BOOK ONE

BALA KANDA

{The beginning}

 

1. On the banks of the river Tamasa

“Holy One, I wonder if any man born into the world was blessed with every virtue by your Father in heaven.”

 

Long ago, the sage Valmiki sat meditating in his hermitage on the banks of the Tamasa. The river murmured along beside the dark, gaunt rishi, whose hair hung down to his shoulders in thick dreadlocks. But otherwise the secluded place was silent; not even birds sang, lest they disturb Valmiki’s dhyana.

Suddenly the silence was shattered; the air came alive with the abandoned plucking of a vina. A clear voice sang of the Blue God who lies on his serpent bed, upon eternal waters. Valmiki’s eyes flew open. Though he had never seen him before, he had a good idea who his visitor was.

Narada, the wanderer, was Brahma’s son, born from his pristine thought in time out of mind. A curse had been laid on Narada before the earth was made: that he would roam the worlds without rest. Once he sent his brother Daksha’s sons, who wanted to create the first races of men, on an impossible quest. He had asked them how they could become creators unless they first saw the ends of the universe. And Daksha cursed Narada to wander forever homeless and restless himself, for the endless wandering he sent those children on.

A fine aura enveloped Narada. Valmiki’s disciples stood gaping at him, until their master called briskly to them. Then they ran to fetch arghya, milk and honey, for the guest, who accepted their offering graciously.

Valmiki folded his hands. “Be seated, Maharishi.”

Valmiki sat beside the hermit from heaven, by the languid Tamasa. As if he sought something, Narada stared up and down the river’s course, while Valmiki sat absorbed.

Narada strummed a fluid phrase on his vina. “A blessing, dear Valmiki, for your thoughts!”

Valmiki laughed. “Muni, you are as subtle as Vayu the Wind. You can enter men’s minds and read their thoughts; and surely mine as well.” He paused, then declared, “Holy One, I wonder if any man born into the world was blessed with all the virtues by your Father in heaven.”

“Tell me what the virtues are, and I will tell you the man who has them.”

Valmiki began in his inward way, enunciating each attribute carefully: “Integrity, bravery, righteousness, gratitude, dedication to his beliefs, a flawless character, compassion for all the living, learning, skill, beauty, courage beyond bravery, radiance, control over his anger and his desires, serenity, a lack of envy, and valor to awe Indra’s Devas.” As Narada’s eyes grew wistful, Valmiki continued. “I know I am asking for perfection in a mere mortal. But I wondered if a man of this world could have all these, which not even the Gods possess.” The sage was convinced his perfect man could only be the figment of a romantic imagination.

Narada still gazed out over the river’s crisp currents, as if the water on which the noon sun sparkled could conjure the image of Valmiki’s paragon. At last he said softly, “In these very times such a man was born into the world. His name is Rama.”

Narada beckoned to Valmiki’s disciples to come closer as he began his story, as if it was a secret that not the jungle behind them nor their thatched huts on its hem should share, so precious was it. Weaving his tale into the river’s drift, Narada began the legend of Rama, prince of Ayodhya, who was as noble as the sea is deep, as powerful as Mahavishnu, whose Avatara he was when the treta yuga was upon the world, as steadfast as the Himalaya, handsome as Soma the Moon God, patient as the Earth, generous as Kubera, just as Dharma; but his rage if roused like the fire at the end of time. His audience sat entranced, as heedless of the time that passed as they were of the flowing river. Valmiki sat in the lotus posture with his eyes shut, to listen to the tale of a human prince who was as immaculate as the stars.

The Tamasa turned dark with dusk, but the disciples sat entranced. Never before had they heard such a story. Twilight turned to night; the moon rose over the river. Narada’s legend was of a living man. But he did not speak about Ramarajya, when a perfect kshatriya ruled Ayodhya as the world’s very heart, but of a time before Rama became king, the bitter time of his exile. It was those years in the wilderness that left such an indelible impression upon the memory of the race of men.

Moonlight turned to darkness, and darkness to scarlet dawn on the susurrant eddies of the Tamasa, when Narada finished his epic of Rama. There was not a dry eye among his listeners at what finally befell the exquisite Sita. Valmiki’s disciples saw even their master wept.

Narada broke his trance; he stretched his ageless body and rose. With an airy wave, he was off again, plucking on his vina. Yawning, the disciples set about their daily tasks: fetching water and kindling the morning fires. But Valmiki stood a long time staring after Narada.

 

2. A curse

Long after Narada’s visit to his asrama, the story of Rama haunted Valmiki. Months after he heard the legend he saw images of Rama’s life before his eyes, whenever he shut them to meditate.

One morning, Valmiki walked along the banks of the Tamasa with his youngest disciple. Spring was in the air, abundant and heady. The sage saw the river was sparklingly clear, and decided to bathe in it. He sat dipping his feet in the jeweled flow and a fine languor stole over him. He said to his boy of sixteen summers, “Look, child, the water is like the heart of a rishi.”

The serene youth handed his master the valkala, the tree bark with which to scrub himself. Above them, a kadamba spread its awning, and in the living branches they heard the sweetest song: two krauncha birds were mating there, abandoned to spring’s fever. The male danced around his mate, fluttering his wings dizzily when he hopped onto her back. A smile on his lips, Valmiki leaned back to watch the ritual of love. On and off his mate the male krauncha danced, his joyful song setting the leaves alight; and she sang her ecstasy.

Suddenly, the air was riven by a vicious whistling. An arrow flew savagely to its mark. With a scream, the male krauncha fell off his mate’s back and down to the ground below. His breast was a mess of blood and broken feathers; the arrow still stuck in him like a monstrous curse. For a few moments his little body heaved in agony; then he was gone. The shocked silence of the woodland was broken by the screams of the she bird.

Valmiki sprang to his feet, trembling. He saw a pale-eyed hunter stalk into the clearing. The she bird screamed her grief at him. The jungle man squinted up at her and grinned at Valmiki, showing stained teeth like fangs. A curse erupted from the rishi:

Ma Nisada pratishtam tvamagamah shasvatih samah,

Yatkrauncha mithunade kamavadhih kamamohitam!

Glaring the shifty fellow down, Valmiki strode from that glade. Part of him wondered at the strange expression of his anger; it had such a lilt to it, though the doom it pronounced on the hunter was final: because he had killed the bird at love, he would not live the full span of his life.

All day, those words returned to the sage’s mind and echoed there in cadence. Valmiki thought: Because I spoke in such a rage of sorrow my curse welled from me in rhythm and meter. Later, as night fell, his disciples sat around their meditating guru. Under rushlights hung on the mud walls of the hermitage, they studied sacred scriptures inscribed on palm leaves.

Valmiki himself could not forget the morning. Again and again he heard the rapturous song of the birds; the evil hum of the arrow; the cry of the male krauncha and the soft sound of his small body striking the ground. And then the she bird’s frantic screams. He saw the hunter’s pale eyes, slanted like a cat’s in his face, and he heard his own voice pronouncing judgment on the man in perfect meter.

Valmiki heard a gasp from his disciples. He opened his eyes, and it seemed as if a piece of the sun had fallen among them: Brahma had come to the asrama, dazzling the night.

Valmiki prostrated himself before the Creator. The padadhuli, the spirit dust from the God’s holy feet, washed into him in golden waves. Brahma blessed the rishi and his sishyas, enfolding them in his pulsing aura, which surely removed their sins of a hundred lives. They stood before him with their eyes cast down because they could not look directly at his splendor.

In his voice of ages, Brahma said, “Valmiki, I put the sloka on your tongue with which you cursed the hunter. I sent Narada to you, so you could hear the legend of the perfect man from him. I want you to compose the life of Rama in the meter of the curse. You will see clearly not only into the prince’s life, but into his heart; and Lakshmana’s, Sita’s, and Ravana’s. No secret will be kept from you and not a false word will enter your epic. It shall be known as the Adi Kavya, the first poem of the earth. As long as Rama is remembered in the world of men, so shall you be. The epic you are going to compose will make you immortal.”

His hand raised in a blessing, Brahma faded from their midst. The dazed Valmiki found himself helplessly murmuring his curse again, “Ma Nisada pratishtam tvamagamah,” in the meter called anushtup.

 

3. The Ramayana

On the banks of the Tamasa, Valmiki composed the epic of Rama. He sat facing east on a seat of darbha grass. His mind was as still as the Manasa lake upon the northern mountain, so the images of Narada’s inspiration played on it like sunbeams. Noble words sprang in a crystal stream from his heart, as his disciples sat around him, listening breathlessly.

In a week, Valmiki composed twenty-four thousand verses. The legend came to him as if he was just an instrument and the real poet was another, far greater than himself. He divided the vast poem into six books1 and five hundred cantos. When he had completed his work of genius, he called it the Ramayana.

When Valmiki had finished the Ramayana, two young men appeared in his asrama. They were as handsome and alike as the Aswini twins of heaven, and had voices like gandharva minstrels. The rishi knew they had been sent by providence. He taught them his poem. Lava and Kusa learned the Ramayana even as they heard it from the poet’s lips, and they sang it as Valmiki himself could not. Valmiki knew Brahma had chosen them to take his Adi Kavya through the sacred land.

When they had Valmiki’s epic by heart, Lava and Kusa prostrated themselves before him. With his blessing, they went from asrama to asrama in those holy times. Clad in tree bark and deerskin, Lava and Kusa came with their lambent song. Their voices matched as one, the Ramayana flowed from them like another Ganga, Rishis who heard them were enchanted and blessed the beautiful youths.

One day, Lava and Kusa came to a military camp on the edge of a great forest. There a king of the earth had undertaken an aswamedha yagna, a horse sacrifice. The twins went into his presence and, in an assembly of the greatest rishis, sang the Ramayana. The king climbed down from his throne and came to sit on the ground among the common people. He sat spellbound, and tears ran down his dark and sealike face. But Lava and Kusa did not know the epic they sang was about this very man, to whom inscrutable destiny had brought them.

He was Rama himself and he was their father.

 

4. Ayodhya

This is a story, sang the twins, to the rhythmical plucking of their vinas, of the ancient line of kshatriyas descended from Manu, made immortal by his son Ikshvaku, and later by Sagara and his sons. It is the tale of a perfect man, the greatest in his noble line.

The kingdom of Kosala was cradled by the river Sarayu. Kosala was ruled by kings of the race of Brahma’s son Manu, descended from Surya, the Sun God. Down the deep streams of time, the House of Ikshvaku was renowned for the justice and valor of its kings. Kosala was a blessed country, verdant and fertile; ages ago at its heart, Manu the lawmaker created a city to be his capital and called it Ayodhya.

The turrets of Ayodhya reached for the stars and her fame as a focus of dharma on earth was known in Devaloka, the realm of the Gods. As glorious as Indra’s Amravati above was Ayodhya in the world. Ancient trees lined her wide streets, washed with scented water at dawn and dusk so the city of truth was always swathed in fragrance.

Great Dasaratha ruled Ayodhya with bhakti as his scepter. His people were free from green envy, that insidious corrupter of nations: their king’s virtue flowed among them like a river of fortune, and their hearts were wise and serene. The mean and ugly of spirit were never born in Ayodhya; why, it seemed a race of Gods had been incarnated in the mortal world to people this greatest of cities.

