The Ramayana (19 page)

Sita discovered that sleep in the forest was a deeper thing than it was in the city. She slept without fear, and dreamed lustrous dreams.

 

20. Rishi Bharadvaja's asrama

The next morning, the feeling of strangeness had left them. Passing a restful night in the jungle gave them a sense of being accepted, if not yet one of being quite welcome. The forebodings of the dark were forgotten as the sun climbed over the horizon. Day and night were so clearly divided in the wild, like different realms, each with its separate laws. Every day was a new beginning.

They chanted the Gayatri. When their morning worship was over, they walked south again, charting their course by the sun. Such sights greeted their eyes today: as if the forest had read their minds and their hearts while they slept, and now made them welcome. To their surprise, the deeper they went into that jungle the more trails they found, both fresh and worn. Then there were the animals of the vana: nilgai, chital and sambur, steaming bison, and a leopard with eyes like flames, stretched languid on a tree. Troops of merry, chattering langurs swung along with them for krosas in the leafy awning above. Once they heard a tiger roar a short way from the path on which they walked.

After a watchful day, the denizens of the forest knew the weapons the kshatriyas carried were not for cruel sport, and the jungle opened its heart to them. In innocence and wonder, the wild creatures came out to stare. Sita was enchanted. They came to pools full of dark lotuses in astonishing colors they had never seen, unless in forgotten dreams. Filigree creepers, entwined around knotted old tree trunks, created wild veils through which they passed between zone and zone of the jungle. Subtly, the forest entered them and they its ancient soul.

Quickly they learned that there were birds in the forest whose incredible beauty no poet had described, and whose songs were haunting legends of the jungle's living soul. They came to hidden lakes and streams, and saw swans gliding on them, haughty and utterly beautiful. As unfamiliar and captivating as the sights and sounds of the mysterious vana were its fragrances. These were exuded by flowers, dull and bright, which grew in profusion everywhere. Wafted on breezes, they blended in the air as if in a vast natural perfumery and were blown through the aisles of the forest, heady and delectable.

Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana made their way under the great trees, pausing occasionally when Sita wanted one of the princes to pluck a particularly exotic flower for her hair. They walked toward the Sangama, where the golden Ganga and the deep blue Yamuna flow together. Lakshmana pointed into the sky and they saw a plume of smoke rising in the distance. Rama held his hand up for them to be still; and then they thought they heard it faintly: the dim roar of the two rivers hurtling into ecstatic confluence.

Rama said in excitement, “Prayaga! And an asrama of rishis, probably Bharadvaja's.”

Memories of Viswamitra and their journey with him came flooding back. The sun had climbed high over their heads and blazed down on the boiling world. But at the thought of Bharadvaja's asrama, they hurried on as quickly as Sita could walk. All day they went over uneven terrain: sometimes through flat, dense jungle and at others over steep hillocks that loomed abruptly in their path. Only when the sun was sinking in the west did they stand at the edge of an escarpment and see the two rivers below them, with an asrama tucked cozily between.

As they drew near, they saw many rishis about, preparing for their evening worship. Tame deer roamed among the munis' huts. When they saw the strangers they stood stock-still, quivering. Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita had not yet acquired the familiar scent of forest dwellers. The wild creatures still smelled the city on them and were wary.

The princes and Sita presented themselves before the profound Bharadvaja. When they prostrated at his feet, Rama said, “I am Dasaratha's son Rama. These are my brother Lakshmana and my wife, Sita. Bless us, Muni: we have been exiled to the Dandaka vana for fourteen years.”

Bharadvaja's eyes took light. “I know about you, Rama of Ayodhya. I know, with such insight as God has given me, that you have been exiled for no fault of yours. Stay here with us for fourteen years. We will be more than happy to have you.”

For just a moment, Rama was tempted. Then he said, “I thank you for your kindness, but we are still not deep enough into the jungle. If the people of Ayodhya discover that I am here, they will come often to visit us. I must find a more secret and lonely place.”

Though disappointment flickered in his eyes, Bharadvaja nodded in agreement. He said, “Ten krosas from here is Chitrakuta. Rishis live on the mountain, and monkeys. It is a beautiful and auspicious place.”

