The Ramayana (18 page)

They came to the cool Vedasruti, whose waters were known for their sweetness. They forded the river and gained the far bank. On they drove and after half a day they came to the sacred Gomati. They crossed that river also, comfortably for the water was still low, and rode on.

Rama said wistfully to Sita, “These are the lands that Manu gave his son Ikshvaku in the krita yuga.”

He told them about every land they passed. He knew each one's history intimately and spoke as if they were all precious parts of himself. They had come to the Syandika and forded her when, suddenly, grief seized Rama. He said in anguish, “Sumantra, when will I hunt with you again in the forests of the Sarayu? When will I see my father and mother again?”

But seeing tears spring in the old sarathy's eyes, he controlled himself. Now they had reached the southern limit of Kosala. Rama stopped the chariot. He climbed down and turned his face north, from where they had come. He folded his hands and said softly, “Land of my ancestors, let me leave you now. Gods of Kosala, bless me that I return to my mother and my father when my exile is over.”

He raised his eyes to heaven and cried, “My people who love me, I go for the sake of dharma, the timeless wealth. Give me your blessing and I will come back to you in fourteen years, which is less than a day for the Devas.”

Rama lay on his face upon the earth and kissed it; Lakshmana and Sita did the same. They climbed back into Sumantra's chariot and he bore them away toward the inscrutable future.

Kosala, land of the sons of Manu, faded into the horizon behind them. They came to the banks of the Ganga, tripathaga of the three streams that flowed through Swarga, Bhumi, and Patala. She lay like a sea before them, she who washed the sins of men: Ganga, whom the rishis adored because she was a Goddess; Jahnavi, in whose magical waters the Devas, Asuras, gandharvas, and apsaras came to bathe, and other beings who were not of humankind.

Her currents lapped at her banks. Her waves crested with silver foam, she bore placid streams and spinning whirlpools upon her, side by side. She was alive and, in their present mood, they were intensely sensible of her attraction. Rama gazed out across the wide water. Sighing, he said, “Let us spend the night under this tree.”

They sat in silence by the river, watching the sun set in the west. His gold was scattered on the mystic flow that caressed the exiles, soothed them with wonderful whisperings. Peace was upon them, easing the harshness and grief of the past days.

They had chosen to spend the night near the city of Shringiberapura, which was ruled by an old friend of Rama's: Guha, the fierce king of hunters. Soon enough, curious rishis and other bathers in the holy Ganga learned of Rama's arrival and word reached Guha. He came excitedly out of his city to welcome his friend.

Guha came laden with mattresses of swan's down and a sumptuous feast. He shouted in joy when he saw Rama; the hunter king ran forward to embrace the dark prince. Guha said, “Stay with me and rule my city for as long as you like. Noble Rama, the honor will be mine!”

Rama embraced him warmly, but he said, “My kind friend, I am moved by your love. But I cannot accept any of your generosity today, only your affection: I am bound by an oath to live like a tapasvin for fourteen years. But not these horses, and I will be grateful if they can be fed.”

When he heard what had happened in Ayodhya, Guha hung his head. Then he said, “Rama, allow me to watch over you myself tonight.”

The hunter king spent the night with them. Rama waded into the river for his evening worship. Standing with the twilight current around his waist, he offered a prayer to Surya, God of day. When he came out Lakshmana washed his brother's feet and wiped them. He pressed them as he had every day in Ayodhya, since they were boys.

With a smile, Rama lay down beside Sita, on the bed of leaves that Lakshmana had become so expert at making. They both fell asleep almost at once. Sumantra, Lakshmana, and Guha stood watch, with their weapons.

As the moon rose and rode serenely on the Ganga, Guha said to Lakshmana, “You must be tired. Why don't you sleep? Have no fear for your safety tonight: Guha and his people stand guard over you.”

But Lakshmana replied sadly, “How can I sleep when Rama and Sita lie on beds of leaves? O Guha, I am thinking of my father, that he will not survive this night. If I feel so sad despite being here with Rama, what must Dasaratha's grief be in Ayodhya? We will never see him alive again. And if he dies, how long will Kausalya and Sumitra survive in Kaikeyi's court? No, they will die as well.”

