyi’s slave would have been dearer to me than this banishment.”

“Having poured her poison on a best of men like Rama, that crooked-going Kaikeyi will now move about without a care, like a snake that has cast off its slough. Forcing Rama down from his place, she has done just as a man who performs the fire rite might give to demons the oblation set out for the gods on a festival day. Her wish accomplished, her planets now turned favorable and her mind at ease, that Kaikeyi will now, like a wicked serpent settled in the house, terrify me all the more, without fear.”

Kausalya lamented on, “By now the mighty-armed archer Rama, with his wife and Lakshmana, moving with the gait of a lordly elephant, must surely have entered the forest. Raghava, Sita, Rama, and Lakshmana, who had never known sorrow before, you gave over to exile at Kaikeyi’s word; now in the forest, stripped of their gems, living on fruit and root, how will those three young ones fare?”

Then she longed for the day her sons would return. “When will thousands of people on the royal road rain parched grain on my two sons Rama and Lakshmana, when, wearing foe-subduing earrings, bearing bow and sword, they enter the city like two peaked mountains? When will those three loved ones, in gladness, walk in worship around the city, and the maidens give them flowers on the way and the brahmins fruit? And when will that righteous Rama, ripe in judgment and bright as a god in his long youth, return, guarding the world like a good rain that falls in season?”

At the last she cursed herself, “Surely, brave one, in some former birth I, of base mind, cut off the udders of cows before their calves wild for milk. And so, tiger among men, like a cow calved for the first time, Kaikeyi has robbed me of my son, as a lion tears from a cow her little calf by force. I, with my one son, cannot live without that son endowed with every virtue. This fire born of grief for my son now burns me as in summer the lord Sun burns this earth with his rays.”

The gist: This lament of Kausalya opens the three layers of grief: dread of her son’s hardship, rage at Kaikeyi, and a self-accusing torment. Valmiki does not drape a mother’s pain in divine glory here; he lets it stand in all its bitterness.

Sumitra’s Consolation: Remembering Rama’s Greatness

To Kausalya, lamenting so, the dharma-abiding Sumitra spoke words in keeping with dharma. “Noble lady, your fine son Rama, who is greatly strong and who, giving up the kingdom to prove his father true, took the road to the forest, walks that very eternal path of dharma which the good have ever kept and which bears fruit in the world beyond. Such a son can never be a fit object of grief. What is gained by your weeping so wretchedly?”

“That sinless Lakshmana, who is kind to all living things and always serves Rama well, is nothing but gain to that great-souled one. And the princess of Videha, fit for comfort, went after your righteous son knowing well the sorrow of the exile. What blessing has the true-vowed Rama not won, whose banner of fame flies over all the worlds?”

Sumitra told over Rama’s wondrous greatness. “One whose purity and great majesty are famed, the sun will not dare to scorch his body with its rays. The pleasant wind of the forests, fit with warmth and cool, will forever serve Rama. As he sleeps at night, the cool moon, like a father, will embrace the sinless Rama, touch him with its rays, take away the heat of the day, and gladden him. That greatly lustrous one, to whom Vishvamitra gave the divine weapons, who slew Subahu, son of Tataka, in battle, that brave tiger among men, leaning on the strength of his own arms, will live in the forest fearless as in his own home.”

“When the enemy falls in ruin the moment he is on the path of his arrows, why should the earth not obey his command? The fortune, the valor, and the blessed strength that are in Rama tell that, the term of exile past, he will soon win his kingdom again. He is the fortune of fortune itself, the fame of fame, the very ground of patience; god of gods, and best of beings among beings. Lady, what adversity can there be for such a man, in forest or city, anywhere? That bull among men will soon be anointed on the throne together with the three: mother earth, the princess of Videha, and fortune.”

“Lady, do not grieve or sorrow over Rama, for no ill can be seen for Rama. Soon you will see your son with Sita and Lakshmana. Sinless one, all these people who are stricken with grief at parting from Rama, it is you who must give them heart; then why do you hold this agitation in your own heart now? There is no one in the world more firmly set on the good path than Rama. Blessed lady, you will see your son again as one sees the rising moon, when he bows his head at your feet. I tell you the truth: cast off grief and delusion.”

“Seeing Rama returned, anointed on the throne, endowed with great splendor, you will shed tears of joy. When that son of yours, with his friends, hails you, then, like a rain cloud, you will soon rain tears of gladness. Home in Ayodhya, that boon-giving son will press your feet with his soft, strong hands.” So the lady Sumitra, skilled in the ways of speech, comforted Rama’s mother in many ways and fell silent. Hearing this word of Lakshmana’s mother, the grief of Kausalya, Rama’s mother, which had dried up her body, melted away swiftly like an autumn cloud that carries little water.

The gist: Where Kausalya let her grief run, Sumitra binds it with dharma and faith: Rama’s purity is such that nature itself will serve him, and his return after fourteen years is certain. Her reasoning turns sorrow into trust.

The Citizens Follow, and the Bank of the Tamasa

Devoted to the great-souled, truly valorous Rama, the citizens set out after him toward the forest. Though the great king, by the law of friendship, was made to turn them back by force, those people would in no way turn back and kept walking behind the chariot; for the virtuous, greatly glorious Rama had become dear to the people of Ayodhya as the full moon. Though those citizens begged him again and again, Kakutstha, proving his father true, kept moving on toward the forest.

Looking on them with love, as if drinking them in with his eyes, Rama spoke to those citizens as to his own children, “Townsfolk, the love and honor you bear me, set it, for my gladness, especially on Bharata. Bharata, who gladdens Kaikeyi and is of blessed character, will do for you what is dear and good. Old in wisdom though young in years, tender yet full of valor, he will be a fit lord for you and take away your fear. He is endowed with royal virtues and is judged fit to be heir apparent; so, and because I ask it of you, obey your master’s command. And, for my gladness, deal with the great king so that in my exile he does not come to grief.”

The more Rama took refuge in dharma, the more the people wanted him alone for their lord. At that hour the brahmins, aged in learning, in years, and in the power of austerity, their heads trembling with age, unable to keep up with the chariot, called out from afar, “Fine horses of noble breed, who bear Rama, turn back; be well-wishers to your master. Living things, and especially horses, have ears; so hearing our prayer, turn back. This master of yours is pure-souled, blessed, and firm in his vows; you should carry him toward the city, not from the city toward the forest.”

Seeing those aged brahmins lament so piteously, Rama at once got down from the chariot. Tender-hearted toward the virtuous and pitying, Rama could not, sitting in the chariot, leave those brahmins going on foot behind him. With Sita and Lakshmana he began to walk on toward the forest with small steps, so that the aged brahmins could keep up. Seeing Rama walk so, the brahmins, wild and deeply seared, said, “Child, look, these white umbrellas of ours, won at the Vajapeya sacrifice, come after you like the clouds of autumn. There is no parasol over your head, and you are scorched by the sun’s rays; with these Vajapeya umbrellas we will give you shade. The wits that were ever set on following the mantras of the Veda have now been set on following you into the forest. The Veda, which is our highest wealth, is safe in our hearts; and our wives, guarded by their character, will stay at home.”