King Dasaratha had eight ministers, brilliant and dedicated men: Jayanta, Sumantra, Dhriti, Vijaya, Siddharta, Arthasadaka, Mantrapala, and Asoka. Then there were the rishis who advised him, among them his kulaguru, his family preceptor: the immortal Vasishta. The lamps to the Gods in the temples of Ayodhya never burned low, nor did the faith in the hearts of Dasaratha’s subjects. With heaven’s grace, the king’s granary and his treasury were always full; quiet and measureless goodness was upon his kingdom.

But even such a rajarishi, a royal sage, was not perfectly happy. Dasaratha had no heir, no son to light up the autumn of his life and succeed him when he died. As the king grew older, his despair grew with him and it began to feed on his spirit. Not a day passed without Dasaratha’s priests offering a prayer to the Gods to bless him with a son. But it seemed they fell on deaf ears in heaven.

One day, the king thought he should perform an aswamedha yagna. He called Vasishta, Vamadeva, and his ministers, and asked for their counsel.

His charioteer, Sumantra, said, “My lord, have you heard of Rishyashringa?2 He is a simpleton in the world, but a prodigy of the spirit. Once the Devas cursed the kingdom of Anga and a famine fell on it. Your friend King Romapada sought Rishyashringa’s intervention. No sooner did Romapada lure the muni into his kingdom, by giving him his daughter’s hand, than it began to rain and the famine ended. Sire, I have heard Sanatkumara has foretold that four sons shall be born to you, when you perform an aswamedha yagna with Rishyashringa as your priest.”

Dasaratha went to Anga and persuaded Romapada to send his flamelike son-in-law to conduct the aswamedha in Ayodhya. Messengers rode home before Dasaratha and his guest, and the city was decked out in arches, flowers, and banners to welcome the rishi.

As soon as Rishyashringa arrived, a horse of the noblest bloodline was chosen for the sacrifice, and he blessed it.

The prayers continued for weeks, and then a magic spring came to Kosala. The trees were full of soft new leaves, the Sarayu with sweet water, and Dasaratha went to the innocent sage and said, “Muni, the time has come.”

Rishyashringa replied, “Send your horse across the plains of Bharatavarsha. Let the yagna begin.”

After a year, the kshatriyas of all the kingdoms through which Dasaratha’s white horse had flown like a storm came to Kosala. They came to the yagnashala on the northern bank of the Sarayu, under the sun and the stars. The horse came home unchecked and it was spring again, with the flowering trees all in bud.

 

5. The need for an Avatara

Toward the end of the aswamedha, Dasaratha fell at Rishyashringa’s feet and cried, “Rishi, make my yagna fruitful.”

Rishyashringa began to perform the intricate putrakama ritual at the holy fire, exactly as it is prescribed in the secret passages of the Atharva Veda. The Devas gathered above that fire for their share of the havis: these offerings are ambrosial to them, like sipping the sweetest currents of the human heart.

What the sacrificers of Kosala and their priest did not know was that the Devas came straight from a transcendent mandala, where they had taken a petition to Brahma.

Indra, the king of the Devas, knelt before Brahma and cried, “Father, we cannot bear Ravana’s tyranny any more. His evil pervades the earth and men’s hearts are corrupted from afar. They deny their Gods, and lie more easily than speak the truth. They are full of violence and seduce their brothers’ wives. Ravana’s demons swarm in the jungles of the earth; they desecrate the rishis’ sacrifices and devour the holy ones.

“The Sun and the Moon go in fear of Ravana. The planets spin into sinister orbits at his will, and all the world has become a dangerous place. The yakshas and gandharvas live in terror. No sage dares pronounce a curse on the Lord of Lanka, because he is such an awesome sorcerer himself. Vayu the Wind blows softly, lest he ruffle Ravana’s hair. Surya the Sun doesn’t change his place over Lanka, be it summer or winter, lest he annoy Ravana and the Demon pluck him from the sky and extinguish him. And now Ravana threatens to invade Amravati if I am not servile to him. I cannot stand it, Pitama! My throne in heaven is worthless, as long as Ravana lives. And because of your boon to him, none of us can kill the Rakshasa.”

Brahma said, “Ravana does have a boon from me that no immortal can kill him. But in his arrogance, he did not ask for a boon to protect him against the mortal race of men. He shall die by a man’s hand. Be comforted: it is not long to the birth of that man into the world.”

As Brahma spoke, a blinding splendor shone on them from the sky. They saw Mahavishnu, the Savior, mounted on his golden eagle. He wore robes glowing like the sun against his sea-blue skin. He carried the Sudarshana chakra, the Panchajanya, and the Kaumodaki. Brahma and the Devas worshipped him with folded hands.

Across winds of light that Garuda’s wings stirred, Brahma cried to Vishnu, “Lord, be born as a man to rid the earth of Ravana of Lanka. Or the Rakshasa will plunge the world into hell, long before the kali yuga begins. Only you can kill him; for evil though he is, he is greater than any creature in heaven or earth.”

Vishnu spoke to Brahma and the Devas in his voice as deep as time: “I will be born as Dasaratha of Ayodhya’s son, and I will kill Ravana. I will rule the earth for eleven thousand years, before I return to Vaikunta.”

He vanished from above them. How they yearned for him to appear again, but the Blue One was gone.

*   *   *

On earth, on the northern bank of the Sarayu, Dasaratha’s putrakama yagna was almost complete. Rishyashringa chanted the final mantras from the Atharva Veda. The fire leaped up, tall as trees, and the flames licked themselves into a dark figure: a divine messenger, his hair a lion’s mane around his livid face. He wore burning ornaments studded with great jewels and a chandrahara, a moon-sliver, on his chest.

He stepped out of the fire, and flames were his body as he stood solemnly before Dasaratha and Rishyashringa. He carried a crystal chalice in his hands, with a silvery payasa brimming in it. He looked as Dhanvantari must have, when he emerged from the Kshirasagara with the amrita.

Said that being, in an ancient tongue of fire and earth: “I come from Brahma, Grandsire of worlds. He sends this payasa to your queens so they will bear you the sons you long for.”

He held the chalice out to Dasaratha. The king stepped forward and took it. At once the messenger vanished. Like a man bearing the greatest treasure he could ever have, Dasaratha brought the chalice to his queens.

He came to Kausalya, his first wife, and said to her, “Look, the Gods have answered our prayers. You shall bear me a son to be my heir.”

With his own hands, he made her drink half the payasa. Then he went to his second wife, Sumitra, and fed her half of what was left. He went to his youngest queen, Kaikeyi, and gave her half of what remained. Finally he went back to give Sumitra the rest.

And they heard the people of Ayodhya crying, “Jaya! Jaya!” as they broke into song.

Hope against Ravana of Lanka kindled in their hearts, the Devas came down from the sky to receive their share of the havis. Taking the burnt offerings in shining hands, they vanished back into their subtle realms. Dasaratha and his people returned to Ayodhya, with joy come among them like another god.

After being rewarded lavishly by the euphoric king, Rishyashringa and the other brahmanas went back to their homes.

 

6. King Dasaratha’s sons

Dasaratha was as happy as a boy, as if only now the Gods had blessed him with manhood. He felt as strong as a Deva. The first few nights after the aswamedha yagna he went to his queens by turns; he made love as he had when he had just married them.

In some months, they announced in joy, Kausalya first, then Sumitra and Kaikeyi, that they were all pregnant. Celebrations broke out in Ayodhya: the Gods had not betrayed Dasaratha and his people. That year flew by for the king in cosseting his wives. He fed them with delicacies that stroked their palates or their fancy. He clothed them in finery that not even queens had worn before. Ayodhya was festive all year long, in breathless anticipation.

The ice on the Himalaya began to melt as the sun drifted north again and spring returned to Bharatavarsha. This was no common spring, but wore rainbow-hued lotuses in its hair, flowers that bloomed once in a thousand years. A hush of expectation lay over Kosala’s capital. The clear pools were covered with lilies. The flowering trees that lined the streets of Ayodhya drooped to the ground; they were heavy with new leaves in every shade of green and untimely, extravagant flowers. A malaya breeze blew across the kingdom, carrying the scents of the spring through the city and up into the apartments of Dasaratha’s queens; most of all, into Kausalya’s.

All the earth seemed to strain, with senses of breeze and night, moonbeam and sunray, into the gracious Kausalya’s chambers: Vishnu was to be born from her bright womb as a man! Then it was the month of Chaitra. Great rishis had arrived in Ayodhya, and, with occult sight, they saw Devas in the sky above the city.

The moon was waxing. It was the ninth day after amavasya. Rare and auspicious syzygies were strewn across the firmament. Five planets were in their signs of exaltation that night. The nakshatra was Punarvasu and the moon rose in his own house, with lofty Jupiter in the lagna Karkataka, cardinal sign of the Crab. Kausalya was as radiant as Aditi had been in Devaloka when she bore Indra. That night, Dasaratha’s first queen gave birth to one greater than the king of the Devas. She brought Vishnu into the world, for its deliverance from Ravana of Lanka.

Kausalya felt no pain at all, just bliss, as Rama was born from her. He was as serene as the Manasa lake upon the mountain. He did not cry at being born into this sad and fleeting world. He only smiled, his eyes wide open and so knowing on his dark, dark face. A shower of barely tangible flowers fell out of the air around Kausalya’s bed. Apsaras danced on clouds when little Rama sighed in his throat, blue as the lotus that blooms on satin pools hidden in the hearts of jungles.

When in a day, the moon had moved into the nakshatra Pushyami, the youngest queen Kaikeyi went into labor, and Bharata was born.

After another twenty hours, when the moon was in Aslesha, twins were born to Sumitra, who had drunk twice from the cup of payasa: Lakshmana, who would follow his brother Rama to the ends of the earth, and Shatrughna, bane of his enemies.

Ayodhya was more festive than Devaloka on high. The Devas were jubilant at the thought that Ravana would die as soon as Dasaratha’s eldest son was a man: in just some human years, which for the Gods are but a few days. But the people of Kosala celebrated because now they would have another great kshatriya to rule them as wisely as Dasaratha had done.

In Ayodhya the singing and dancing went on through the night. The streets were choked with thousands of revelers, at midday and twilight, midnight and dawn. The lines outside the palace gates were interminable, when the queens brought their sons out onto their terraces. The people stood patiently for hours to catch a glimpse of the infants’ faces.

Dasaratha gave them gold by the sack, and cows by the herd to the brahmanas. If through deep time there was ever a mortal king whose cup of joy was full, he was Dasaratha of Ayodhya. The feasting continued for eleven days, and then Vasishta was called to name the four boys and perform their jatakarma.

*   *   *

The next sixteen years were like a waking dream for Dasaratha. He watched his sons grow around him and outstrip every hope he may have had for them. They studied the Vedas and the other sacred lore with Vasishta, and were quick to learn whatever he had to teach. No matter how profound or complex the subject, how strange or new, they absorbed it at the first instruction.

Like the moon waxing day by day, the four princes grew: a young pride of lions. They learned the arts of war, as all kshatriyas must; and their skills were astonishing when they were barely ten. In their earliest teens they rode elephant, horse, and chariot like masters, soon competing just with one another. For there was no one else in the land, including their gurus, who could match them. Led by Rama, their archery was no less extraordinary. Their masters said that not even the Gods could equal the princes at the longbow, the mace, or the double-edged sword.