Bharadvaja insisted the brothers and Sita spend the night with him. He knew who Rama was and thought it a blessing that the prince had come to his hermitage. Late into the night they sat talking; many a time, overwhelmed by Rama's presence, the rishi implored him to stay on. Each time the prince refused graciously.

They were fed by the hermits and given a hut to sleep in. Tired as they were, sleep came swift and deeply. The next morning they went to bid farewell to Bharadvaja.

Bright as Agni from his tapasya, that rishi said, “When you reach the Sangama, follow the Yamuna east and you will find a well-worn path that runs for a krosa. After a krosa, cross the river and you will see the path continues on the other side. Walk that way until you come to a nyagrodha, a solitary ancient of the jungle. That sacred tree is called Shyama. Let Sita worship him, as siddhas have done through the ages, for he is a guardian of Chitrakuta. You can rest among his roots or go on, as you choose.

“Another krosa ahead is a softer forest: the Yamunavana of palasa, badri, and yamala trees. The trail through that vana is full of charming sights. You will see lakes, streams, and lofty falls. I have walked that way many times; the jungle is thick with bamboo, but the path will not hurt your feet. For there is gentleness upon it, and it leads straight on to Chitrakuta.”

Bharadvaja came to the riverbank with the kshatriyas. He blessed them and went back to his asrama, his heart beating with Rama, his mind full of the dark prince. Without turning back, the brothers and Sita walked away beside the swift river. They walked a while before they found the path that skirted the water. A krosa from there they saw the ford where the river was slow.

The princes cut down bamboo stems and jungle vines, and lashed them together to make a raft; on it, they crossed the midnight-blue water. Sita worshipped the river in midstream, just as she had the Ganga a day ago. She prayed to the Goddess Yamuna to bless them.

South of the river, they took the jungle trail through the Yamunavana and came to a great nyagrodha, growing far from his fellows, like a lonely tower in the wilderness. With pradakshina, Sita worshipped that spirit and prayed aloud, “Ancestor of the jungle, bless us that we return safely to Ayodhya after fourteen years.”

Rama said, “Let us press on; I am impatient to arrive.”

The forest grew ever stranger and more vivid, as they went deeper into its spaces of mystery. Birds and flowers were more brilliantly plumed and petaled. Their songs were unfamiliar and their scents piquant. The path snaked through the Yamunavana, at times following the breathy river close to its bank, at others leading them far from the water, always climbing. The air was cooler here and, as Bharadvaja promised, they saw shining lakes and glittering waterfalls. The land was fresh and unspoiled, and they felt the earth received them like favored children.

They decided to spend the night beside the Yamuna. They were tired, and thought they would make their way to Chitrakuta early the next day. Peacocks screamed around them as they settled down, and a lively troop of langurs was full of gossip in the trees above. They no longer felt threatened by the forest, but welcome and elated. Friendly breezes toyed with their hair. They slept contentedly that night and no thoughts of Ayodhya disturbed them.

 

21. Chitrakuta

With a thousand birds singing, the jungle woke them at dawn. The feathered ones sang the sun in rapture, blessing another day in the world as they have done since there were first birds in its trees to give praise. It had been dark when they settled here the previous night. Now they stood astonished by the loveliness of the place in which they found themselves. Forgotten were yesterday's insoluble sorrows: this was their new life, of vibrant hill-green and deep river-blue. The flowers here were like pieces of a rainbow broken across the forest, and vivacious monkeys followed them again through the trees. They spied on herds of deer and came upon lakes tranquil as rishis' hearts.

The leaves had fallen off the palasa trees and scarlet flowers blazed on their branches like countless flames. From other trees, beehives hung heavy as little boats. When they ate the fruit of these forests, they knew they had never tasted anything to rival them. Tiny, nondescript songbirds, throats full of musical fire, sang down to incandescent peacocks. Those beautiful and tone-deaf fowl screeched back plaintively.

Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana walked on until a mountain rose before them out of the foothills. They saw herds of elephant, bison, and deer moving on its shoulder streaked silver with shimmering cascades. The echo of the falls drifted across the silence of the valleys, as if borne on the wings of birds. Slowly they made their way up, and searched for a place to live in. They came to Valmiki's asrama, and that rishi welcomed them. They took his blessing and climbed on. Then, in a flat clearing within a circle of eucalyptus and early pine, Rama stopped still. He felt certain that this was the place for them; as if here many paths of grace, laid on the earth in invisible arteries, converged, and imbued it with exceptional power and auspiciousness.