“We have made up our minds to follow you, and there is no need to think again on it. Still we would say: if you grow careless of dharma, that is, of hearing the counsel of the brahmins, then what creature will stay steady on the path of dharma? Bowing these heads of ours, white as swans’ wings and now grimed with dust from rolling on the ground, we beg you, prince of firm conduct, turn back. Many brahmins here have sacrifices half-done; child, their finishing hangs on your return. All the creatures here, moving and still, are your devotees; show your love to these devotees who beg for your return.”

“The trees, which cannot follow you because they are bound by their roots, in the high wind seem to creak and weep and to bid you turn back. The birds, sitting still, unable to go seeking food, bound to the branches in one place, they too beg you, who pity all creatures, to come home.” As the brahmins were calling so, to turn Rama back, the river Tamasa came in sight, as if to check Raghava’s going. Then Sumantra too unyoked the tired horses from the chariot, watered them, washed their limbs, and let them graze not far from the bank of the Tamasa.

The gist: This following of the people is the proof of Rama’s hold on their hearts. Rama gets down to walk, to show that he cannot leave aged brahmins behind while he rides. But he will not agree to turn back, and as the day fails they all reach the bank of the Tamasa.

Night on the Tamasa, and Slipping Past the People

Halting on the lovely bank of the Tamasa, looking at Sita, Rama said to Lakshmana, “Sumitra’s son, this is the first night of the exile. We have been sent to the forest, so do not fret for those left behind; may it be well with you. See, these empty woods seem to weep on every side, for the beasts and birds have gone back each to its own shelter. Today my father’s capital, Ayodhya, with its men and women, will grieve for us who have gone to the forest, of that there is no doubt.”

“I grieve for my father and my glorious mother; may they not lose the light of their eyes from ceaseless weeping. But the righteous Bharata will surely comfort my parents with words of dharma, of wealth, and of love. Remembering Bharata’s tenderness again and again, mighty-armed one, I do not grieve for my parents. Tiger among men, by coming to the forest after me you have done me a great service; else I would have had to look for help to guard Sita. Sumitra’s son, tonight I will live on water alone; though there are wild fruits and roots of many kinds, this is what I choose.”

Having said this to Lakshmana, Rama said to Sumantra too, “Gentle one, now look after the horses.” At sunset Sumantra tethered the horses fast, gave them plenty of grass, and came back to Rama. Having worshiped the blessed twilight and seeing the night come on, the charioteer, with Lakshmana, made a place for Rama to sleep and a bed of leaves. Seeing that leaf-covered bed on the bank of the Tamasa, Rama lay down on it with his wife. Seeing the tired Rama asleep with his wife in deep sleep, Lakshmana began to tell the charioteer Rama’s many virtues. As Lakshmana told the charioteer Rama’s virtues on the bank of the Tamasa, the sun rose before them; they had passed the whole night awake.

At a fit distance from the Tamasa, whose bank was thick with herds of cows, Rama passed that night with the citizens. Rising from his bed and seeing those people asleep a little way off, the greatly lustrous Rama said to his auspicious-marked brother Lakshmana, “See, Sumitra’s son, these townsfolk, so full of longing for us that they take no thought of their homes and their own kin, lie now pressed close to the roots of the trees. From the way these citizens hold to turning us back, it seems they will give up their lives rather than give up their resolve. So while they sleep, let us quickly mount the chariot and take a road where there is no fear from any side, so that these Ikshvaku citizens, devoted to me, do not sleep again with their heads laid against the roots of trees. It is for princes to free the people of the grief brought on by their own selves, not themselves to plunge the people into grief for their own sake.”

Lakshmana said to Rama, who stood there like dharma itself, “Wise one, this pleases me; mount the chariot quickly.” Then Rama said to the charioteer, “Yoke the chariot quickly; I will go to the forest. Lord, let us leave here at once.” The charioteer yoked the fine horses to the chariot and, with joined hands, said to Rama, “Mighty-armed one, best of chariot-warriors, the chariot is ready; mount quickly with Sita and Lakshmana; may it be well with you.” Mounting that chariot with all the gear of the journey, Rama crossed the swift, eddy-filled Tamasa and came onto a clear, unhindered road.

Then, to throw the people off, Rama said to the charioteer, “Charioteer, mount the chariot alone and drive fast for a while to the north, then bring the chariot back. Be careful, so that the citizens cannot find my trail.” Hearing this word of Rama’s, the charioteer did as he was told, and returning by another road told Rama the chariot had come. Then Rama and Lakshmana, with Sita, took their seats comfortably, and the charioteer drove the horses along the road by which the grove of penance could be reached. At the start the charioteer kept the chariot facing north, for in that direction he saw auspicious omens for the journey; then the great chariot-warrior Rama, son of Dasharatha, drove on with the charioteer toward the forest.

The gist: Here Rama’s compassion-driven cunning shows itself: to spare the people pain, he slips away quietly by night while they sleep, and by feinting the chariot’s direction he wipes out his trail. Keeping the chariot northward at first is only a rite of omen, not the true course.

The Citizens Wake, Blame Themselves, and Turn Back

When the night had passed into dawn, those citizens, not finding Raghava, grew numb and near lifeless with grief. Wild with the tears grief brings, those wretched people looked all around, and could not catch even a glimpse of Rama. Their faces withered with despair, robbed of the wise Rama and so at their wits’ end, even those thoughtful people spoke piteous words. “Shame on that sleep, through which, gone senseless, we today could not see the broad-chested, long-armed Rama. We set out with that great-souled hero; how shall we look on the city again without him? How could Rama, best of the Raghus, who ever guarded us like a father, leave us and go to the forest?”

“For us, bereft of Rama, what use is life? Come, let us give up our lives here by fasting, or make the great northward journey. Here are many great dry logs; let us light a pyre with them and enter it, every one. When those left behind ask us, what shall we say? How shall it be fitting to say that we ourselves let the mighty-armed, unenvious, sweet-spoken Raghava go? That city, which, seeing us return without Rama, will grow wretched and joyless with its women, children, and old, how shall we look on it without him?” So, lifting their arms, they lamented in many ways, like noble cows bereft of their calves.

Then they went a little way along the chariot’s track, but because the chariot had returned by another road the track soon vanished, and they sank into deep despair. The high-minded citizens, following the chariot ruts from the time it set out from Ayodhya, turned back saying, “What is this? How has the track vanished so soon? What are we to do? We are struck down by fate.” With downcast hearts they all returned by the road they had come, to Ayodhya, where all the good folk were in distress. Seeing that city, with hearts wild with dread of its ruin, their eyes stricken with grief, they shed their tears.

Bereft of Rama, Ayodhya looked as lusterless as a river from whose deep pool Garuda has torn out the serpents. Joyless as a moonless sky and a waterless sea, the troubled citizens looked on that city. Entering their great rich houses in grief, with all gladness fled, they could not tell their own from strangers, though they looked all around.

The gist: Waking, the citizens first blame themselves, then think even of dying, and at last, beaten by the vanished chariot track, return to a desolate Ayodhya. Rama’s ruse has worked, but its price is the emptiness of the city.