Now, usually, twins are exceptionally close. But in the palace of Ayodhya, nature was subverted by a higher order of attachment. From the beginning, the fair, shy Lakshmana was like his dark brother Rama’s shadow; and Shatrughna was as attached to Kaikeyi’s son Bharata. Rama and Lakshmana were inseparable. Since they were babies, Rama would not eat a morsel, or sleep a wink, unless Lakshmana was at his side, being fed from the same platter or lying in the same bed. Later, Rama would not hunt without Lakshmana carrying his quiver, or the older, the younger brother’s. Dasaratha basked in the prodigious talents and the love of his sons. Arrogance laid no hand upon them; they grew up as humble and respectful as they were gifted.

And what can be said about Rama, his father’s favorite? Dasaratha lived Rama, he breathed Rama, his every waking moment was Rama; and if one looked closely enough, his dreams as well. He loved his son perhaps more than any man should. It was devotion, obsessive and a little dangerous.

Rama seemed to live for his father’s sake as well, indulging his every wish, anticipating his least whim as if he read the old king’s thoughts; at times, even before they appeared in Dasaratha’s mind! Those were perfect years, and Dasaratha’s pride in his sons grew apace. Then so quickly, the princes were almost sixteen and of an age when they should take wives. Their father began to make delicate inquiries. But of course he was very particular about the girls his boys would marry.

 

7. Viswamitra

One day Dasaratha sat in his palace with his ministers and the rishis who lived in Ayodhya. He spoke to them about finding a bride for Rama. When he thought of his sons, he thought first, and at times only, of Rama. Then they heard a commotion outside. A tall rishi, with a great and stern face, arrived at Dasaratha’s gates. He could have as easily been a kshatriya warrior as a hermit. Though he seemed a man of fifty or so, in fact he was older than you could imagine.

He came like a storm. In a voice more a king’s than a hermit’s, he commanded the guards at the gates to announce him to the court. “Tell Dasaratha of Ayodhya,” said the stranger with eyes like live coals, “that Viswamitra wants to see him.”

And he stood tapping a foot, impatiently; for he was in a hurry. The guards knew who he was. After paying quick homage to him, they ran into the sabha to tell Dasaratha about the visitor, who was a legend not only on earth but in Devaloka. Viswamitra had once been a kshatriya king, who, after an unequaled tapasya, had become a brahmarishi.

Dasaratha came out of his palace to welcome the great one. The stranger with the tangled jata and the burning eyes seemed pleased. After laying a long palm on Dasaratha’s head in blessing, he went into the palace with the king, into the court agog at his arrival. The visitor did not speak, only looked around him with the regard of one who had seen many palaces in his time. Even when he was seated, Viswamitra, friend of the universe, was silent, as if to remind Dasa-ratha of his duty as a host: to praise his guest.

Dasaratha said in a clear voice, “Viswamitra, your coming here is a Godsend to me: like nectar to a mortal, rain to the famined, the birth of a son to the childless, like a treasure to a poor man!” Not imagining he might be held to his word sooner than he thought, he continued, “My lord, is there anything a humble kshatriya can offer a great brahmarishi? I have a kingdom I can lay at your feet.”

With the faintest smile now, Viswamitra said briskly, “Spoken like a true son of the House of Ikshvaku. I know your offer is not a hollow one, Dasaratha. Indeed, today I have come to ask you for a favor. I have taken a vow for a yagna. But I find I cannot complete it, because two rakshasas of the jungle desecrate my sacrifice. They are mayavis and come invisibly. They rain rotten flesh, blood, and feces on my sacred fire at times when I have just begun, and at others when I have almost finished. I am forbidden anger and I may not stop them with a curse. I have come to seek the protection of a kshatriya king.”

Dasaratha was eager to rush to Viswamitra’s help. “Tell me how I can help you, Muni, and consider my help given.”

Viswamitra said softly, “Send your son Rama with me to kill the rakshasas.”

It was as if he had struck Dasaratha with a mace. The king crumpled in his throne. When he was revived with water sprinkled on his face, his mind was a storm of demons. “Rama is not yet sixteen,” he cried. “His eyes are as tender as lotuses. If I don’t see my son for an hour, I feel I am dying. Rama is my life. If you must take him, let me also come with my soldiers.”

In his heart, he knew his word was given in honor and he could not break it. Viswamitra said kindly, “Only Rama can kill these rakshasas. Have no fear, I will protect him. Besides, if he comes with me your son will tread a lofty path of fame, and his deeds will become a legend. Your prince is born for fame, don’t cling to him. His way lies with me, because the boy you know as your son…”

But Dasaratha cried in anguish, “Who are these rakshasas? How are they so powerful?”

Viswamitra said calmly, “In the line of the Rishi Pulastya, there is a rakshasa of matchless strength and intelligence called Ravana. He worshipped Brahma with a great tapasya and Brahma blessed him with a boon. But then he turned into an evil sovereign upon the earth.

“Ravana has gathered all the forces of darkness under his power. The two rakshasas Maricha and Subahu, who ruin my sacrifice, serve him. Ravana tolerates no yagnas anywhere; he knows they are a threat to him. He believes himself immortal and seeks to extend his sway over all the earth, with himself as supreme monarch in Lanka.

“But Dasaratha, why are you afraid? Don’t you know who your son is? Ask Vasishta; ask any of your rishis here; they will tell you who Rama is.”

But Dasaratha said, “I will lose my tender boy to feral rakshasas. I have heard not even the Devas and gandharvas can resist Ravana of Lanka. And you want to take my sweet prince to fight that monster’s forces? I have heard the valor of those whom Ravana’s servants kill is absorbed by the Rakshasa, while their spirits languish darkly. Have mercy on me, Muni, my child is not yet sixteen. He is the scion of my race, the heir to the Ikshvaku throne.”

Then Dasaratha cried desperately, “No, Viswamitra! I will not send Rama with you. Maricha and Subahu are not adversaries for a sixteen-year-old. I will come to fight them myself, but I won’t send my child.”

Viswamitra’s tremendous brows bristled and the sabha fell hushed. That rishi, whose curse could extinguish a galaxy, cried in a voice like doom, “You received me with such flattery; you made such promises to me. But now you go back on your word and bring shame on the noble line of Raghu. I will return from where I came, and you can live in your fool’s paradise; until Ravana arrives at your gates one day. But I say to you, Dasaratha, if you want to tread the path of destiny written in the stars, send Rama with me!”

The rishi’s voice echoed through the court. Suddenly Viswamitra seemed to have grown before their eyes, and his presence dominated the sabha like an omen. Still, Dasaratha was silent; blind with a father’s love, he hardly knew what he did.

But now Vasishta, his guru, said to him, “A king of the House of Ikshvaku is meant to be an embodiment of dharma. Don’t darken your ancestors’ honor with this weakness. To break his word is unforgivable for the meanest kshatriya, let alone a king like you. You must send Rama with Viswamitra. The rishi will protect him as the wheel of fire does the chalice of nectar.

“You don’t know who your son is, or you would not dream that two common rakshasas of the forest could harm him. And do you really think a brahmarishi cannot stop these demons himself? They would be like straws in a gale before his power. Viswamitra is a trikalagyani; he sees through the three times. He has some other purpose in asking Rama to go with him.

“Dasaratha, your son belongs not just to you, but to the very earth. The time has come for him to embark on his destiny. Give up this insane putrasneha; send him with the muni.”

Light of reason dawned on Dasaratha. He knelt before Viswamitra. “Forgive me! I was blinded by my love for my child. I am happy to send Rama with you. But my son has never been alone yet, because his brother Lakshmana is like his shadow. I beg you, take them both to the jungle.”

Meanwhile, Kausalya heard about Viswamitra’s mission and quickly prepared the princes to go with the rishi. They took their three mothers’ blessing, they made no distinction between them, and came to their father’s court. They were taller by half a head than even the kshatriyas of those times, who were at least a head taller than the tallest man of today. And they were magnificent: Rama was dark as a blue lotus and Lakshmana fair as a moonbeam. Both princes wore their hair down to their shoulders. Regal, powerful, handsome, poised, and so humble, they prostrated themselves before Dasaratha. Then they stood before him with folded hands, like two young Gods.

Dasaratha said, “Brahmarishi Viswamitra has come to take you to the jungle, to help him complete his yagna. Go with him, my sons, and obey him in all things as you would obey me.”

The princes bowed to their father and, without a word, crossed to Viswamitra’s side. They stood quietly awaiting his command. The muni rose and led them out into the sun. When Rama and Lakshmana left Ayodhya with Viswamitra, a scented breeze blew through that city. The flights of birds, and every other natural omen, were auspicious all around them. As the king and his ministers stood at the palace door, waving to the strange company of princes and hermit, the sky filled with ethereal music and there was a soft rain of petals of light.

Vasishta looked at Dasaratha, and smiled.

 

8. Kamasrama

Viswamitra walked in front, his long strides leading quickly into the distance and out of sight of Ayodhya. Not once did the princes turn to look back, but followed the rishi, their quivers strapped to powerful shoulders, their swords bound to lean waists and their bows in their hands. Rama walked five paces behind Viswamitra, and Lakshmana five paces behind his brother.

The hermit did not say a word, and the princes, too, kept his silence like a sacred thing between them. Just as it was evening, they arrived at the southern bank of the Sarayu. Twilight birds filled the trees in armfuls, like leaves ablaze with song.

For all his fierce appearance, Viswamitra said gently, “Rama, take up water in your palms, and I will teach you the bala and atibala mantras. Then not hunger, thirst, nor tiredness will touch you on our way.” When Rama approached, the muni laid a hand on the dark youth’s head. “These mantras are Brahma’s daughters. I know of no one in the three worlds more worthy of receiving them!”

He stared wistfully at Rama for a moment. Then the chant of the mantras spiraled from him like a flight of birds. It seemed to Lakshmana they flew down Rama’s throat, as the heir to Ayodhya repeated the arcane words after the sage. The other birds of dusk fell silent, to hear the syllables of wonder.

After that initiation, Rama’s body rippled with new resonance. Viswamitra taught Lakshmana also the mantras, and the brothers worshipped him as their guru now.

They prepared to sleep beside the whispering river, for night had fallen. As if it was a long-standing habit, they spread tall grasses into elegant mats for the muni and for themselves. When the hermit lay down, the princes also lay close to each other, for the first time in their lives on such beds. They fell quickly into tranquil dreams under the stars, as the moon crept above the trees and lit the river with silver light.

*   *   *

The next morning, Viswamitra was up before the sun. For a while, he stood gazing at the sleeping Rama by the magic light of dawn. Dew still lay on the ground and the river seemed hardly awake herself.

Viswamitra called softly to the sleepers, “Rama, awake, the first sandhya is here. Rouse yourself, Lakshmana.”

The princes awoke. Rested and smiling, they waded into the fragrant river. Standing waist deep in the flow, they worshipped the rising sun with Suryanamaskara. They came out of the water and prostrated themselves at Viswamitra’s feet. When he had blessed them, they resumed their journey. When they had gone until noon they came to a place where, shielding their eyes against the sun, now climbed to his zenith, they saw an enchanting sight below them: the dark Sarayu flowed in soft thunder into the Ganga, which fell from the stars!