Lakshmana spoke so earnestly Guha could see the funeral pyres of Dasaratha and his queens before his eyes. That rough hunter also wept with Lakshmana beside the Ganga, and the river carried their grief out to the distant sea, like sacrament. The night passed slowly; the very darkness was heavy with sorrow.

 

18. Across the Ganga

Rama was awakened by the dissonant cries of peacocks calling at the rising sun.
Viaon!
they screamed,
Viaon!
all along the riverbank, and set off a chorus of thrush and koyal, pigeon and tiny warbler. Soon every bird in the crowded trees was alight with song. Rama and Lakshmana waded into the transparent river to perform Suryanamaskara.

Rama said to Guha, “Can you give us a boat to cross the Ganga? We must press on, and send Sumantra back to Ayodhya as soon as we can.”

Guha clapped his hands to call one of his men, and cried in his musical tongue, “A royal boat for the princes and princess. Be sure it is one of my own, and have our best oarsmen take them across.”

A brightly painted boat from the harem of Shringiberapura was towed to the river for Rama's crossing. The kshatriyas strapped their bows and quivers to their backs and their swords to their waists. Guha bowed to Rama. “Last night, I learned the greatest lesson of my life from you: that dharma is the only path worth walking. Rama, I thank you.”

The forester had tears in his eyes. He embraced the prince of Ayodhya, and then fell at his feet for his blessing. Rama raised Guha up and hugged him. He said, “You have been a true friend in my need, and that is dharma indeed.”

They came to the river where the colorful boat floated. Rama turned to Sumantra; the sarathy's eyes were red from crying. He stood before his prince, but spoke no word, only gazed into his face. Rama laid a hand on his shoulder and said simply, “Go back to my father now, Sumantra.”

Sumantra broke down and cried, “This has never happened before in the history of the House of Ikshvaku: that a crown prince, his wife, and his brother are banished into exile. I know now that chanting the Vedas and worshipping the Devas is of no use, if a prince like you must suffer this.”

And he sobbed. Then, growing quiet again, he said ruefully, “Blessed are those that dwell in the Dandaka vana; our loss shall be their gain. All of us born in Ayodhya must have been great sinners in past lives: to have known you as we have, to have watched you grow to manhood, and to lose you now for a demented woman's greed. We are damned, Rama; not you, but those you leave behind.” He embraced the prince and kissed his hands again and again, wetting them with his tears.

Rama held him close, then said, “Tell the king we are happy in exile. Tell him we will return to him in fourteen years, to take the dust from his feet. Give our love to Kausalya, Sumitra, Kaikeyi, and all our mothers of the palace. Tell my father that once he crowns Bharata yuvaraja, his sorrow, which is half for Ayodhya, will ebb from him. When he finds how able my brother is.

“Tell Bharata to look after all his mothers equally. Tell him he should care specially for Kausalya and Sumitra; they have been separated from their sons. Give him my blessing, tell him I said, ‘Rule Ayodhya with dharma and earn a lofty place for yourself in the world to come.'”

Sumantra was still disconsolate. “Ayodhya will be like a woman who has lost her child. When I take this chariot through the city gates, there will be such a lament, as if I am a messenger with the most evil tidings, that I did not bring you back home. Why, these horses won't draw the chariot without you. I beg you, Rama, let me come with you. I will serve you well in the vana.”

Rama touched the sarathy's face with his fingers. “I have to send you back. Otherwise, Kaikeyi will not know you have taken me to the jungle and she will torment my father. You don't have to prove your love to me, Sumantra; I know it well. But your place is beside your king in his dark time. Go, good sarathy. Give me your blessing and go in peace.”

He turned to Guha. “I must wear my hair in jata. Can your men fetch me some sap of the nyagrodha?”

When the sticky milk of the pipal tree was brought, Rama and Lakshmana rubbed it into their hair. Soon their locks were thick and tangled, and they coiled them in jata like rishis of the forest. Sumantra cried again to see his princes transformed. The river beckoned now. Lakshmana held the boat steady while Rama and Sita climbed into it, and he climbed in after them. At last, the blue prince raised his hand in farewell and the oarsmen of the hunting people cast off.

Sumantra and Guha stood on the riverbank, waving after the boat. The currents were mild in the morning, and they went along rapidly. The figures on the bank dwindled. In midstream, Sita raised her voice in prayer to the Ganga: “Devi, Queen of the ocean! Grant that in fourteen years we cross your waters again, and seek your blessing on our way home to Ayodhya.”