The Women of Ayodhya, and Curses on Kaikeyi

Returned each to his own home, ringed by sons and wife, they all shed tears, their faces covered with them. No one made merry, no one was glad; the merchants did not spread out their goods, nor did the goods look fair, nor did householders cook food in their homes. Even at the finding of lost wealth or the coming of great riches the people of Ayodhya took no joy; nor did a mother rejoice even at a firstborn son. In house after house the weeping women reproached their husbands, come home without Rama, with grief, as mahouts prod elephants with the goad: “What use to those who cannot see Rama are home, wife, wealth, sons, or comfort? The one good man in this world is Lakshmana, who went after Rama with Sita, serving him.”

The women imagine, in love, even the forest for Rama’s sake. “Blessed are those rivers, lotus pools, and lakes in whose holy waters Kakutstha will bathe. Whatever forest or mountain Rama goes to will honor him like a dear guest. Trees laden with all kinds of flowers, graced with bees, will come before Raghava; the mountains, in love, will show him fine flowers and fruit even out of season, and the springs will pour clear water. Where Rama is there is no fear, no defeat. The shade of the feet of such a great-souled lord is our happiness; he is our lord, our way, and our refuge.”

Then they say to their husbands, “We will serve Sita, and you Raghava. Rama will see to your welfare in the forest, and Sita to ours. Who can be happy in this unwelcome, longing-filled city, whose very heart is gone? If a kingdom, lawless and orphaned, has fallen to Kaikeyi, what use is our living, and what use then are sons and wealth? She who for the sake of lordship cast off even her stepson and her husband, whom will Kaikeyi, the shamer of her line, not cast off? We swear by our sons, that as long as we live, we will not stay in Kaikeyi’s kingdom, though she should keep us.”

“Who can be happy with a mistress like her, that pitiless, wicked woman who has banished the king of kings’ son? Because of Kaikeyi this whole kingdom will soon be without a ruler, without sacrifice, and full of ruin. With Rama become a forest dweller, the great king will not live, and with Dasharatha dead the ruin of this kingdom is certain. So, wretched to the depths at the loss of your merit, either mix poison and drink it, or go to the forest after Raghava, or go to some land where the name of Kaikeyi is never heard. Rama, with his wife and Lakshmana, was banished by deceit, and we are tied to Bharata’s stake like beasts bound in the slaughterhouse.”

The women, remembering Rama’s form, wept. “That great chariot-warrior Rama, with his face like the full moon, his dark body, his hidden collarbone, his arms long to the knees, his lotus eyes, first to speak, sweet-spoken, truthful, lovely as the moon, moving with the gait of a rutting elephant, will surely grace the forests as he roams them.” So the city women, lamenting so in the city, cried out as if in dread of death. As the women lamented for Rama in their houses, the sun set and night came on.

The city, in which even the burning of the fire-rite’s flame had ceased and the study of the Vedas and the telling of ancient tales had stopped, looked at that hour as if smeared with darkness. In which song, festival, dance, and music had wholly hushed, whose gladness had fled forever and whose trade had stopped growing, Ayodhya at that hour looked like a starless sky and a dry, waterless sea. On that occasion the women, wild for Rama’s sake as if their own son or brother had been banished, wept in wretchedness and swooned; for Rama was dearer to them than their own sons.

The gist: Home again, the men bear the reproaches of their wives. The women imagine going to the forest with Rama, refuse Kaikeyi’s kingdom, and draw a picture of an Ayodhya that, without Rama, is like a dry, waterless sea.

Three Rivers Crossed: Vedasruti, Gomati, Syandika

Remembering his father’s command, the tiger among men, Rama, covered a great distance while the night still lasted. Moving at the same pace, that lovely night passed. Having worshiped the blessed morning twilight, Rama crossed many lands. Watching the villages with their well-tilled boundaries and the woods laden with flowers, going swiftly on his fine horses yet seeming to go slowly, he heard the words of those who lived in the villages and hamlets near the road: “Shame on King Dasharatha, fallen into the power of desire. Alas, the sinful, cruel-dealing Kaikeyi, who, overstepping all bounds, sends to the forest so wise, so kind, so self-controlled, so righteous a prince. Alas, how loveless King Dasharatha has grown toward his own son, that for the people’s sake he casts off the sinless Rama.” Hearing these words of men, the brave Rama, lord of Kosala, crossed the bounds of Kosala.

Then, crossing the fair-watered river Vedasruti, Rama pressed on toward the south, the quarter inhabited by the sage Agastya. Journeying long in that direction, he crossed the river Gomati, which carries cool water, heads toward the sea by way of the Ganga, and whose banks are graced with cows. Crossing the Gomati too, Rama crossed on his swift horses the river Syandika, loud with peacocks and swans. Then Rama showed Sita the prosperous land of Kosala, whose southern boundary was the Syandika, and which of old the king of kings Manu had given to his eldest son Ikshvaku.

The glorious best of men, Rama, whose voice was like the note of a swan, said to the charioteer in sweet words, “Charioteer, when, having met my parents and returned to Ayodhya, will I roam for the hunt in the flowering woods on the bank of the Sarayu? Not that I greatly long for the hunt in the Sarayu woods; it is a rare pleasure honored by the royal sages. In this world the royal sages hunted for their sport; the sons of Manu too did it in their time, and the archers wished for it, and still I do not crave it overmuch.” Saying “Charioteer” again and again, speaking in sweet words on this theme and that, Rama, delight of the Ikshvakus, went on along that road.

The gist: This canto is a travelogue: across the three rivers Vedasruti, Gomati, and Syandika, Rama leaves the bounds of Kosala. From the mouths of the villagers ring the blame of Kaikeyi and the praise of Rama, and Rama talks easily with the charioteer as he goes.

Farewell to Ayodhya, the Ganga, and Guha the Nishada King

Having crossed the wide and lovely Kosala, the wise Rama turned his face toward Ayodhya and said with joined hands to the city, “Best of cities, guarded by the king of the line of Kakutstha, I take my leave of you and of the gods who protect you. Having finished the term of exile, freed of my debt to the king, and met with my parents, I will see you again.” Then Rama, his eyes red, raised his right arm and, his face full of tears, said in his wretchedness to the people of the land, “You have shown me pity and kindness as was fitting. But your presence should not draw out my grief; so, to see to your own affairs, turn back.” Bowing to the great-souled Rama and walking around him, those people stood here and there and lamented aloud. As they lamented, still unsated, Rama passed out of their sight, as the sun does at the beginning of night.

Then from the chariot the tiger among men, Rama, crossed that blessed Kosala, rich in grain and wealth, its people generous, safe from fear, thick with temples and sacrificial posts, full of gardens and mango groves, dotted with pools, teeming with well-fed folk and herds of cows, ringing with the chant of the Veda. There Rama saw the Ganga, the river that flows in three worlds, divine, cool, free of moss, served by sages, and lovely. That river was graced by hermitages standing near, and served by glad celestial nymphs. Adorned by gods, demons, gandharvas, and kinnaras, it was served without end by the wives of serpents and gandharvas; ringed with the pleasure-hills of the gods and their divine gardens, it flowed even in the sky for the good of the gods.

