The Ramayana (6 page)

They still heard her raging beyond the crest of the hill, and more rocks and stones came raining down on them as they climbed the slope. But as if she knew her time had come, the fight had gone out of Tataka. Rama and Lakshmana paused halfway up the hillock. They pulled at their bowstrings again, so the rakshasi's screams were drowned and the earth below them shook. Suddenly Tataka's screams stopped. She was stricken with a terror she had not felt for an age. She had fainted with that fear and with the pain of her severed parts. Her sorcery grew weak and they saw her again.

But up she leaped. Hadn't she drunk the blood of a hundred young fools like these? She pulled up a tree with her good hand and came lumbering over the hilltop. She loomed over them, screeching raw abuse. But Rama waited with an arrow fitted to his bow and the string drawn to his ear. As she plunged at them, he dropped onto a knee and shot her through her heart. With a sigh, she fell; like a strange avalanche, she rolled down the hill until she came to rest at Viswamitra's feet. They saw her rakshasi's form had changed in death. She was beautiful again and had a smile of pure release upon her face.

There was a flash of light throughout that forest when Tataka died: a light of the Devas. An unearthly voice, an asariri, spoke to Viswamitra. “We bless you, Brahmarishi, for bringing Dasaratha's brilliant sons to make this place clean again. Fare you well on your journey. And fare you well on all your journeys, Rama, for there are many before you.”

The light was gone. Viswamitra said quietly, “Indra.”

The rishi saw the youths had knelt at his feet for his blessing. He raised them up gently and, now, proudly as well. Though he had always known who these princes were, where was the proof of their stunning valor before they killed Tataka? In some satisfaction, Viswamitra settled for the night in the heart of that jungle, with Rama and Lakshmana beside him. As they slept they felt an uncommon breeze flow in sweet currents through the trees above them, as if those ancients were being awakened from a long nightmare. The princes drifted off along the river of dreams, and they fancied they felt the hearts of the old trees respond to that fresh draft in a thousand springs they had suppressed from Tataka's overweening evil.

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When they awoke, to the joyful songs of birds in the trees above them, they saw their dream had been just a shade of the truth. All around them was the gushing outflow of a long-withheld spring! A riot of flowers of ten vasanthas hung from the trees in every imaginable color: champaka, asoka, punnaga, and delicate mallika blossomed overnight at Tataka's death. The air was no longer dank and purulent, but crisp and sweet with a thousand ineffable scents.

Birds gave excited throat to their deliverance. Deer walked shyly up to the princes and the rishi, and nuzzled their faces in their hands. They saw the canopy above was, in fact, far from opaque; today fingers of sunlight reached down to the floor of the forest. While the rakshasi was alive, even the sun had avoided her lair. The mango trees, palasas, and palms were heavy with fruit, ripened in a night, in supernatural abundance. The jungle celebrated more than the death of Tataka. It was ecstatic at the advent of Rama, who had slept under its branches.

As the princes went on their way, they saw the vana was strewn with a richness of clear pools and forest streams chatting through curving aisles of trees, and jungle paths revealed. Life had returned to the province of death, and celebration was everywhere. Even Viswamitra seemed moved. His eyes strayed from Rama's face to the miracle in the jungle around them, and then back to the prince's dark features. Abruptly, he raised a hand for them to stop. He said, “I am so pleased, I must give you a gift today.”

Rama said, “But you have already blessed us; what gift could be greater than that?”

Viswamitra replied, “For two young kshatriyas on the threshold of life, the gift of devastras. They will help you someday against enemies far greater than Tataka. These are weapons only the restrained should have, and you, Rama, are born so. Now I am sure of who you are; no one else could have killed Tataka. Come, sit here with me.”

When Rama sat, facing the east, Viswamitra taught him the mantras to summon the occult weapons. The rishi himself had the astras from Siva, long ago, when he was still a king and had need of them. When Rama spoke the secret mantras, the lords of the astras appeared before him. They were neither in this world nor yet in the next: they stood between realms, their bodies of pristine light. The eyes of some were turquoise flames; others had locks of green tongues of fire.

They said to Rama, “Now we are your slaves; we will do your bidding, whenever you want.”

Rama said to them, “Dwell in my mind, until I have need of you.”