Rama and Lakshmana touched the clear flow and scooped up some water in their palms for achamana. They reached the southern bank, thanked the boatmen, and alighted from the reed craft. The Dandaka vana loomed before them. When the oarsmen cast off again, Rama waved once more to Sumantra and Guha, whom they could still see across the river.

Rama said to Lakshmana, “Now is our time for wariness. You walk ahead, my brother. Sita, you walk behind Lakshmana and I will bring up the rear. The jungle is not a place for carelessness. Out of your love you have come with me; but the paths and the years ahead are fraught with danger.”

Thus they went into the towering Dandaka vana: Lakshmana in the lead with his bow in his hand, Sita behind him, and Rama last of all. When Sumantra saw them enter the jungle, he heaved a sigh. He wiped his tears and turned back to Guha and to the long, sad journey back to Ayodhya.

 

19. Into the deep vana

At first the forest turned their minds to sorrow; that was the effect it had on them. It was a twilight place, and so quiet they heard their own thoughts too clearly, especially their anxieties. They walked on wordlessly, as if they dared not disturb the vast silence. Just strange bird cries echoed, now and again; or they heard rustling in the undergrowth where unknown beasts made their way through the half-dark of day. A feeling of great eeriness was upon them. Their senses were sharp as arrows, their bows were strung, and between them was Sita, a little frightened and very brave. The brothers walked resolutely on.

Once they stopped to pick some luscious mangoes and made a sweet, if somber, meal of them. They avoided speaking as if it were forbidden: such was the initial spell of that awesome forest. And its creatures, if they watched the intruders from leafy hiding, did not show themselves yet, in mistrust and conspiracy. Having eaten and rested, the princes and Sita walked on. There were few paths in here and their progress was mostly through dense, trackless jungle. At times, when he could find no other way, Lakshmana drew his sword and cut one for them to squeeze along. The sun glinted like rare gold through the heavy canopy overhead, and they went south by his position.

Evening was upon them when they came to a small clearing. In its midst stood a spreading nyagrodha tree. Rama called a halt for the day. They sat beneath the patriarch of the forest, who grew at some distance from his fellows. By his size, he was older than any of the other trees: he was a giant of the earth, countless summers and winters he had seen. Lakshmana fidgeted uneasily and his face was dark after their long walk.

Rama laid a hand on his arm, “We must be calm in this place. The more agitated we are the more vulnerable we shall be.” As soon as he spoke, a weight seemed to lift away from them; as if all this while the forest had strained to hear one of their voices, to discover what kind of men these were. Lakshmana's face lost its frown and now they reclined against the knotty roots of the nyagrodha, tired but speaking together, of this and that, to keep the silence at bay as the sun set. Sita said little but sat close to Rama, listening to them and to the immense jungle around.

With nightfall, Rama's mind turned back ineluctably to Ayodhya and sorrow took him again. He sighed, “Dasaratha, how sad you must be tonight and how gleeful Kaikeyi. Fear lays hold of me, Lakshmana: once Bharata is crowned and her purpose is secure, how long will Kaikeyi spare our father? She has no love for your mother or mine. If the king dies, she will hardly spare them. I think you should go back to Ayodhya, my brother.”

He sat smoldering like a fire that has no more flames, or a sea that waves no more but has grown awfully still. Lakshmana laid a gentle hand on Rama and said to him, “You must not grieve like this; or who will comfort Sita and me? One thing is certain: I will not leave you and go back. I have no wish to see my father, or my mother even. I would not go into Devaloka if its gates were open, unless you were with me. Besides, I think you give Bharata less credit than he deserves. He will look after our father, and our two mothers as well.”

The spasm of anxiety was smoothed from Rama's face. “What would we do without you?” he cried. “We would not survive a night in the forest, let alone fourteen years.”

They gathered dry branches and twigs, and kindled a fire in a ring around themselves. In turns, making sure the flames never died, the brothers kept watch while Sita slept. Often during the night, at the periphery of the clearing, they saw animal eyes that glowed red, green, and yellow at them, in curiosity or in hunger. They heard ominous growling and snuffling; but no wild creature dared come near the fire, which crackled merrily through the night. They had gathered a good store of fuel before darkness fell, and it lasted until dawn.