Here its water, striking the rocks, seemed to laugh aloud; there it laughed a clear white laughter with its foam; here it was braided like a plait, there graced with eddies; here still and deep, there wild with speed; here a deep roar, there a fearful cry. The hosts of gods dipped in its water covered with spotless lotuses; here broad sandbanks, there white sand. Loud with swans, cranes, and ruddy geese, graced like a garland by the trees on its banks, covered with open lotuses, that flawless river shone clear as a gem. Come down from Shankara’s matted locks, from the austerity of Bhagiratha, thronged with crocodiles and dolphins and serpents, that Ganga, the great queen of the ocean, loud with cranes and curlews, came to Rama near Sringaverapura.

Seeing that river full of waves and eddies, the great chariot-warrior Rama said to Sumantra, “Charioteer, let us halt right here today. Not far from the river stands this very large ingudi tree, thick with flowers and tender leaves; we will halt under it. From here I will look well on the Ganga, best of rivers, honored by gods, men, gandharvas, beasts, and birds.” Lakshmana and Sumantra said, “Very well,” and drove the chariot toward the ingudi tree. Reaching that lovely tree, Rama, delight of the Ikshvakus, got down from the chariot with his wife and Lakshmana. Sumantra too got down, unyoked the fine horses, and stood with joined hands near Rama, seated at the foot of the tree.

In that region a king named Guha, dear to Rama as his own life, was his friend. He was strong, of the Nishada people, lord of a four-limbed army, and famed as Sthapati. Hearing that the tiger among men, Rama, had come into his land, he came to the prince with his aged ministers and kinsmen. Seeing the lord of the Nishadas coming from afar, Rama went forward with Lakshmana to meet Guha. The stricken Guha embraced Rama and said, “Rama, this realm of Sringaverapura is yours as much as Ayodhya; what shall I do for you? Mighty-armed one, who indeed will get so dear a guest as you?” Then he brought many kinds of fine food and articles of welcome and said quickly, “Mighty-armed one, welcome to you; this whole land is yours. We are your servants, you our master; rule our kingdom well. Here are things to eat, to chew, to drink, and to lick, fine beds, and fodder for the horses.”

To Guha saying this, Rama said, “You came on foot to meet me and showed your love, and by that we are honored, and are always glad of you.” Pressing Guha hard in his well-formed arms, Rama went on, “Guha, by good fortune I see you and your kin in good health; is all well with your realm, your friends, and your forests? All that you have kindly set before us, I accept it and give it back; for I do not use gifts for my own ends. Know me to be a forest ascetic, set on dharma, wearing kusha grass, bark, and deerskin, and living on fruit and root. I have need only of fodder for the horses, of nothing else; by that much alone I will be honored by you. These horses are dear to my father, King Dasharatha; by their being well fed I will be honored.” Guha at once ordered his men to give the horses drink and fodder quickly.

Then, wearing an upper cloth of tree bark, Rama, having worshiped the western twilight, took for his food only the water Lakshmana himself brought, and so fasted in honor of the river. Lakshmana washed the feet of Rama and Sita as they lay to sleep on the ground and, drawing back a little, stood at the foot of a tree. The archer Guha too, with the charioteer, urging Lakshmana on to speak of Rama’s virtues, kept alert watch over Rama through the night. The glorious, high-minded, great-souled Rama, son of Dasharatha, who had never known sorrow and was fit for every comfort, lay on the ground, and that night passed away at last, hard and slow.

A sub-tale: The Ganga is called here “come down from Shankara’s matted locks, from the austerity of Bhagiratha.” In the later tradition this story of the Ganga’s descent is told in full: to purify the ashes of the sons of Sagara, ancestors of Bhagiratha, the Ganga was brought down to the earth; to bear her force, Shiva held her in his matted locks, and only then did she come down gentled. Valmiki here gives only the hint; the whole tale comes in the Balakanda.

The gist: Taking his leave of Ayodhya, Rama reaches the bank of the Ganga, whose grand description is a summit of Valmiki’s wonder. Guha’s kingly welcome Rama gently turns back, holding firm to his ascetic’s vow and accepting only fodder for the horses.

Lakshmana’s Night Watch, and His Talk with Guha

Seeing the prince and his wife asleep on the ground, Guha, seared with grief, said to Lakshmana, who kept awake in guileless love to guard his elder brother, “Dear one, this soft bed has been made ready for you; prince, rest on it in comfort. We are all used to hardship, you are fit for comfort; we will keep this night awake to guard Kakutstha. There is no one on earth dearer to me than Rama; I tell you the truth and swear it by truth. By his grace I hope in this world for great fame, dharma, and abundant wealth and desire. So I, with my kin, bow in hand, will guard my dear friend Rama, asleep with Sita, in every way. Roaming this forest forever, nothing in it is unknown to me; we could beat back even a great four-limbed army.”

Lakshmana answered, “Sinless one, guarded by you who look only to dharma, we fear no one. But while Rama, son of Dasharatha, sleeps on the ground with Sita, how can sleep, food, or comfort come to me? See, he whom all the gods and demons together cannot withstand in battle sleeps at ease on the grass with Sita. That one only son of Dasharatha’s, won by mantras, austerity, and many labors, marked like his father, now become a forest dweller, the king will not long survive, and the earth will soon be a widow. I believe that the great queen Kausalya, the king, and my mother Sumitra cannot live out this night. My mother may perhaps be saved, waiting for Shatrughna; but if the hero-bearing Kausalya does not survive, that will be a bitter thing.”

“Sunk in love of Rama, that pleasant city, dear to all, will be ruined with grief at the king’s death. How will the breath of the great-souled king hold his body, not seeing his eldest son? With the king dead, Kausalya will die after him, and my mother too will at once come to her end. Not gaining his heart’s wish, not setting Rama on the throne, my father will give up his breath crying, ‘Gone, all is gone.’ And then only the fortunate will do the last rites for that heaven-gone father. If Dasharatha lives on, the people will roam happily in my father’s capital.”

Lakshmana remembered that city. “My father’s capital, graced with lovely crossroads, well-laid royal roads, mansions and palaces, and the finest courtesans, full of chariots and horses and elephants, ringing with the notes of trumpets, complete in every blessing, teeming with well-fed folk, rich in pleasure gardens, graced by festivals and gatherings, if Dasharatha lives, the people will roam it happily. If Dasharatha lives, we will be able, with the true-vowed Rama safe and well and the exile ended, to enter Ayodhya once more.” So, as Lakshmana, son of Dasharatha and lover of the people’s good, spoke the truth out of love for his elder brother, Guha, stricken by misfortune and seared with grief, wept like an elephant wild with fever. So, as the great-souled prince Lakshmana lamented on, the night passed away.

The gist: Lakshmana courteously refuses Guha’s offer to keep watch: he cannot rest while his elder brother sleeps on the ground. From his mouth breaks the dread that Dasharatha and both mothers will die, and the night wears away in talk.