Nearby, the Mandakini, which flows into the Yamuna, gushed over her rocky bed. Rama and Lakshmana collected logs of wood with which they could build a kutila. But Lakshmana told Rama to stand aside, and with wonderful skill began to lash together their first home in the wilderness. He took two days before it was ready: a cozy log cottage on the hillside, thatched with grass and straw.

Outside, and a few yards from the little dwelling, was a shelter for worship. The construction was clean and strong, and Rama hugged his brother, crying jovially, “You couldn't have built it better if I had helped you! But we must offer a sacrifice of deer's flesh to the gods of the jungle, so they keep evil away from our asrama for fourteen years.”

Expert hunter that he was, Lakshmana went off to stalk a herd of chital he had seen earlier beside the Mandakini. An hour later he came back, grinning, with a skinned carcass draped over his shoulders. They roasted the stag on a spit. Rama chanted the mantras for vaastu shanti and offered the meat to the Devas of light, to Rudra and Narayana, the vana devatas and the Gods who rule men's fates.

Rama bathed and entered the log cottage for the first time. Lakshmana and Sita went in after him. Contentment was upon them, since they could not have wished for better company or a more beautiful place in which to live.

Thus Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana arrived on Chitrakuta, and settled there. The sorrow of Ayodhya left them alone, save very rarely.

 

22. Sumantra returns

For a long time after Rama crossed the Ganga, Guha and Sumantra stood on the bank of the river. The old sarathy stood gazing after his princes and Sita like one who watched a bad dream: bemused, expecting to awaken from it at any moment. Gently Guha led Sumantra back into his city. He kept the old man with him for a day and a night, until news came back from the jungle that the exiles had reached Bharadvaja's asrama.

Near noon the next day, Sumantra bid farewell to Guha, yoked his horses, and rode back to Ayodhya. Three days and nights rode Dasaratha's sarathy, like Vayu, his heart full of sorrow. The fourth evening, when the sun had set, he arrived at the gates of Kosala's capital. Nothing stirred in the city. No music was in the air; no games of chess were being played on the street corners. No contests of wrestling or marksmanship did Sumantra see in the alleyways. No butter lamps lit Ayodhya; no women strolled out on their husbands' arms. Silence hung over the city.

At the clatter of Sumantra's wheels, the people flung open their doors and came out to see if Rama had returned. They crowded the chariot and cried, “Where is Rama? Where is our yuvaraja, Sumantra?”

The old sarathy hung his head and replied in a whisper, “I left him on the banks of the Ganga. He ordered me back to Ayodhya.”

Before the word spread, and he was mobbed, Sumantra snapped his reins and drove on to Dasaratha's palace. The women of the harem saw him coming, and when they saw he came alone, hope went from them. They turned back to their apartments in despair, crying. Sumantra came to Dasaratha in Kausalya's chambers and knelt before his king. Dasaratha questioned him mutely with blind eyes.

Sumantra said, “We drove south for three days and I left him on the banks of the Ganga. I watched him cross the river. After waving to me, he walked into the forest with Lakshmana and Sita. And I saw them no more. The king of hunters, Guha of Shringiberapura, had news from his trackers that three days ago the princes and Sita arrived in Bharadvaja's asrama.”

As he spoke, Sumantra's gaze roved anxiously over his master. Dasaratha had aged a life in the week since the sarathy had seen him. He had grown so thin, he might not have eaten at all since Rama left. Pale skin hung loosely on his face; tears leaked from his weary eyes like his life. He sighed with every word he heard, and shivered as if with some great terror. Now when he spoke, his voice, which once rang like thunder through his sabha, was barely audible. Sumantra had to move closer to hear what he said.

“Tell me more, so my pain grows a little less. Though there is no cure for me. Tell me how he walked into the jungle; tell me how he slept while you were with him. Did he send a message for me? What did Sita and Lakshmana say? Tell me everything, Sumantra: give me some peace.”