The Ramayana (12 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

2. A yuvaraja for Ayodhya

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We love him,” cried another.

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

“He is the greatest of the Ikshvakus.”

“He is brilliant.”

“The strongest kshatriya of all.”

“Wise beyond his years.”

“He is one of us.”

“He cries when we do.”

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

“He is as blue as a night lotus.”

“He is Vishnu's Avatara.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

3. The joyful news

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

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

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

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

But Sumantra said, “Not now, my prince. Your father wants to see you at once.”

“But I have just come from him. What has happened since then?”

Sumantra did not know. Rama felt the serpent of anxiety unfurl its hood again and hiss at him. He felt two opposing currents of fate pull against each other for the right to bear his life along. A little confused, he came out into the sunlight with Sumantra. He climbed into his chariot and drove to his father again.

Dasaratha embraced Rama with some emotion. “I have been a good king, my son. I have kept the lamps to the Gods lit in my kingdom and in my heart. But of late I have seen evil omens. In a dream, I saw a great torch fall on the ground and be extinguished. I am told that, by gochara, the sun, Rahu, and Angaraka all afflict my janma nakshatra. The omens of the sky and of sleep never lie, and I fear not just for my life but for my sanity. Rama, you must be crowned yuvaraja before some calamity strikes me down.

“Impulsively, I promised the people that you would be crowned when the moon is in Pushyami. I did not realize tomorrow is Pushyami. But I am determined you will be crowned tomorrow. You must keep a fast with Sita tonight, and sleep on the floor, on a bed of darbha grass.”

The old king paused; he studied his son's noble face. Slowly, he said, “Rama, great fortune provokes great envy. Bharata is not here and now is the time for you to be crowned. I know you will say he is devoted to you. But in my long years, there is one truth I have learned: that even the hearts of those who live in dharma are seldom pleased at the good fortune of others. Man's mind is like the wind and wild horses, my son: capricious and full of treachery. I feel sad to say this, but I am glad Bharata is away.”