Across the Ganga, Sumantra Sent Home, and the Matted Locks

When the night had passed into dawn, the broad-chested, greatly glorious Rama said to the auspicious-marked Lakshmana, “The hour of sunrise is near and the blessed night is spent; dear one, that jet-black bird, the cuckoo, is calling. The cry of the peacocks in the forest can be heard too. Gentle one, let us cross the swift Jahnavi that flows toward the sea.” Understanding the drift of Rama’s word, Lakshmana told Guha and the charioteer and stood before his elder brother. Hearing Rama’s word and taking it, the Nishada king Guha quickly called his ministers and said to one, “Bring to the ghat at once a fine, strong boat with oars and a helmsman, that Rama may cross easily.” Hearing Guha’s order, his chief minister brought a fine boat to the nearest ghat and came and told Guha.

Then with joined hands Guha said to Rama, “God, the boat is here; what more shall I do for you? Peer of a son of the gods, true to your vows, this boat has been brought to cross the sea-going Ganga; mount it quickly.” The greatly lustrous Rama said, “You have fulfilled my wish; have all our gear placed in the boat at once.” Then, putting on their armor, girding on their quivers and swords, the archers Rama and Lakshmana came with Sita to the Ganga by the same ghat from which others crossed. Coming to the righteous Rama, ready to set out, the charioteer with joined hands and courtesy asked, “What shall I do?”

Touching Sumantra with his fine right hand, Rama said, “Sumantra, go back to the king quickly and be watchful.” Then he said, “Turn back; this much service is enough for me; now, leaving the chariot, we will go to the great forest on foot.” Finding himself dismissed, the grieving charioteer Sumantra said to Rama, “Tiger among men, no man in this world has ever known such a turn of the law, that one like you should live in the forest with your wife and brother like a common man. If such misfortune has come even to you, then I see no fruit in continence, in study, in gentleness, or in uprightness. Brave one, living in the forest with the princess of Videha and your brother, you will win the very state that the conqueror of the three worlds wins. Rama, forsaken by you, we are truly struck down, for now, fallen into the power of the sinful Kaikeyi, we will suffer.” Having said this, and knowing Rama had gone far, the charioteer Sumantra wept a long while in his grief.

When his tears had dried and, sipping the charioteer’s pure water, Rama had grown clean, he said sweet words over and over. “Among the Ikshvakus I see no such friend as you; do so that King Dasharatha does not grieve for me. The king, his judgment wild with grief, aged and worn down under the weight of desire, that is why I say this to you: whatever the great-souled king, in the wish to please Kaikeyi, bids you do, that do. Kings rule for this very end, that their will be checked in nothing. Do so that the great king is neither displeased nor stricken with grief. Bow to the aged, noble, self-controlled king, unused to sorrow, and give him this word from me:

“‘I do not grieve, nor does Lakshmana, nor is Sita pained, that we have fallen from Ayodhya or must live in the forest. When fourteen years are past, you will see Lakshmana, me, and Sita quickly returned.’” “Sumantra, having said this again and again to the king, to my mother, to the other queens, and to Kaikeyi, tell Kausalya of our welfare, and lay at her feet the salutation of Sita, of noble me, and of Lakshmana. Say to my father the king too: ‘Send for Bharata quickly; when Bharata returns from his uncle’s house, set him in the place you appoint. Having embraced Bharata and anointed him heir apparent, the grief born on our account will not settle on you.’ Say to Bharata too: ‘As you deal with the king, so deal, without difference, with all the mothers. As Kaikeyi and Sumitra are to be honored by you, so, and especially, is my mother the lady Kausalya. By accepting the office of heir apparent to please the king, you will win lasting happiness in both worlds.’”

At Rama’s counsel and dismissal, hearing all this, Sumantra said to Kakutstha out of love, “Dear one, if out of love I speak to you without restraint or courtesy, take me for one devoted and forgive my speech. Without you, how shall I return to that city, grown like a mother wild with grief for her son at parting from you? Seeing the chariot with you in it, the people wept aloud; seeing it now without you, the city will split apart. Seeing this empty chariot, the city will grow as wretched as an army when its hero is slain in battle and only the charioteer is left. Today all the people, thinking of you who dwell before their minds though you are far, will go without food. At your going to the forest a great wail rose from the citizens; seeing me alone with the chariot, they will weep a hundredfold more.”

“What lie shall I tell the lady Kausalya, that ‘Your son has been taken to his uncle’s house, do not grieve’? Such a lie, sweet though it be to hear, I cannot tell; and the truth, that Rama has gone to the forest, that unwelcome word how shall I speak? These fine horses under my hand, which draw only your kin and you, how will they draw the chariot without you? So, sinless one, without you I cannot go to Ayodhya; give me leave to come with you into exile. If, though I beg, you forsake me, then at your forsaking I will enter the fire here, chariot and all. In the forest, whatever creatures hinder your austerity, I will drive them off with the chariot. By your grace I have had the joy of driving the chariot; now I long for the joy of exile at your side. Have pity on me; I wish to be your servant in the forest; say in love, ‘Stay near me,’ and make me your close attendant. These horses too, if they win the chance to serve you in the forest, will win the highest state. In the forest I will serve you with bowed head; for this I am ready to give up Ayodhya and even the world of the gods.”

To Sumantra, begging so, over and over, in his wretchedness, the servant-loving Rama said, “Lover of your master, I know your deep devotion; but hear why I send you from here to Ayodhya. Seeing you returned to the city, my younger mother Kaikeyi will be sure that Rama has gone to the forest; else, seeing you with me, unsatisfied even by the exile, she might hold the righteous king a liar. My first aim is that my younger mother Kaikeyi win a rich kingdom guarded by Bharata; and this is possible only on your return. For my gladness and the king’s, Sumantra, go back to the city and give the messages as they were told.”

Comforting the charioteer so, over and over, the fearless Rama said reasoned words to Guha, “Guha, it is not fitting for me to live in a forest full of my own people; so I must dwell in a hermitage in a lonely region and keep its rule. Wishing my father’s good, I will, with the consent of Sita and Lakshmana, take on the rule that is the ornament of ascetics, and wearing matted locks go forward; so bring the milk of the banyan.” Guha at once brought that milk. With it the mighty-armed Rama made his own matted locks and Lakshmana’s and took on the mark of an ascetic. Clad in bark, wearing crowns of matted hair, the two brothers Rama and Lakshmana looked at that hour like two sages.

Then, taking on the Vaikhanasa way (the ascetic’s vow), Rama said to his helper Guha, “Guha, be watchful over the army, the treasury, the fort, and the land; the guarding of a kingdom is held very hard.” Taking leave of Guha, Rama, delight of the Ikshvakus, went quickly on with his wife and Lakshmana, his mind at ease. Seeing the boat at the river’s edge, eager to cross the swift Ganga, Rama said to Lakshmana, “Tiger among men, hold this waiting boat steady, help the high-minded Sita aboard, and get in at once yourself.” Hearing his elder brother’s command, doing all as fit, the self-possessed Lakshmana first helped Sita aboard, then got in himself. Then the lustrous Rama got in last, and the Nishada king Guha ordered his men to row the boat.

Aboard the boat, the greatly lustrous Rama, for his own good, murmured the holy mantras fit for both brahmin and warrior (the “daivi navam” and the rest). Sipping water in the way of scripture, well pleased in his love, Rama bowed with Sita to that river, and the great chariot-warrior Lakshmana did the same. Then, taking leave of Sumantra, Guha, and his men, Rama, seated in the boat, urged the boatmen to row.