They melted into him, and he glowed more than ever. Viswamitra said to Rama, “To teach what you have learned is to learn it twice over. Even if your brother had none of the greatness he bears so humbly, he would deserve to have the astras just for his love of you. Devotion like his is not of this world. Rama, share what I have taught you with Lakshmana.”

Rama taught his brother the mantras, and the Gods of the weapons appeared before Lakshmana as well. He, too, had them enter his spirit in splendid forms.

 

10. The legend of Vamana

After they had walked for a day and some hours, Rama pointed ahead. “I see a green wood under the mountain. Deer herds, dark as clouds, move across the foothills and songs brim from thousands of birds. What forest are we approaching, Muni? My heart grows so glad at its very sight.”

Viswamitra smiled to himself and said, “Once Lord Vishnu came as a Dwarf to quell the Asura Mahabali. He did tapasya in this place, before he asked Bali for three paces of land.”

Rama's eyes misted over, as if mention of that legend stirred some deep memory in him. “Tell us about Vamana and Mahabali, Swami.”

Viswamitra said, “Mahabali was the greatest king the world ever knew. He was an Asura; but his bhakti and his dharma were immaculate. He vanquished all the other Danava monarchs of the earth and the sky. He conquered the Maruts and Indra himself, and announced that he would hold a yagna to have himself crowned emperor of Swarga, Bhumi, and Patala.

“Led by Agni, the Fire God, the Devas came abjectly to Vishnu. He sat in tapasya in the asrama you see before you. Agni cried to Mahavishnu, ‘You must stop Bali before he becomes emperor. Indra is in exile and all his Devas with him. In their places, Bali has made his demons lords of the elements, the luminaries, and the planets. They rule time now.'

“The Rishi Kashyapa said to Vishnu, ‘Lord, my wife Aditi grieves for her sons, whom the Asura has cast out from Devaloka. Wipe her tears, Narayana: be born as our child to end the sorrow of your people. Be born in this very place, and let it be known as Siddhasrama.'

“Vishnu has always favored the Devas, in their endless wars against the Asuras. He said, ‘So be it.'

“He was born from the mother of the Devas, Aditi, and Brahma's saintly son, Kashyapa Prajapati, in Siddhasrama. The Lord was a brahmana, perfect in every limb and feature. But he was small, as if he belonged to another, finer race: a mankind in miniature. In that first human incarnation, he was called Vamana or Upendra. Straightaway, shining like gold, he went to Mahabali's yagna.

“Seeing the exquisite young brahmana, Mahabali rose. He was as much a king of the spirit as of the world. The Asura gazed in joy at the illustrious Dwarf, and said, ‘Welcome, young one; I am honored you have come to my sacrifice. You are as bright as a God and my heart insists that, though you have a human form, you are not of this earth. Ask me for anything and I will give it to you. For my very soul is anxious to please you!'

“The Dwarf smiled so brilliantly at Virochana's son that already Bali's life went out to the Vamana. The diminutive brahmana said in a ringing voice, ‘Noble Mahabali, I would expect no less of you. These past months, the world speaks of nothing but your yagna. So I thought I would come and ask if I could have a small gift from you.'

“‘Anything, wonderful one.'

“But the Vamana held up a hand in caution, ‘I will ask for but little, Bali. But be sure you give me what I ask.'

“The king smiled indulgently at the boy he thought was just a fabulous child. ‘It is my great fortune that you have come to ask me for a gift. Whoever you are, I feel my life is complete only now that I have seen you. Ask me for anything. Be it my treasury or granary, my army or my very kingdom: just ask and it shall be yours.'

“The dazzling smile played on the boy's lips again. He said sweetly, ‘I have no use for your treasury or your granary, your army or your kingdom, for mine is a life of tapasya. My only need is for a piece of earth to sit upon in prayer. Give me three strides of land, Bali, that I can cover with these legs of mine.'

“Mahabali was amused. He said in kindly patronage, ‘Of course. You shall have them now.'

“Bali reached for the sacred water that sanctifies the gift, the giver, and the receiver. But Sukracharya, his guru, said, ‘Bali, this is no child. He is the Truth that not even Brahma, the Devas, or the yogis can fathom. This is Narayana who has come to your yagna. If you give him what he asks, you will die.'