How the two rivers sparkled at each other’s touch. Viswamitra allowed himself a rare smile. They saw that the asramas of myriad rishis, all seekers after truth, dotted the banks of the rivers at the sacred confluence. It was one great hermitage, made up of a score of small ones.

Moved, Rama asked, “Whose asrama is this? Even from here I can feel how ancient and holy it is.”

Viswamitra said, “Deep ages have passed since this asrama was founded. But once Siva himself sat in dhyana in this tapovana, and Parvati, the mountain’s daughter, attended him. Those were the times when Kamadeva, who is formless now, had a body and a face. Kama came to this place and aimed his flower arrows at Siva. For a moment, Siva came under Kama’s spell and reached for Parvati. Then, realizing what he did, he turned to see who dared pierce him with such subtle shafts of lust. Seeing Kama in the bushes, Siva glared open his third eye and made ashes of the Deva of love.

“The wind scattered Kama’s ashes across the kingdom of Anga. Anga got its name because Kama, who was bodiless now, was called Ananga. The rishis you see are Sivabhaktas, and the asrama is called Kamasrama. Let us go down to the munis. Many of them see through time as other men see the world, and they have been expecting us. Look how they come to welcome us. They are overjoyed at the advent of Rama of Ayodhya.”

They had a welcome fit for the Gods from the rishis of Kamasrama. Those sages knew, better than Rama himself, who he was and why he had been born. Viswamitra and the princes decided to stay with them beside the two rivers. The brahmarishi, and the others as well, regaled the young kshatriyas with stories of times out of mind: of the bygone millennia of krita and treta, especially legends of fathomless Siva. Slowly, evening deepened into night. Stars like cosmic lanterns appeared above them. They seemed to traverse the sky ever so slowly, for their keenness to eavesdrop on the shining tales of those mystic hermits.

 

9. The cursed forest

They had half a night of sleep after Viswamitra called an end to the stories under the stars. At dawn they bade farewell to the hermits of Kamasrama and set out again. The rishis gave them a boat of reeds in which to cross the rivers that flowed as one to the sea from their confluence.

As they rowed, with spray flying in their faces, they heard a turbulent rumbling as if the rivers were hollow in the place they forded. Rama, who was more at ease now with Viswamitra, cried above the water’s roar, “What is this noise?”

The rishi replied, “The Sarayu springs in the high mountains, from the Manasa lake that Brahma made with a thought. The Ganga, which fell from the stars, you know about. This place of the echo is where the Sarayu flows into the golden Ganga. Worship the rivers; they are Goddesses and will bless you.”

With folded hands the princes prayed to the swirling currents. It seemed to them that, in the bank of morning mist poised over the water, they saw two great and lovely faces. For just a moment, the faces shimmered in the air, their lips mouthing a blessing. But when Rama and Lakshmana glanced at Viswamitra to confirm the vision, he was already peering at the far shore as if he had seen nothing himself.

They gained that shore and walked away from the river, which was so wide they could not see the rishis who stood across it, waving to them still. Now they entered a jungle that grew, thick and forbidding, not a hundred paces from the water. Viswamitra walked unhesitatingly into the vana, as if he saw an invisible trail leading into it. The princes followed him.

Dark, dense, and damp was that forest. No light or wind entered it, to dry the rain and dew that lay upon the leaves and grass, or blow away an evil air that hung heavily. All was still, the silence deep and uncanny under the canopy of branches. An aura of stagnant age lay upon this jungle. There were no paths and it was plain that no men ventured in here. They heard snakes on the ground, bees in the air, and birds in the trees, all eerily loud. They heard their own breaths and heartbeats so clearly.

Rama said, “Surely this is a perfect forest for rishis to have their asramas; but it is deserted. Even the songs of birds seem to grate in their throats from anxiety. Are there no flowers, streams, or pools here? Why is this jungle such an ominous place?”

Viswamitra said, “Once there was no jungle here at all, but the kingdoms of Malada and Karusha, fertile and populous. When Indra slew the brahmana Asura, Vritra, he was guilty of brahmahatya. The rishis of Devaloka washed his sin from him with water from the rivers of heaven. This was the place where that water fell, with the sin. Indra cried out to Bhumi Devi in gratitude, ‘I bless this country to be as fecund as the fields of Devaloka!’

“Malada and Karusha were the most luxuriant kingdoms in the world, renowned even among the stars. But then a scourge in the shape of a rakshasi came to this place. Her name is Tataka and hers is a twisted tale: for she was not born a rakshasi but the child of a yaksha called Suketu.

“Suketu had no children; he performed a tapasya to Brahma, to bless him with a son. Brahma did not give Suketu a son but a daughter, as strong as the yaksha could have wished any child of his to be. When Tataka was a ravishing young woman, Suketu gave her to Jarjara’s son, Sunanda, a handsome young yaksha.

“In time, Tataka gave birth to a boy she named Maricha, whose death will bring you fame one day, Rama.” The prince looked startled at the prediction. Viswamitra continued: “Sunanda died soon after his son was born and Tataka was unhinged with grief. Her hair hanging loose, drunk on forest brew, she went to Agastya’s asrama. With her infant on her hip, she made advances to the great rishi. Agastya, bright as flames, cursed her, ‘Shameless woman! Be a rakshasi as monstrous as your heart is full of darkness. Your beauty will be a thing of the past. You will feed on flesh, and all the creatures of the earth will hate you.’

“As soon as the curse was pronounced, Tataka’s lissom body was transformed into demon flesh. She fled screaming from Agastya’s asrama. She came to a jungle stream, her heart on fire with weird and unfamiliar lusts. When she looked into the water the face she saw reflected there, glowering back at her, was not her own but a face of terror. It was the face of Tataka the rakshasi, for fear of whom no man and few beasts enter this forest any more.

“She lives a yojana and a half from here, and drinks the blood of any creature that ventures into this jungle. Her son has grown up and left her. She lives alone, in torment under these trees, baying the moon through chinks in the awning of leaves, and waiting for her savior to come to deliver her.

“Rama, the prophesy is that you will free Tataka from her curse. Don’t balk at killing her because she is a woman. She is wretched and evil, and you must rid this jungle of her.”

Rama bowed before Viswamitra and, smiling sweetly, said, “When my father sent us out with you, he told us, ‘Go with him, and obey him in all things as you would obey me.’ Muni, I never disobey my father.”

Rama flung back his handsome head, black locks brushing his shoulders; raising his bow, he pulled on its string so that the jungle echoed with the virile twanging. A short way before them was a small hillock that thrust itself out from the surrounding entwinement of trees; from here, Viswamitra and the princes heard a puzzled roar. Tataka was amazed that anyone dared enter her forest and announce themselves so foolishly.

“Aaaaoough?” she roared like a surprised tigress, only louder. She loomed over the hill to see who the fool was. Her face was masked in mud, slime, dried blood, and worse. Her crimson eyes were glazed, her lips drawn back from her fangs in a snarl. Her hair was caked into braids of filth; her hands were raised in threatening claws. Her savage features blotted out a good piece of the sky, and she was not much smaller herself than the hillock she straddled.

When she saw them, she roared louder. She spoke no words any more, not even to herself, but only made vile noises. She clawed up fistfuls of earth and stones, and flung them down at Viswamitra and the princes. She did a demented dance on her hill, hoping to frighten them into running from her, so she could have the pleasure of chasing them before she caught and ate them. They were just three puny men; that much she could see, even with her faded vision.

But the oldest of the three raised his hands and chanted a mantra that pierced her black heart like an astra of fire. She roared louder still, and hefted a man-sized boulder to hurl down on them. But then the young one who was dark as a blue lotus raised his bow. With an arrow fiercer than a rishi’s curse, he cut her arm off at the elbow. The boulder fell on her own feet and how she screamed, her great body shuddering. The other fair young warrior strung his bow. Playfully, he cut off her nose and her ears, so black blood spurted from her face. Howling like a storm, she vanished before they could hurt her any more. She had made herself invisible with maya.

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.

*   *   *

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.

Shouldering his bow, Rama said, “Did you see, Lakshmana, the first astra was a compassionate one. The manavastra did not kill Maricha; it only punished him with fire and water. It has purified him.”

Lakshmana wondered that his brother saw to the very sea just briefly, for no miracle was beyond his Rama. The sacrifice at Siddhasrama was completed. In joy, Viswamitra called Rama.

Embracing him, the rishi cried, “Rama of Ayodhya, your name shall be immortal! Men will remember you as long as the world exists. From yuga to yuga, your fame will be sung. The yagna you have helped me complete, in the teeth of evil, will bless the earth long ages after you and I are no more in it. Prince of light, today you have won a greater battle than you yourself yet know.”

Viswamitra saw into the past and the future, as if they were plain before his eyes. The brahmarishi thought, “Not even Ravana of Lanka, who is evil incarnate, shall prevail against you, Rama. But I fear your way is long and fraught with sorrow, before you rid the earth of that rakshasa.”

Viswamitra said nothing of these thoughts to the happy prince. He only joined the other rishis in crying, “Jaya vijayi bhava!” May you always be victorious.

At the end of the day, Viswamitra said to Rama and Lakshmana, “In the city of Mithila, King Janaka is performing another kind of yagna. We are going to Janaka’s sacrifice and I want you to come with us. There is something there that should interest young warriors like yourselves. The bow of Siva lies in Mithila, like an arc of the sun. It lies in Janaka’s palace, worshipped with flowers, incense, and prayers.” He paused, then mused, “You know, no Deva or gandharva, no Asura or the mightiest kshatriya could ever lift Siva’s bow. Many tried, from heaven and earth; none of them moved that weapon by a hair’s width. Rama, you must see Siva’s bow in Mithila, it is a wonder upon the earth. We will set out tomorrow; Janaka’s yagna has already begun.”

 

12. By the golden Sona

The next day, there was an unusual leave-taking at Siddhasrama. Before they left the asrama, blessed forever by Viswamitra’s sacrifice, some extraordinary beings gathered in it to see them off. Many of them appeared out of thin air: colorful woodland spirits, lovely dryads and forest gods, vana devatas who were the guardians of the tapovana. Their bodies seemed to be made of leaves, bark, and green shoots, the glimmer of forest streams at twilight and living flesh of brown earth.

They wore shining feathers or coats of butterfly wings and wildflowers, which grew from them as if from tree or ground; and some were clad just in the breeze. They had forms of light, shifting sky-dreams and shards of rainbows, and they came in a motley throng, singing old songs, dancing to rhythms as old as the forest. They came with their untamed hearts full of blessings for the princes who had released them from the tyranny of the rakshasas. That terror had taken root in their bright limbs, enslaving these delicate ones in torment, making all the forest an evil place. Now they were free once more, and they came singing and dancing, and some even crying for joy.

The animals of the jungle had also gathered to see the travelers off. Tigers came with herds of wide-eyed deer; in this charmed place they lived in peace, beyond the hunt. And other beasts came as well, small and great: elephants wise as mountains, vivid swarms of songbirds full of mellifluous delight, and swans and friendly geese from the jungle rivers and lakes. Some of the more frequent visitors to the asrama, who were like the rishis’ friends, had to be cajoled with many a promise that the munis would return soon. For they would set out, those innocent, wild creatures, as if they also meant to go with the journeying party. Even when the hermits and princes were well on their way, high above them they saw flights of familiar thrushes and swallows who would not be left behind. The paths of the air are freer than those of the earth!