A key to reading (the Vaikhanasa vow): The “Vaikhanasa way” is the ascetic’s rule of life: a diet of fruit and root, sleeping on the ground, wearing matted locks, and self-restraint. Rama’s making of the matted locks with banyan milk is the mark of initiation into this vow; it is the moment of leaving the royal dress behind and taking on the forest dweller’s form.

Sita’s Prayer to the Ganga, and Entry into the Vatsa Land

Driven by the rowing of the boatmen and the guiding of the helmsman, the boat, swift with the beat of its fine oars, began to cross the water quickly. Reaching the middle of the Bhagirathi, the faultless princess of Videha said with joined hands to the river, “Goddess, may I cross your water safe, and may my husband fulfill his vow of fourteen years in the forest. When the tiger among men, Rama, safe home again, wins back his kingdom, I will give a hundred thousand cows, garments, and fine food to the brahmins to please you. Home in Ayodhya, I will worship you with a thousand rare offerings, with tax-free land, garments, and food; goddess, be gracious to me.”

“Goddess who flows in three worlds, you run through heaven, earth, and the underworld, reaching to the realm of Brahma, and in this world you are seen as the queen of the ocean king; so I salute you and sing your praise. Fair one, having won his kingdom, may the tiger among men, Rama, come home safe. I will worship all the gods, holy fords, and sanctuaries on your banks. May the mighty-armed, sinless Rama enter Ayodhya again from exile with me and with Lakshmana.” So praying to the Ganga, the faithful, faultless Sita soon reached the southern bank.

Reaching the bank, leaving the boat, the scorcher of foes, Rama, went on with his brother Lakshmana and Sita. The mighty-armed Rama said to Lakshmana, son of Sumitra, “Bull among men, whether the place has people or is empty, be ready to guard Sita; for men who keep the bounds like me must guard a woman in an empty forest. Sumitra’s son, go ahead, and let Sita follow you; I will come behind and guard Sita and you. We must guard one another. No hard trial has passed yet; this very day Sita will taste the sorrow of exile. Today she will enter a forest where not even the marks of grass crushed by human feet can be seen, empty of field and garden, rough and full of deep pits.” Hearing Rama’s word, Lakshmana went ahead, Sita behind him, and just after Sita came Raghava.

Watching Rama, who had quickly crossed the Ganga, without pause, and, as the long distance broke his sight of him, the repentant, stricken charioteer Sumantra wept in his grief at parting from Rama. Having crossed the great river Ganga, the great-souled Rama, boon-giving and of a might like the world guardians’, came in time to the prosperous, lovely Vatsa land, with its rows of fine fields, gladdening to the eye (the land between the Ganga and the Yamuna). There, for the sport, having slain the four great deer, the boar, the rishya, the prishata, and the great ruru, and taking fruit fit for offering, the two hungry brothers came quickly, for the night’s rest and their meal, to that great forest tree within whose sight they had kept Sita during the hunt.

The gist: Sita’s prayer to the Ganga is the tender heart of this passage: she prays not for herself but for her husband’s vow and his safe return. Crossing to the southern bank, Rama warns Sita for the first time that the true exile has now begun; the three enter the empty forest of the Vatsa land.

The First Night Under the Banyan: Rama Asks Lakshmana to Return

Coming to that tree, having worshiped the western twilight, Rama, best of those who bring delight, said to Lakshmana, “Today is our first night outside the inhabited land, and it will pass without Sumantra; do not fret for it. From tonight we two must keep awake through the nights without slackness, for the guarding and the welfare of Sita rest on us both, Lakshmana. Sumitra’s son, let us pass this night somehow; come, let us lie on the ground with a bed of grass and leaves gathered by our own hands.”

Rama, fit for costly couches, sat on the open ground and spoke fitting words to Lakshmana. “Lakshmana, tonight surely the great king is sleeping in grief; and Kaikeyi, her wish gained, will be content. Seeing Bharata returned, that queen Kaikeyi may take the great king’s very life for the kingdom’s sake. What can the orphaned, aged king do, fallen into Kaikeyi’s power, forsaken of a self-willed son like me? Seeing this misfortune of mine and the derangement of the king’s mind, it seems to me that desire weighs heavier even than wealth and dharma. Sumitra’s son, who is so wise a man that he would forsake for a woman a self-willed son, as my father forsook me?”

“Kaikeyi’s son Bharata is happy and blessed with a good wife, who will enjoy the rule of the glad Kosalas like an overlord; for the father is grown old and I am come to the forest, so the whole pleasure of the kingdom will fall to him alone. Whoever leaves wealth and dharma and runs after desire soon comes to grief, like King Dasharatha. Gentle one, I believe Kaikeyi came into this house only for Dasharatha’s end, my banishment, and Bharata’s kingship. Let her not, drunk with the pride of her fortune, torment Kausalya and Sumitra on account of me and you. Lakshmana, so go back to Ayodhya at dawn tomorrow; I alone will go to the Dandaka with Sita. When Dasharatha is gone you will be the protector of the orphaned Kausalya. The low-natured Kaikeyi may in her malice do wrong, even give poison to your mother and mine.”

Rama’s voice deepened. “Dear one, surely in some former birth my mother Kausalya parted women from their sons, and now the fruit of it is come to her. Long nursed, raised in pain, Kausalya has been parted from a son like me at the very time of her reward; shame on me! Let no woman bear a son like me, who, Sumitra’s son, gives his mother endless grief. It seems to me that Kausalya’s pet mynah is dearer to me than I am, from whom this is heard: ‘Bird, bite off the foot of the enemy.’ Ill-fortuned, grief-struck, with a son yet as if sonless, my mother, what use to her is a son like me who does her no service? Bereft of me, my mother Kausalya lies in an ocean of grief, wild with the deepest sorrow.”

“Lakshmana, in my anger I alone could conquer Ayodhya and the earth too with my arrows; but a show of strength is not for our good in the world beyond. Sinless one, from fear of unrighteousness and of the world to come, I do not this day crown myself.” So, lamenting piteously and much more besides, his face full of tears, the wretched Rama sat silent in the night.

To Rama, looking like a fire with its flame dying and a sea without its surge, once the lament was stilled, Lakshmana gave heart, “Rama, best of the wielders of weapons, surely Ayodhya has grown lightless at your going, like a moonless night. Bull among men, it is not fitting that you grieve so; by it you cast Sita and me too into gloom. Raghava, without you neither Sita nor I can live even a moment, like fishes drawn out of the water. Scorcher of foes, without you I have no wish today to see father, or Shatrughna, or Sumitra, or even heaven.”

Then in that empty forest, keeping Sita in sight a little way off, Rama and Lakshmana, seated there, came to the well-made bed under the banyan. Hearing with respect Lakshmana’s fine, full, and lovely words, and taking on the exile, the scorcher of foes Raghava resolved to pass all the years of his exile with Lakshmana, following dharma for a long time. Then in that empty great forest the two mighty ones, Rama and Lakshmana, increasers of the Raghu line, like two lions dwelling on a mountain peak, came to neither fear nor dismay.

