The Ramayana (11 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

19. Bhargava

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

BOOK TWO

AYODHYA KANDA

{In Ayodhya}

 

1. Rama

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

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