Viswamitra walked around the asrama thrice in pradakshina. Then he strode off into the brilliant day with long strides, while the others followed, smiling among themselves at the pace he set. Of course, nobody ever grew tired: the brahmarishi had long since taught them the bala and the atibala mantras. When the sun was low in the western sky, they came to the banks of the golden Sona, and Viswamitra called a halt for the night.

The rishis bathed in the river, shot with saffron shafts of the setting sun. Standing in velvet water, they said their sandhya prayers. Then they gathered ripe fruit, mainly mangoes sweet as amrita, and lay on the green riverbank, chatting. They were full of quiet satisfaction that the sacrifice had been completed. It was a more profound achievement than any but the initiate could know. The munis were grateful the Lord of evil on earth had sent no fiercer force to disrupt such a powerful yagna as Viswamitra had undertaken. What few of his rishis knew was that Viswamitra had brought Rama and Lakshmana to his yagna not only to quell Maricha and Subahu, but to bless those princes themselves: so one day they would rid the earth of the Master of darkness himself, Ravana on his sinister throne.

By now Rama and Lakshmana had grown so attached to Viswamitra they were never far from his side. Beside the river, Rama said quietly to the brahmarishi, “This is a rich country, Muni. Wherever they turn, my eyes see every shade of green. Tell me, whose kingdom is this?”

With a glint in his eye, Viswamitra turned to face the prince. “Brahma had a son called Kusa, who was a rishi born from the Creator’s thought. He was a yogin, and he married a mortal king’s daughter, the princess of Videha, to ennoble the races of the earth. Four sons were born to them: Kusamba, Kusanabha, Adhurtarajas, and Vasu. Kusa told his sons to be kshatriyas on earth, and to rule.

“Those half-human and half-divine sovereigns founded separate cities, and they had great lands around them they ruled over. This green country, Rama, is called Vasumati. Kusa’s youngest son, Vasu, ruled over this land and Girivraja was his capital.”

The river whispered along beside them, as if it heard every word. The moon was rising in the east, and already his slanted rays set her currents alight. Viswamitra went on slowly while his rishis and the princes listened absorbed; he spoke with such quiet passion.

“Five mountains grace the kingdom of Vasumati, and the river that springs in Magadha flows between them like a garland of pearls flung across the earth. Kusa’s eldest son, Kusanabha, had a hundred daughters by his seed, which was in part the seed of Brahma. He gave his daughters to the Rishi Brahmadatta to be his wives. Then he wanted a son, so he performed a yagna. During that ritual his father Kusa appeared before him and said, ‘You will have a son, and his fame will resound through the world!’

“Kusanabha’s son, who became the mightiest of the olden kings of the earth, was Gadhi, the great.”

Now Viswamitra spoke as softly as the silver river flowed. When Rama and Lakshmana looked into his face in the moonlight, they saw his eyes had brimmed over. He wiped them briefly with the back of his hand. He said with a wistful smile, “Rama, Gadhi was my father.” He paused, then continued, “I had an older sister called Satyavati. I loved her more than anyone in the world. She was my first friend, and my first guru. From her earliest years, she was wiser than any other child. She gave me something of her soul, which was my first instruction of heaven.

“My father gave her to be the rishi Richaka’s wife. But she was so pure, and always with the Lord’s name on her lips and his love in her heart, that she was not meant to live in this world for long. She gained Swarga in her human body. And from her love, she flowed upon the earth as a river: the Kaushiki of the Himalaya. It is on the banks of the Kaushiki that I sit in tapasya. Rama, how can I describe the peace that comes to me when I am there? It is as if my sister held me in her arms, as she used to when I was a child.

“But then, I was called south from my home beside the river in the mountains. I was to perform a sacrifice to stem a tide of evil risen in the world. I came down to Siddhasrama, as my masters of the spirit told me to. And you came to help me; otherwise I could never have completed my yagna.

“You asked whose kingdom this is. It was mine once, Rama, when I was a king as you shall be one day. But all that is past now.

“Look how high the moon has risen; half the night is over. The river and the trees, the birds in the branches and the beasts of the woods are all asleep, wrapped in covers of darkness. Only bhutas, pretas, and pisachas, for whom night is day and moonlight their sunshine, are abroad under the sky of a thousand eyes. Sleep now, my friends, and you also, children of Ayodhya. Sleep securely, for we are protected, and we must be on our way at crack of dawn.”

He stretched his long limbs by the river, which scarcely gave a murmur now, and, turning on his side, fell quickly asleep. Yawning, Lakshmana and the other rishis lay down as well. They found they were exhausted after the day’s long march and only the fascination of Viswamitra’s story had kept them awake.

Rama sat alone for another hour, gazing at the moon reflected clear in the river, which was still as a lake now. He sat pondering the strange fates of men and his own long way ahead of him. It was opaque, yet mysteriously attractive; quite like a river, on which the days and years were slow ripples, gliding endlessly, with the moon splayed across them. But there are treacherous whirlpools along every river’s course, and Rama wondered idly when they would spin into his life.

Soon, he also lay down beside his brother and slumber stole over him.

 

13. Ganga

The birds of day were full of song, a hundred wild symphonies in the branches, and the river was awake under the risen sun, when Viswamitra shook the sleeping princes awake. “Come, we have a long way to go.”

When they had washed, Rama pointed upstream and said, “There are islands of sand in the water. Where shall we cross the river?”

But Viswamitra was already striding off in another direction. “Since the beginning, rishis have walked this way. We will follow their path.”

So they marched north after the tall sage. The princes kept up with him easily, but some of the other hermits struggled. They lagged with rueful smiles and Viswamitra never turned to look back, as if he was content to have only those who could keep his pace arrive in Mithila. Rama and Lakshmana helped the others on the long way, carrying their spare-enough bundles for them, lending them an arm of support.

*   *   *

It was midday when they arrived on the banks of the Ganga. She lay before them like an inland sea; shading their eyes, they could barely discern her far shore. Swans and lotuses floated upon her in equal profusion, and so deep was her attraction they decided to spend the rest of the day beside her murmuring currents.

They bathed in her water and sat beside her, some dozing, others staring out across the enchanted flow; and they saw luminous daydreams, as they had not even during their dhyana in the mountains. Surely, she was awesome, she was magical, and her nearness made the body feel so light it seemed the soul could soar out and be free. In the late afternoon, the desire took the princes and the rishis alike and they waded once more into the calm, warm water. When they had bathed they felt cleansed: not just bodily but in spirit.

As the day was dying, they sat around Viswamitra. While a small fire they lit blazed up full of sparks, Rama said, “I want to hear the legend of Ganga from you. I can feel her enchantment upon me; tell us how she is tripathaga, the river of three paths.”

Viswamitra’s eyes were full of times that were no longer in the world, except as shadows upon the earth and the wide water. He gazed across the great river, and began quietly, “There is a mountain called Himavan, the Emperor of all mountains. That ancient spirit, who is not younger than the earth herself, had two daughters by his wife Mena. They were called Ganga and Uma, and their beauty was legend.

“Ganga was the older one, and Indra’s Devas approached Himavan: they wanted his daughter for themselves, to make Devaloka more perfect than it already was. Himavan gave Ganga to the Devas; she flowed in heaven as a river of light and purified anything she touched. She flowed through the galaxies as Akasa Ganga, Mandakini, river of the firmament, with suns in her hair.

“Himavan’s second child was called Parvati, mountain daughter. She sat in tapasya and won Siva for her husband. Their son was Karttikeya and he killed Tarakasura, the invincible demon of old.

“Later, there was an ancestor of yours, Rama, in the line of Ikshvaku, named Sagara. For many years Sagara had no children from his two wives: Vidarbha’s daughter Kesini, and Kashyapa’s daughter, the ravishing Sumati. Sagara went to the Himalaya with his queens and sat in penance for a hundred years. Men in those times were greater in every way than the men of today, and longer-lived as well. And men in the ages to follow this one shall live short and wretched lives. That is the nature of the yugas.

“When Sagara and his wives had sat in dhyana for a hundred years, the Maharishi Bhrigu came to them like a fire on the mountain, and said, ‘Let your tapasya be fruitful, Sagara. One of your wives will bear you a son to continue the Ikshvaku line. The other will bear you sixty thousand princes of matchless strength and courage; but they shall not be kings’

“Sagara’s queens were radiant.

“‘Who will have sixty thousand sons?’ cried Sumati, the younger.

“‘Who will have the one son?’ cried Kesini.

“Bhrigu smiled, ‘The choice is yours, and you seem to have made it already.’

“That rishi blessed them and Sagara and his wives returned to their kingdom. In those days, when the world was young, heaven and earth were hardly apart from each other as they are now. The earth was peopled, equally, with the children of the Gods and men. Sumati bore her husband Sagara sixty thousand sons. She did not bear them as children are born today, but by the miraculous motherhood of light and by the grace of the Devas, most of all, the grace of Brahma. Sumati’s boys were handsome and brave, virile and arrogant.

“In time, Kesini also bore Sagara a son, the one who would become his heir. But to Sagara’s despair, this boy, Asamanja, was an evil prince. In his childhood he would dismember insects, tearing off their delicate arms and legs when he found the little creatures wandering on the palace floor. Sagara thought it was just an infantile affliction and had elaborate pujas performed for the boy. But some years later, as he grew, Asamanja entertained himself by secretly slaughtering calves and ponies in the royal dairies and stables.

“Still, the king hoped his prince would mend. But when he reached his youth, Asamanja was caught drowning small children of the city in the Sarayu. He stood fondling himself as he watched their desperate struggles. Sagara saw his son was evil. Yet he waited, hoping against hope the boy would mend. Finally, his people came to petition Sagara against the prince. The king banished Asamanja from the kingdom, though it broke his heart.

“But there was some consolation for Sagara. Asamanja’s son Anshuman was a noble, gentle child, and devoted to his grandfather. When Anshuman was a young man, Sagara undertook an aswamedha yagna. For his yagnashala, he chose the plains between the Himalaya and the Vindhya mountains, which glower at each other across the sacred land like mortal enemies. He sent a white horse across the country, with his grandson Anshuman riding with it: daring any king to arrest its careen, and claiming fealty from those whose kingdoms the horse crossed unchallenged.

“But there is always one king who obstructs the aswamedha yagnas of the rulers of the earth. Indra spirited away that horse. The brahmanas who had charge of the yagna said to Sagara, ‘If the horse is not found and the yagna not completed, calamity will visit the House of Ikshvaku.’

“Sagara called his sixty thousand sons by Sumati, of whom their mother was so proud, and said to them, ‘Go and find the horse, wherever it may be.’

“Like the wind, like fire, air, and tameless water, they swept away in quest of the horse, those ferocious, elemental Sagaraputras. They excavated the earth, they razed whole forests, to discover where the animal was hidden. They brought terror wherever they went, among men and beasts, great old plants, and even the rakshasas of the jungles. They came with such violence.