The gist: The first night under the banyan is the most open window into Rama’s mind: he fears further plots from Kaikeyi, aches for his mother Kausalya, and asks Lakshmana to return to guard her. Lakshmana flatly refuses, and Rama accepts his staying.

The Ashram of Bharadvaja, and the Pointing Toward Chitrakuta

Having passed a fair night under that great tree, at the rising of the clear sun the three set off from that place. Making for the region where the Yamuna meets the Bhagirathi Ganga, they went on through a great forest. Watching, in place after place, lovely lands and regions of many kinds, never seen before, the glorious travelers went on. Looking happily on the flowering trees, as the day waned Rama said to Lakshmana, “Sumitra’s son, see near Prayaga this fine, fragrant smoke; it is the mark of the lord Fire. My guess is that the sage Bharadvaja is near. Surely we have reached the meeting of the Ganga and the Yamuna; that is why the sound of water striking water can be heard. In this ashram appear cut logs of wood and trees of many kinds felled by those who live on the forest’s yield.”

As the sun set, the two archers, walking on at ease, reached near the sage’s dwelling at the meeting of the Ganga and the Yamuna. Coming near the ashram, scaring the beasts and birds with their archer’s form, going a little way, Rama reached the ashram of Bharadvaja. Eager to see the sage, the two heroes with Sita came to the ashram and stood a little apart, waiting for the sage’s leave. Given leave by a pupil, Rama went in, and seeing the great-souled sage, of firm vows, absorbed and one-pointed, who through austerity had won the eye of full sight, and who had just poured the oblation into the fire, he bowed with folded hands, with Lakshmana and Sita.

Lakshmana’s elder brother Rama gave his own name. “Reverend one, we are Rama and Lakshmana, sons of Dasharatha; this is my blessed, faultless wife, the princess of Videha, Janaka’s daughter, who has followed me into the empty forest fit for austerity. By my father’s command, reverend one, we go to the grove of penance, and there, living only on fruit and root, we will keep to dharma alone. With me my dear younger brother Lakshmana too, firm in his vow, has come to the forest.” Hearing this word of the wise prince, the righteous Bharadvaja offered him a bull and water to wash his hands, by way of the welcome due a guest. The ascetic sage gave them many kinds of savory food made of wild fruit and root, and arranged for their stay.

Ringed by beasts, birds, and sages, Bharadvaja honored the newcome Rama with words of welcome, and to Raghava, seated after accepting that welcome, he spoke words of dharma. “Kakutstha, after a long time I see you come; and I heard too of your causeless banishment. This lonely place at the meeting of the two great rivers is holy and lovely; dwell here in comfort.” Rama answered, “Reverend one, from here the people of the city and the land of Ayodhya are near; finding me easy to reach, people eager to see Sita and me will keep coming to this ashram; and for that reason it does not please me to stay here. Reverend one, look for some fine ashram-place in a lonely spot, where Janaka’s daughter Sita, fit for comfort, may find delight.”

Hearing this good word of Rama’s, the great sage Bharadvaja, grasping his intent, said, “Dear one, sixty miles from here there is a holy mountain where you may dwell; served by great sages, fair to see, thick with black long-tailed monkeys, haunted by apes and bears, famed by the name of Chitrakuta and lovely as Gandhamadana. As long as a man looks on the peaks of Chitrakuta, he stays set on works of blessing and does not turn his mind to sin. There many sages, doing austerity as if in sport for a hundred autumns, went to heaven with heads white as bare skulls. To my mind that place is lonely and pleasant for your dwelling; or else stay here with me all the time of your exile.”

Bharadvaja honored his dear guest Rama, with his wife and brother, gladdening him with every wished-for thing. As Rama, come to the great sage at Prayaga, talked with him on many themes, the holy, wondrous night came on. Weary, with Sita as the third, Rama passed that night in comfort at the lovely ashram of Bharadvaja.

At dawn, the best of men, Rama, went to the sage Bharadvaja of blazing luster and said, “Truthful, reverend one, we have spent last night at your ashram; now give us leave to go to the place of our dwelling.” When the night had passed, Bharadvaja said, “Go gladly to Chitrakuta, rich in honey, root, and fruit. Mighty Rama, that famed Chitrakuta hill, thick with clusters of trees of every kind, served by kinnaras and serpents, lovely with the cries of peacocks, haunted by lordly elephants, holy and lovely, rich in fruit and root, is fit for your dwelling; go there. There you will see herds of elephants and deer roaming the woods, rivers, cascades, peaks, caves, hollows, and rivulets, which will gladden your mind as you roam with Sita. Merry with the notes of the glad lapwing and the cuckoo, most lovely with deer and elephants in rut, fit for dwelling, reach that lovely mountain and take up your abode there.”

A key to reading (sixty miles): Bharadvaja says “ten kos,” but the traditional commentators read it as “ten and ten and ten,” that is thirty kos, which by the measure of a kos comes to about sixty miles. The distance from Prayaga to Chitrakuta works out to about that. In other words, Rama has some more days of travel ahead.

The gist: Bharadvaja’s ashram is both a halt and a guidance for Rama. Judging the confluence unfit because of Ayodhya’s nearness, the sage points Rama to Chitrakuta and paints its holiness and loveliness.

Across the Yamuna, and Night on the Kalindi’s Bank

Having spent the night at Bharadvaja’s ashram and bowed to the great sage, the two princes, Rama the tamer of foes and Lakshmana, set out toward that mountain. Seeing the three ready to go, the great sage too, as a father blesses his own sons and daughter-in-law, did the rite of well-wishing for their safe journey. Then the greatly lustrous Bharadvaja began to show the way to the truly valorous Rama. “Bull among men, reaching the meeting of the Ganga and the Yamuna, go along the bank of the Kalindi as it turns to face the west. Then, coming to the Kalindi where it bends the other way, and finding its much-used ford, Raghava, make a raft there and cross the Anshumati (the Yamuna).”

“Then come to a great banyan, called Shyama because its leaves are green, ringed with many trees and served by the Siddhas. There let Sita, with joined hands, pray to the tree-deity of that place for your safe return. Reaching that tree, if you are weary, rest a while, or press on, and going only two kos from it, look on the wood called Nila, mixed with sallaki and jujube and lovely with the bamboos on the Yamuna’s bank. That road to Chitrakuta I have seen many times; it is lovely, gentle, and free of wildfire.” Having shown the way so, the great sage turned back, when Rama, saying “So I will do,” bowed to him and urged him home.

When the sage had gone, Rama said to Lakshmana, “May it be well with you; surely we have done deeds of merit, that the sage showed us his grace.” Taking counsel so, the two high-minded tigers among men, keeping Sita ahead, went toward the river Kalindi. Reaching the bank of the swift Kalindi, eager to cross its water quickly, the travelers grew at once thoughtful. Then the two brothers made a great raft, full of dry bamboo and covered with the fragrant roots of usira, put together of many pieces of wood. Then the strong Lakshmana cut branches of cane and rose-apple and made a comfortable seat for Sita.