“But Bali would not listen, for Vamana had come to deliver him to a far greater kingdom than any in the world. An unearthly light shone upon the Asura's face also, and he said to Sukra, ‘If he is Narayana, my yagna will succeed beyond my dreams'

“Bali's queen poured the water into his palms, and he solemnly gave away the three paces of land the Dwarf had asked for. But the instant the holy water touched Vamana's hands, the tiny brahmana began to grow. He grew into his Viswarupa, his cosmic form. With his first stride, Rama, he crossed the earth; with his next, he covered the heavens. Then he stood refulgent before Mahabali and said, ‘Where shall I set my third stride, Bali? My foot is raised.'

“The Asura was a great bhakta. Tears streaming down his face, Mahabali bent his head and cried to the Vamana, ‘Set your third stride upon my head, Lord.'

“The Vamana set his foot on Mahabali's head. With the ecstasy of redemption, he thrust the Asura, who would have been emperor of the worlds, down into Patala; down to eternal kingdom and peace.”

Viswamitra paused for a moment. They had drawn near the asrama. He pointed. “In that tapovana to which your hearts thrill, Vishnu set Mahabali free. And there is my asrama. It is this immortal place the rakshasas desecrate with their filth.”

With the princes at his side, Viswamitra strode into the asrama of vibrant peace. They were like the moon flanked by the Punarvasu stars, risen into a clear night. The other rishis of the hermitage gathered around their master and the saviors he had brought to deliver them from Maricha and Subahu.

The princes of Ayodhya rested only briefly after their long journey. Then they came to Viswamitra, and Rama said quietly, “Resume your yagna, Muni; you will not be interrupted.”

The same night, Viswamitra took diksha again. Rama and Lakshmana slept peacefully through that first night. The next morning, they rose before the sun, as dawn clutched at the horizon for a fingerhold. They bathed and came before the brahmarishi. He sat quiescent on a seat of darbha grass, after he had worshipped Agni Deva, who conveys burnt offerings to all the other Gods.

 

11. A yagna completed

Viswamitra had taken mowna, a vow of silence, for six days. Rama and Lakshmana stood watch over Siddhasrama. After their encounter with Tataka, they were eager for the rakshasas to appear. Day and night they stood in vigil, their bows in their hands, fitted loosely with arrows so the demons would not take them unawares. They guarded the asrama as eyelids do the eyes.

Five days went by, and Viswamitra's rishis said to the kshatriyas, “Today they will come. It is the last day and these rakshasas know the yagna well.”

The fire in the yagnashala burned high. As he sat before the flames, Viswamitra's chiseled face seemed to be made of stone. The other rishis sat around Viswamitra. The chanting of the Vedas rose like smoke from the fire. August and sonorous, it spread through the world on subtle frequencies. Those timeless mantras brought a powerful healing upon the earth.

It was almost evening of the last day of the yagna. Suddenly, a lewd clap of sound shattered the sacral silence. A pungent darkness fell on the yagnashala, an unclean night of the elements and the spirit. Chilling shrieks and wild laughter rent the air. The two rakshasas had arrived with their bizarre clan. Maricha and Subahu were used to meeting no opposition when they came to Siddhasrama, and they had not bothered to make themselves invisible. They came as they were: devils of the forest, ugly as sin. They came in a swath of putrescence and a rain of excrement, rotting meat, and stinking blood. They came, the flesh of some of them obscenely bared, to violate the soul of the sacrifice.

Rama and Lakshmana had waited five days. Rama invoked the manavastra he had recently acquired, and shot an arrow into Maricha's chest, crying, “Let me never see you again or you die!” The arrow lifted the shocked rakshasa off his feet. It carried him through the air, aflame, screaming. It carried him past the wind for a hundred yojanas and doused him in the distant sea. But it did not kill him.

In the silence that followed you could hear, again, just the deep chanting of the Veda. Maricha's rakshasas and lean, tree-tall Subahu stood open-mouthed, their long fangs plain. The heathen screams had died in their throats; their rain of filth had ceased around them. But the prince of Ayodhya, the guardian of Viswamitra's yagna, did not wait for the stunned demons to recover. Like blue lightning, Rama invoked an agneyastra and, in a wink, made a heap of ashes of lanky Subahu. Quicker than thinking, he undid the mortal elements of the rest of the horde with a vayavyastra of Vayu, the Wind God. The weapon blew them apart as a gale would a dust heap in its path.