“They could not find the horse by land or by sea, though they searched for it with the powers of sorcery they inherited from their celestial ancestors. They burrowed into the nether worlds, the deep Patalas, where pale and grave Asuras and emerald nagas with resplendent jewels in their heads dwell in darkness and peace. They saw the elephants of legend, the Diggajas that bear the earth upon their heads. But they saw no horse of their father’s aswamedha.

“They went deeper, down the spiraling paths of the twilight realms. They came to a dark cavern and, from within it, heard the whinny of a horse in tether. In they plunged and saw, seated in padmasana, the posture of the lotus, the Maharishi Kapila Vasudeva, his eyes shut, absorbed in the Brahman. Beyond the rishi in dhyana was their father’s white horse, tied to a tree.

“‘Thief!’ they roared, and rushed at Kapila with their weapons raised. The muni’s eyes flew open to see who dared disturb his samadhi, and instantly those sixty thousand sons of Sagara were made ashes; for they all plunged into that unequal encounter in brash, foolhardy waves. When all of them were ashed, Kapila shut his eyes again with a sigh, as if nothing of any moment had happened. He went back to his meditation.

“Sagara waited a long time for his host of sons to return to him with the sacrificial horse. But when no sign or word of them came, he sent Anshuman after them into the Patalas. Anshuman followed the trail of mayhem his uncles had left and arrived at the mouth of Kapila’s cave. He saw the glow from the rishi’s body, and went in very quietly. The horse was tethered beside the muni, who sat lost to the world, his aura illumining the darkness. Anshuman waited patiently for Kapila to emerge from his trance.

“For a long time Anshuman stood motionless; at last, Kapila opened his eyes and looked gently at the prince. Anshuman prostrated himself at the rishi’s feet. He said, ‘Holy one, I am King Sagara’s grandson Anshuman. I have come in search of my grandfather’s sacrificial horse.’

“Kapila smiled at the noble youth. ‘Your horse is with me, child. Indra left him here.’ He pointed at the ashes strewn across the cave’s floor. ‘Your uncles came here in violence,’ he said, ‘and I was forced to burn them.’

“Anshuman grieved for his uncles. He wanted to offer tarpana for them, so their souls could rise into heaven. But he could find no water in Patala. As he ranged those dark labyrinths in quest of water, he heard a sound of vast wings. Garuda, who was Sumati’s brother, flew down to him.

“Garuda said to the distraught Anshuman, ‘No common water will wash the sins of your uncles. They violated Bhumidevi and outraged the spirits who are her guardians. Only the waters of Himalaya’s daughter who flows through the stars can purify their souls. You must bring the Ganga down to wash their ashes; only then will they find deliverance.’

“Anshuman stood in awe of Garuda, and terrified by the task he himself had inherited. The eagle-winged one said to him, ‘But it is not yet time for the sacred river to flow on earth. Take your horse home to your grandfather. He waits anxiously for you, and the aswamedha must be completed.’

“Anshuman did as Garuda asked, and Sagara was able to finish his yagna. But the king was a broken man after he learned of the death of his sons. He left his kingdom to Anshuman, as soon as the prince was old enough, and went away to the mountains with his wives. He went to perform tapasya, to purify himself before he left his body and was gathered to his fathers.

“Anshuman was a just king. But ruling his kingdom absorbed him entirely, and he found no time to undertake a penance that would bring the Ganga down to the earth, and to Patala below, where his uncles’ ashes lay whispering in grief that their souls languished in a limbo.

“Anshuman’s son Dilipa was a great kshatriya, as well. But not even he could bring the Ganga down to redeem his ancestors. The destiny of the Ikshvaku line was impeded by the unresolved sins of the sons of Sumati, and the ruling kings were hard-pressed to keep evil from the kingdom. For by now, the curse was into their very blood.”

Viswamitra’s story held princes and rishis in thrall. He bore them back to primeval times, dim and magnificent, when sovereigns of unearthly lineage ruled the kingdoms of the earth. Whenever he paused, the others sat with bated breath, lest they disturb his flow of inspiration beside the holy river.

“Dilipa had a son called Bhagiratha,” resumed the brahmarishi, master of the ancient lore. “Like his father Anshuman, Dilipa ruled Sagara’s kingdom until age and debility overtook him. He ruled for thirty thousand years, and that was how long men lived in those times if they were not killed in battle. But he did not rule as long as his fathers before him, for the curse grew stronger every day. Dilipa left his kingdom to his son Bhagiratha, and passed on from the world.

“By now, the curse on the Ikshvaku line told not just on the royal family but on the common people. Bhagiratha was the first of his line to realize that there was no hope in ruling, as best he could, and keeping darkness at bay, as well as he might. The curse already afflicted him grievously: he could not father a son. It was as if the sons of Sumati cried out in his blood for the expiation of their sin. Bhagiratha knew he had to exorcise the curse at its root. He knew he must spend his life in tapasya, if need be, to bring the Ganga down into the world to wash his ancestors’ ashes.

“Bhagiratha left his kingdom in the hands of some trusted ministers. He went to the mountains and sat in an excruciating penance. At last, one day, at the end of a thousand years spent on the icy Himalaya, Brahma appeared before the king. The Grandsire of the worlds said, ‘Ask for anything you want.’

“Bhagiratha’s eyes swam with tears. His voice was long unused, since he had taken a vow of silence; besides, to whom would he speak in that blizzard-swept fastness, where not even mountain rakshasas ventured? Choking, Bhagiratha said, ‘Father of worlds, grant that I may perform the niravapanjali for my ancestors with the waters of the Ganga; and that they attain Swarga. Brahma, grant also that I have a son to continue the line of Ikshvaku.’

“Unable to refuse this king of tapasya anything, Brahma said, ‘You will have a noble son, to be king after you. But just think, if the Ganga comes down into the world, who will break her fall? The very earth will be shattered. If you want her to flow here, you must petition Siva to bear her fall.’

“Bhagiratha turned in bhakti to the Lord Siva, who is easily moved. When he had fasted in Siva’s name, living on just air for a year, the God of Gods appeared before the Ikshvaku king.

“Siva said, ‘You should not have to sit in tapasya for a cause as just as yours. I am pleased with your devotion to your ancestors. I will break Ganga’s fall, and her pride as well.’

“After ages of flattery, verging on worship, by the Devas of the sky who adored her, Ganga had grown vain. When Brahma told her to flow down in the world, she scoffed at him. ‘The earth will perish from this madness. For there is no one who can bear my descent!’

“But she could not refuse to do as Brahma asked. On the appointed night, the Devas gathered in the sky in their ethereal chariots, like a flotilla of full moons; while below, on a plateau of the Himalaya in the icebound north, Bhagiratha stood with his gaze trained on the heavens. There was no sign of Siva.

“Suddenly a deafening roar shook the firmament. High above him, beyond the chariots of the Devas which they flew out of harm’s way, Bhagiratha saw her coming: she was a sheet of silver, filling the night sky. He shut his eyes with a prayer. He was sure this was the end of the world; for who indeed could support the fall of that ocean? Like a cosmic flash flood she came, hurtling down the Milky Way, and laughing as she did: she was amused that Brahma had not cared to heed her warning.

“But then, another figure loomed beside Bhagiratha. He appeared out of the very air. He was the Lord of night, Sarvaripati Siva, and his face was loftier than the moon and the Devas’ vimanas. The Devas began to sing his praises when they saw him like that. But Ganga swept on, and only Siva knew what was in her arrogant heart. Exhilarated by her plunge down the constellations, she thought to herself, ‘I will show Siva who I am. I will thrust him down into Patala!’

“Siva, who knows all things, stood smiling, his head exposed to her mad descent. With a crash like thunder in the galaxy, Ganga fell straight down upon Siva’s hallowed head. Bhagiratha shut his eyes, certain this was the end. Even the Devas above fell silent; they, too, did not believe anyone could survive that crystal cataract.

“A hush fell on earth and sky. But not a drop of water, let alone a deluge, fell on the terrified Bhagiratha. Siva was not crushed under Ganga’s tidal fall. He still stood smiling, lustrous in the moonlight. But she, endless river, had vanished: she was lost in Siva’s jata. And struggle as she would, she could find no way out from where she was absorbed like a water drop. One drop in the ocean that was He.

“She roared and she screamed. She rose in dreadful floods and spun in whirlpools deep as the orbits of the planets. But there was no escape for her. At his inexorable will, she was a lake at the root of one strand of his hair; she trembled when he laughed. His time for prayer not yet over, Bhagiratha lay on his face before the Lord. For fear that Siva might never set Ganga free he worshipped Mahadeva, for the sake of his ancestors.

“At last Siva released Ganga along the hair of his head at the root of which he had held her. Drop by drop, he wrung her down onto the earth. High on the Himalayan tableland a pool formed, gleaming in the rising sun: the Bindusaras, made of droplets of the chastened river of heaven. Ganga, humbled, was called Alakananda.

“As Bhagiratha and the Devas watched, entranced, the pool grew into a lake, and the lake flowed into seven streams. Three of these flowed west and three east, down the Himalaya. The seventh stream followed Bhagiratha’s chariot south, onto the plains of the sacred continent. She followed him playfully and in wonder at being in this new world which was once, in dim memory, her home.

“Her foam was white as milk as she flowed after the Ikshvaku king’s chariot, which he rode like the free wind in his fervor to fulfill his task of such long standing. Ganga followed that chariot. At times she would flow straight and quick as an arrow, keeping easy pace with the horses; but at others, she meandered, coy and difficult, or undulated sinuous as a serpent. She who had washed the starry feet of Mahavishnu and had plunged through the zone of the moon, she who was purified for the third time when she fell on Siva’s head, had come down the mandalas to liberate some ashes that lay on a subterranean cave floor.

“Tapasvin king and shining river finally arrived at the place where Bhagiratha’s haughty ancestors, Sumati’s sons, had entered the underworlds. The earth yawned open. Ganga swirled down into Patala and fell in a cascade into the cave where Kapila once sat in dhyana. Bhagiratha saw the baptismal waters flow into the cave mouth. He stood there, hardly daring to breathe. Then he saw his ancestors rise from the ashes in sudden spirit fire, their astral bodies purified, their long ordeal ended. Blessing him in sixty thousand ringing voices, they rose into heaven. The curse on the Ikshvaku line had ended.

“Brahma appeared, coruscant as suns, and said to Bhagiratha, ‘Noble child, you have done the impossible! From this day, whenever any man prevails against the most difficult odds of fate, his effort shall be called a Bhagiratha prayatna. As long as the ocean has water in it, your ancestors will live in heaven. And the Ganga will be your daughter in the eyes of the Gods. I name her Bhagirathi.’”

Such mysteries filled Viswamitra’s eyes as he ended his legend of times when the seas were still nameless, when kings of the earth were hardly mortal, but like Gods. When he had finished, his audience of kshatriyas and munis sat on in silence, claimed by the past. They sat unmoving by the mystic river that once fell from the sky, and the whispering of her currents bore them far from themselves.

Viswamitra said softly, “Ganga is called tripathaga because she who flowed in Swarga, flowed also on Bhumi and in Patala. The three paths.”