Dasharatha’s son Rama helped his lovely beloved Sita, fair as a fortune past thought, a little shy, onto the raft. Beside Sita, Rama carefully set the pair of her garments, her ornaments, and the spade and basket. Having first helped Sita aboard, holding the raft himself, the glad son of Dasharatha carefully began to row it. Reaching the middle of the current, Sita bowed to the Kalindi and prayed, “Goddess, may I cross your water safe, and may my husband fulfill the vow of his exile. Goddess, when Rama returns safe to Ayodhya guarded by the Ikshvakus, I will worship you with a thousand cows and a hundred rare offerings of worship.” So praying with joined hands, the fair-skinned Sita soon reached the southern bank of the Yamuna.

Crossing on the raft the swift, wave-garlanded Yamuna, graced with the trees on its banks, the three went on through the wood on the Yamuna’s bank and reached the cool green-leaved banyan Shyama. Coming to the tree, the princess of Videha bowed to it and said, “Great tree, salutation to you; may my husband fulfill his vow, and may we see the mother Kausalya and the glorious Sumitra again.” So saying, with joined hands, the high-minded Sita walked around the banyan. Seeing his faultless, dear Sita pray, Rama said to Lakshmana, “Lakshmana, younger brother of Bharata, take Sita with you and go ahead; I will come behind with the weapons. Best of the two-footed, whatever fruit or flower Janaka’s daughter Sita wishes, in which her mind delights, give it to the princess as you go.”

Each tree, shrub, or flower-laden creeper she had not seen before, the tender woman asked Rama its name. At Sita’s asking, the eager Lakshmana brought her sprays laden with flowers. Janaka’s daughter Sita, seeing that river with its wondrous sands and waters, loud with swans and cranes, was glad. Then, going only two kos from there, and killing many deer fit for offering, Rama and Lakshmana roamed the Yamuna wood. Roaming that lovely wood, loud with flocks of peacocks and thick with elephants and apes, and reaching the level bank of the river, the travelers, their faces free of gloom, came quickly to a tree fit for dwelling.

The gist: Guided by Bharadvaja, they cross the Yamuna (“Kalindi,” daughter of the sun) on a raft they build themselves. In midstream comes Sita’s second prayer to the water and her worship of the Shyama banyan. Across the river, they roam the woods with delight and halt for the night under a tree.

The Road to Chitrakuta, and the Leaf Hut at Valmiki’s Ashram

When the night had passed, Rama, best of the Raghus, gently waking the sleeping Lakshmana again, said, “Sumitra’s son, hear the sweet-voiced wild birds, the parrot, the cuckoo, and the mynah; the hour of departure has come, scorcher of foes, let us go.” Waked in time by his brother, Lakshmana, deep in sleep, shook off sleep, drowsiness, and the weariness of the past day’s journey. Rising, they all touched the cool water of the Yamuna and took the road to Chitrakuta, served by sages. Then, walking on with Lakshmana, Rama said to the lotus-eyed Sita, “Sita, look all around at the kimshuka trees, bright as if lit and hung with garlands with their flowers, in this late-winter season. See these marking-nut and bel trees, out of the reach of men, bent with fruit and flower; we will surely be able to live. Lakshmana, look at the honeycombs hanging from every tree, made and filled by the bees, each the weight of a drona. Here, in this lovely woodland, in a place spread with a sheet of flowers, the chataka calls and the peacock answers it.”

Then, walking on foot with Sita, the two brothers reached the lovely, soul-captivating Chitrakuta hill. Rama said to Lakshmana, “See this Chitrakuta mountain, its peaks high, thick with herds of elephants and loud with flocks of birds. Dear one, we will roam in this level, lovely, holy wood of Chitrakuta, covered with many trees.” Reaching that lovely mountain, full of birds of many kinds, rich in fruit and root and blessed with sweet water, Rama said, “Gentle one, this soul-captivating mountain, decked with many trees and creepers and rich in fruit and root, seems to me a place where sustenance can be found with ease. On this hill great-souled sages dwell too; dear one, let this be our dwelling; let us live here.”

So saying, Sita, Rama, and Lakshmana with joined hands went to the ashram of Valmiki, and all bowed to the sage Valmiki. The righteous great sage, greatly pleased, welcomed Rama, said graciously, “Be seated,” and honored him. Lakshmana’s elder brother, the mighty-armed Rama, having in due form presented himself to the sage, said to Lakshmana, “Gentle Lakshmana, bring strong and fine logs and build a dwelling; my mind is eager to live here.” Hearing his word, the foe-subduing Lakshmana brought branches of many trees and built a leaf hut.

Seeing the hut ready, bound with a wall of strong wooden stakes, thatched and fair, Rama said to Lakshmana, who listened with one-pointed care, “Sumitra’s son, fetching the pulp of the bulb called gajakanda, we will do the house-blessing rite of this hut; those who wish to live long must appease the fault of a newly built dwelling. Auspicious-marked Lakshmana, dig out that bulb and bring it quickly here; for the way laid down in scripture must be kept. Ever keep in mind your sacred duties.” Grasping his elder brother’s word, the slayer of foes Lakshmana did just so, and Rama said again, “Roast this bulb; we will worship the deities who preside over this hut. Gentle one, make haste; this is a blessed hour, and this day is ‘Dhruva’ (fixed, auspicious).”

The lustrous Lakshmana dug out that black-skinned bulb, fit to be offered to the gods, and cast it into the blazing fire. When it was well roasted and cooked and its red color was gone, Lakshmana said to Rama, “This gajakanda I have cooked whole; godlike one, you are skilled in the rite, so offer it and worship the gods.” Having bathed, restrained and skilled in the mantras, Rama recited in brief the closing mantras of the sacrifice and did the house-blessing. Having bathed in the Mandakini in the way of scripture and made his muttered prayer duly, he offered the Vaishvadeva oblation, gave fine offerings to Rudra and Vishnu too, and did the auspicious rites of appeasing the fault.

Raghava had altars, shrines, and sanctuaries for the guardians of the quarters and the intermediate points built and consecrated to suit the ashram. Having worshiped all the deities presiding over the new hut and grown pure, Rama entered that hut, and the boundless-lustered Rama’s mind was greatly gladdened. As the hosts of the gods enter their hall Sudharma, so the three, in the lovely, windless, leaf-thatched hut, well built on a fit site, entered together to dwell. Winning the utterly lovely Chitrakuta and the famed river Mandakini, served by beasts and birds and rich in fair descents, Rama grew glad and shed the grief of his banishment from the city.

A key to reading (eneya and gajakanda): The original has the words “eneya mamsa.” The Gita Press commentators make clear that here “mamsa” means the pulp of a bulb called gajakanda, not the flesh of a deer; for Rama had already vowed, before his mother, his father, and Bharadvaja, to live on fruit and root and to forgo meat like the ascetics, and Rama never breaks his word. So the rendering is of the bulb’s pulp.

The gist: Seeing the beauty of Chitrakuta, Rama resolves to settle there. Reaching Valmiki’s ashram, Lakshmana builds the leaf hut, and Rama, duly doing the house-blessing and worshiping the gods, enters the hut. Here at last the grief of parting from Ayodhya begins to ease.

Source: Srimad Valmiki Ramayana, Ayodhyakanda, Cantos 14-56 (Gita Press, Gorakhpur).