He grew silent, and stared out at the silver expanse before them, stretching away to the horizon where the moon had risen and hung low: the same moon which had, once, witnessed Bhagiratha’s incredible prayatna. Breaking his spell, Viswamitra stretched himself. Some of his hermits rose and went to walk beside the river, and the princes of Ayodhya went with them.

But later that night, after all the others were asleep and the fire had burned down, Rama lay awake beside his brother and hearkened to the Ganga. She spoke to him secretly of strange and marvelous ages, and he was amazed that he could understand what she said. Like lucid dreams, pristine legends played themselves out before his mind’s eye and the river was his guru under the moon.

 

14. Rishi Gautama’s asrama

The next day, Viswamitra’s party crossed the wide water in a fisherman’s coracle and the river blessed them on their way. On the northern bank of the Ganga, they came to the gates of Vishala. The city was built where Diti, mother of the Daityas, once sat chanting noxious mantras taught her by Kashyapa. She prayed for a boy who would kill her sister Aditi’s son, Indra.

Diti became pregnant by Kashyapa’s seed. But the vow she had sworn was exacting: a thousand years of perfect purity, even during her pregnancy. One day, after she had bathed, Diti fell asleep with her head on her knees and the tips of her hair brushing her feet. Indra had waited like a serpent for this moment’s lapse. He flashed into her womb through her nostril, and cut her child in seven pieces with his diamond thunderbolt. But he could not extinguish life within those pieces. The seven pieces began to wail aloud inside their sleeping mother. Indra cut each of the seven pieces in seven again. But they still howled. In despair, the Deva hissed at them, “Maa Ruda! Maa Ruda!” “Don’t cry! Don’t cry!”

Diti awoke, shaking, and she knew what had happened. Indra said to her, “Your vow protected your children; even my vajra could not kill them. Here, take them, they are forty-nine now.”

But Diti realized that now her sons could never kill the Deva king. She said to Indra, “Fate has decided that evil won’t befall you. You take these sons of mine and let them be your brothers.”

Indra took those splendid children among the Devas and they became companions to Vayu of the air. For what Indra whispered to them in their mother’s womb, they were called the Maruts.

*   *   *

In Vishala, where once Diti kept an imperfect vow, King Sumathi of one branch of the Ikshvaku line ruled. He came out from his palace to welcome Viswamitra and his party. They stayed a night in that city and set out the next morning for Mithila. But when Sumathi visited them, Viswamitra’s rishis told him how Rama came to Siddhasrama, and how he killed the rakshasas. It was from Vishala that Rama’s fame first spread, with the story of how Maricha was carried a hundred yojanas to the sea by the manavastra.

They came to the outskirts of Mithila, grander than Vishala. Glowing silver and gold, jewels embedded in her walls, the city’s towers and ramparts stroked the sky. Kshatriyas and rishis were full of wonder. At the edge of the city, Rama pointed to a grove of fruit trees with an auspicious air. At its heart was an asrama, in seclusion.

“What asrama is this where no one lives,” asked the prince, drawn strangely to the place, “though it is so beautiful and built on the hem of a great city?”

A light in his eye, Viswamitra said, “If you think the asrama is beautiful now, you should have seen it when Maharishi Gautama sat in dhyana under its trees. Rama, this place was like a bit of heaven fallen into the earth.

“Gautama’s tapasya was so profound that Brahma created a woman called Ahalya, of unequaled beauty, and gave her to Gautama to be his wife. For years they lived happily together. But one day, Indra saw Ahalya and was smitten by her. When Gautama went to the river for his evening bath, the Deva assumed the rishi’s form and came to Ahalya. She knew him at once; but that lovely woman was flattered that the Deva desired her. She allowed Indra to make love to her on the very floor of the asrama where she slept nightly with her husband.

“When passion was slaked, Ahalya became sensible of the danger they were in. She cried to Indra, ‘Go quickly, before my husband returns.’

“But in his arrogance and languor, he laughed, ‘He will not finish his worship so soon.’ He began to make love to her again, and Ahalya could not resist his caresses.

“The brief time of love is a long while. When they were satisfied, and Indra himself realized he should leave, it was too late. Just as the Deva prepared to go out with a last embrace, Gautama stood at the door, staring in amazement at someone who looked exactly like himself, holding Ahalya in his arms. But he knew at once who it was. Indra, king of Devaloka, stood revealed before the rishi. But Gautama was not moved.

“In a terrible voice, he cursed the Deva. ‘Your vanity, that no woman can resist your charms, made you commit this crime. Let your charms be seen by all the world from today, a thousand fold. Let your body be adorned with a thousand phalluses, so everyone knows your real nature.’

“Reeling from the curse, the Deva fled. Already he felt the thousand appendages of his shame pushing their lewd way out through his skin. Thus, the Deva king was called Satakratu. For a thousand divine years, each of which is three hundred and sixty-five human years long, Indra sat in a fervid penance. Only then, Brahma softened the curse of Gautama: he changed Indra’s thousand phalluses into a thousand eyes.

“But that evening after Indra fled, the heartbroken Gautama cursed Ahalya in their hut, ‘Unfaithful woman, you have betrayed your womanhood. Be as dust on the ground!’

“She cried out in anguish. Tears in his eyes, the maharishi looked at his wife and knew he could not curse either her or himself forever. He said, ‘In the treta yuga, Vishnu will be born as a prince of this earth. When his holy feet touch the dust you now become, you will be forgiven.’

“Before his eyes, she turned into dust on the floor of the asrama where she had betrayed him. Gautama vanished from this place and was never seen here again.”

*   *   *

Now they stood on the threshold of the asrama. Viswamitra pushed the door and it creaked open. With his hands, he cleared the cobwebs that hung from ceiling and wall in thick lattices. He let in the light of the sun, like a weapon to end the darkness of centuries that lay congealed within that room. He called Rama to come and see where Ahalya was made dust by her husband’s curse. Handing his bow to his brother, Rama crossed over the threshold, past Viswamitra and into the deserted dwelling.

Following the shafts of the sun, Rama went into Gautama’s ancient home. And he was another profound light, even if he did not know it yet himself. Viswamitra stood at the door, not wanting to be the first one inside. The instant the prince of Ayodhya stepped into that hut, there was a flash like soft lightning in the gloom. A woman whose beauty belonged to another age of the earth, who was like a sudden flame in a cloud of smoke, like the sun on clear water, stood before an astonished Rama, her hands folded and her eyes shining.

Beside the first flash of spirit light, from which Ahalya had stepped, another, deeper radiance shone. With a rapturous smile on his face, Gautama appeared there. As in a dream, he prostrated himself at the feet of the dark prince. Ahalya touched Rama’s feet with her lips, and then her husband’s. His eyes brimming, Gautama raised her up and embraced her.

Then, surprising himself, Rama raised his palms that were suddenly alight, and blessed Gautama and Ahalya. Hand in hand, they walked around him in pradakshina, as though he was a sacred fire. Ahalya joined her luster to Gautama’s and they vanished into the twin candescence, from the world and that time.

Only Viswamitra saw the shower of barely tangible petals from the realm of the Devas, and perhaps their contrite king: petals whose transcendant sweetness filled that hermitage.

 

15. Mithila

They entered King Janaka’s Mithila, and walked up to the enclosure of the yagna. A thousand brahmanas, all experts on the Vedas, had gathered there for the sacrifice. They were housed in a thousand dwellings built within the vast precinct of the yagnashala.

Viswamitra chose a spot near a tank of clear water, at the heart of Mithila, and he and his party settled themselves under a pipal tree. In his palace Janaka heard of Viswamitra’s arrival and came at once to greet the rishi. He had heard about Viswamitra from his own guru, Gautama’s son Sadananda. Janaka prostrated himself before the great sage who had come to his city.

“My yagna is thrice blessed that you have come to Mithila! Now I am sure the Gods will give me what I want. Twelve days remain to the conclusion of the yagna. Viswamitra, you must stay with us until the end. You must be here when the Devas come for their share of the havis.”

Even as he spoke the king’s eyes strayed and strayed to Rama and Lakshmana. He could not contain himself, and asked, “Who are these young men? They seem to be as strong as Devas and as handsome. Truly, it is of such kshatriyas the ancients said that, seeing them, even men wish they were women! Muni, tell me all about these brothers; for brothers they must be, they are so alike. My heart longs to know everything about them.”

Viswamitra said, “These are Rama and Lakshmana, sons of Dasaratha of Ayodhya. Before I tell you how they killed Tataka, and Maricha’s rakshasas, let me tell you about a miracle. When Rama walked into Gautama’s asrama, Ahalya rose from her dust. Gautama appeared there and they were united again. Janaka, the kshatriyas have come to look at Siva’s bow.”

A cry escaped Sadananda; Ahalya was his mother. He bowed deeply to Rama, “You have freed my mother from her long death. I salute you, Rama of Ayodhya, be welcome in Mithila. It is not for nothing that Viswamitra himself came to call you out into the world.”

Then Sadananda told the story of Viswamitra’s life to the gathering under the old pipal tree, saying he did so for posterity, because he knew the brahmarishi himself would never speak of his own achievements. As Sadananda unfolded his tale, Viswamitra sat among the absorbed gathering. His eyes seldom left Rama’s dark face, and at times a faint smile flickered on his lips.

Twilight fell in the garden at Mithila. Not the princes of Ayodhya, Viswamitra’s rishis, nor King Janaka stirred when, occasionally, Ahalya’s serene son paused. Encouraged by their eager silence, Sadananda continued. Darkness fell and lamps were brought out to them by Janaka’s servants. It was late when the brahmana finished his extraordinary tale.

Janaka returned to his palace with his guru. Viswamitra’s munis and the brahmarishi himself stretched out under the pipal tree, listening to the silence, the rich breeze, and the tidings they bore from distant parts. They soon fell asleep. Only Rama and Lakshmana were still awake. They watched the moon rise near midnight, and were lost in a reverie of Viswamitra’s astonishing life.3

 

16. Siva’s bow

With the early sun, Janaka came back to Viswamitra and his party. The king said, “Through the night, I thought about your presence in my city at this auspicious time. I feel more certain than ever that you have come with a blessing for me. Command me, my lord; how may I serve you?”

Viswamitra replied, “Perhaps you are right, Janaka, and I have come to you with a blessing. But these princes of Ayodhya, who are master archers, have come to look at Siva’s bow. Let the ayudha be fetched out. It may be that your fortune, like your ancestors’, is still bound to it.”

Janaka sat down with them. He said, “Before we look at Siva’s bow, let me tell you how I came to have it. My House is called Videha, and Nimi was a great kshatriya in our line. After Nimi, the sixth king in olden times was Devaratha. It was to Devaratha that the bow was first given, and he was told to keep it safely.

“It happened in the days when Siva’s father-in-law, Daksha, held his infamous yagna, to which he did not invite either his daughter Sati or Siva. But Sati went anyway. She did not want to be Daksha’s daughter any more, and raising the inner fire of yoga in her body, she made ashes of herself. The Devas watched in terror; for in their vanity they had all come to Daksha’s sacrifice.

“Siva arrived at that yagna with his army of ganas. He came with his bow in his hand to kill Daksha and the Devas. He said, ‘Sati burned herself while you watched. I will part your jeweled heads from your bodies!’

“But they fell at his feet, and Mahadeva is easily pacified, for his heart is kind. He forgave the Devas, and gave Daksha a goat’s head in place of the one Virabhadra had hewn from his neck. It was at that time, as if he did not trust himself in his terrible grief, that Siva gave his bow for safekeeping to my ancestor Devaratha. Ever since, the bow has been with us and we have guarded it as our most precious treasure, the root of our fortune.”

Now he paused, and glanced at Viswamitra. The rishi, who knew the best part of the king’s story was yet to be told, smiled to encourage him. Janaka brightened as if a hope he held dear had been confirmed. He resumed slowly: he had arrived at the heart of his tale.

The king of Mithila said, “Some years ago, I was turning the earth for another yagna. Suddenly before my golden plow I saw a child lying on the ground, like a piece of the moon. She lay smiling at me, and my heart would not be still until I had brought her to my wife. We decided to raise her as our daughter.”

Janaka’s face lit up. “We called her Sita because we had found her in a furrow at the head of the plow, and we soon realized she was no ordinary child. Her devotion to her parents, her uncanny knowledge of people, her compassion, her gentleness and grace, and not least, Muni, her beauty, are scarcely of this mortal world.”

He stopped again, and for an instant stared straight at Rama. That prince’s heart was on strange, fine fire that he had never known before in his young life. He looked away in mild confusion, while Viswamitra hid a smile.

Now in the tone of sharing a secret, Janaka continued, “To tell you honestly, my friends, in Mithila we think of Sita as an Avatara of the Devi Lakshmi. Never before has this kingdom known such prosperity as we have since we found her.”

They saw his eyes grow moist as he spoke of Sita. “I decided she would only marry a prince who was worthy of her. And we prayed that such a man might come for her someday. Meanwhile, so many kshatriyas came to Mithila, wanting to marry Sita. But I refused them all. One angry king cried at me, ‘To whom then, Janaka, will you give your daughter?’

“Without thinking, I replied, ‘To the man who can lift Siva’s bow and string it!’

“A hundred kshatriyas came. But none of them could move the bow from where it lay, let alone pick it up. Once an alliance of kings brought a great army and surrounded my city. How could I withstand such a force on my own? I prayed to the Devas and they sent a host from heaven, because I was the guardian of Siva’s bow. How swiftly that battle was concluded: the kshatriyas fled from the astras of the Gods. Yes, quite a tale hangs by the bow of Siva.”

He rose and took Rama and Lakshmana by the hand. “Come to my palace and I will have Siva’s bow fetched for you to see.”

Just within the palace gates, the bow was displayed so that all who passed could look at it. It was kept in an iron casket and worshipped with incense, flowers, and mantras during the three sandhyas of the day.

Janaka led them to the palace arena, festive with flags, garlands, and banners for the yagna. Already, thousands of people had streamed into it, from far and near, for the sacrifice. When his most recently arrived guests were seated with honor, Janaka clapped his hands to his guards to bring the bow.

In its great casket, Siva’s bow was wheeled in. It lay on a low golden cart, glimmering with jewels. A hundred strong men pulled on the massive ropes that dragged the cart of eight wheels. This was Siva’s bow with which he had threatened the Devas. The crowd rose. A vast murmur of AUM Namah Sivayah! was heard, like an ocean wave in that stadium.

Janaka went to Viswamitra and bowed to him, to show that the rishi was the most revered person present. The king said aloud, “Brahmarishi Viswamitra, here lies the bow of Mahadeva, which has broken the pride of many a kshatriya. No Deva, gandharva, kimpurusha, kinnara, Asura, or great naga has been able to lift this bow; not through all the ages, since Siva gave it to my ancestor.”

The guards flung back the casket’s cover. The jewels on that weapon shot livid shafts of color through the day and the crowd gasped. Viswamitra turned to Rama at his side; the prince was as tense as a bowstring himself. Softly, the rishi said, “Rama, my child, go and look at Siva’s bow.”

A hush fell on the crowd when Rama rose. He was radiant; he was unworldly blue. He crossed gracefully to the casket. For a moment, he stood gazing at the bow. Then a smile lit his face. He said, “Muni, may I touch the bow?”

Janaka cried, “Of course! What else have you come for?”

Viswamitra nodded to Rama. The prince leaned forward and stroked the great weapon with his fingertips. Viswamitra whispered to Janaka, “Ask him if he can lift it.”

Janaka shot the rishi a doubtful glance: he was afraid lest this prince could not lift Siva’s bow. For suddenly, his heart was set on giving his precious Sita to Rama and no one else. But Viswamitra insisted, bristling his brows at the king.

Then Rama himself turned and said in a clear voice, “I think I can lift the bow and string it. May I try?”

A great intuition of destiny swept the people. The crowd was on its feet, ready for a miracle.

“You may!” cried king and sage together.

Effortlessly, as if it was his own weapon that he carried at his back every day, Rama picked up Siva’s bow from its casket. The crowd sighed. Calmly, the prince bent the bow and strung it. A thunderflash exploded in his hands. The earth shook and most of the people fell down stunned: Siva’s awesome bow had snapped in two. Smiling faintly, Rama placed the pieces back in the casket.

Janaka ran forward and embraced him, again and again. Then he hugged Lakshmana and, with tears in his eyes, he bowed over and over to Viswamitra, who had brought Rama to Mithila. Janaka cried to the dazed crowd, “The prince of Ayodhya has done what no other kshatriya could! I am delighted to give my daughter Sita to him. There is no warrior in heaven or earth like Rama.” He turned to Viswamitra. “My lord, may I send messengers to Dasaratha? To ask him to come to Mithila, so Rama and Sita can be married as soon as possible.”

Viswamitra glanced at Rama. He saw joy brimming on the prince’s face, and he said, “Do so, Janaka. Let the news fly to Ayodhya.” Within the hour, the king’s messengers set out on the swiftest horses in Mithila’s royal stables.

*   *   *

From her room, high up in Janaka’s palace, Sita had seen Rama when he came and she had prayed he would string the bow. She had lost her heart the moment she set eyes on him: it was this prince she had always dreamed of and waited for. She knew him from long ago, from countless lives before. They had belonged together since time began.

 

17. Dasaratha goes to Mithila

Like the wind, Janaka’s messengers rode for three days, until they saw the turrets of Ayodhya. Shouting to one another, they flashed up to Dasaratha’s gates.

“Take us to your king!” they cried to the guards. “We come with joyful news from King Janaka and Rishi Viswamitra.”

Dasaratha welcomed them eagerly into his sabha. The messengers’ leader announced, “Great Dasaratha! Janaka of Mithila sends his greetings. He inquires after your majesty’s health and the welfare of your kingdom.”

Dasaratha waved impatiently to the man that he should deliver the news he brought. As the sabha in Ayodhya sat hushed, the messenger said, “Janaka wants you to hear a petition from him of which Brahmarishi Viswamitra approves. My master says: ‘I have a daughter called Sita. I swore that the man who marries her must first string the bow of Siva, which the Lord gave my ancestor. Countless kshatriyas tried, and failed even to move the bow. But, Dasaratha, your Rama, watched by a crowd of kings, rishis, and my people, strung Siva’s bow as if it were a toy. I want Sita to become your son’s wife. My lord, accept my gift more precious to me than life. I beg you, come quickly to Mithila to bless the young couple.’ Janaka awaits your reply.”

Dasaratha rose and cried, “The children are in Videha with Viswamitra, and you all hear what my Rama has done!” He turned to Vasishta, Vamadeva, and his other ministers. “Janaka wants to have the wedding as soon as he can. If none of you has any objection, let us go to Mithila straightaway.”

The rishis gave their assent happily, for Sita’s fame had spread long ago to Ayodhya. It was decided they would leave the next morning. After their journey, the messengers from Mithila slept soundly; but the king of Kosala hardly slept that night, because he was as excited as a boy at the thought of seeing Rama again. It seemed like a lifetime since his child had gone away with that knowing Viswamitra.

The next day, the chariots and palanquins to carry Ayodhya’s royal family gleamed in the dawn outside the palace. Night long, preparations had been under way in the queens’ apartments and in the treasury. This was no ordinary visit by one king to another. This was the occasion of Rama’s wedding, and cartloads of gold and priceless jewelry would travel with the party from Ayodhya.

It was customary for them to go ahead, and the king’s rishis, Vasishta, and the others were the first to leave. When the sun was halfway to his zenith, Dasaratha himself emerged from the palace. He was greeted with a roar from his people, thronging to see him off to the wedding of their beloved Rama.

*   *   *

They took five days to reach Mithila, and Janaka rode out from his city to welcome Dasaratha and his company. With his relatives, his ministers, and Sadananda, Janaka came to meet Dasaratha. He saw Rama’s father, and, eschewing formality, rode forward and embraced Dasaratha emotionally. The people saw that both kings had tears in their eyes.

Now Janaka welcomed his royal guest formally, saying, “My lord, I thank you for coming to Mithila. You honor me by accepting my hospitality. I am already thrice blessed that the great Vasishta has come to my city, and Vamadeva and Markandeya with him.

“But more than anything else, Dasaratha, your son has realized my most cherished dream for me. If he had not come, I would have been forced to break my oath that Sita would marry only the man who strung Siva’s bow. My yagna is almost complete. As its culmination, you must allow me to have Rama and Sita married.”

Dasaratha bowed and said happily, “It is not my place to tell a king like you when the wedding should take place. Your brahmanas must know that better than I.”

Janaka took Dasaratha’s arm and they entered Mithila together. Here also, the people milled in the streets to welcome the king from Ayodhya. Dasaratha and his party were lodged in a palace prepared for their stay. Viswamitra waited for them there. Overwhelmed when he saw the rishi, Dasaratha prostrated himself at his feet.

Viswamitra raised him up gently, murmuring, “Dasaratha, I hope you don’t regret having sent your sons with me. The ways of fate are mysterious and I have lived longer than you to know them.”

He led the king inside with an arm around his shoulders. Then Dasaratha’s face lit up as if a sun had risen in his heart: Rama waited there, with Lakshmana beside him. Janaka and Viswamitra left the father and his sons together, and withdrew to the yagnashala where the Vedas were being chanted without pause.

Evening was upon them when the princes were left alone with Dasaratha, who embraced them repeatedly, tears flowing down his face. He made them sit close beside him, while he lay down to rest after his journey. He made them repeat all their adventures, beginning when they left Ayodhya with Viswamitra and ending with how Rama strung Siva’s bow. At least ten times he heard the story from both Rama and Lakshmana, as if it was food, drink, and air to him. And he held Rama’s hand tightly, as happy an old man as could be found on earth.

Rama and Lakshmana spent all night with their father, while Janaka and the rishis were at the yagnashala, where the sacrifice was nearing its end. Early the next morning, the ritviks collected around the vedika and the final rites were completed without blemish.

Janaka said to Sadananda, “I want to share my joy with my brother Kusadhvaja.”

Sadananda sent messengers to Kusadhvaja, who was the king of Samkashya beside the limpid Ikshumati. When his brother arrived, Janaka, his ministers, his gurus, and his family gathered in the royal sabha.

Janaka said to his chief minister, Sudama, “My lord, fetch Dasaratha and his sons to our sabha.”

The king of Ayodhya and his princes came, and they were resplendent. Janaka and Kusadhvaja went to Dasaratha with folded hands, and brought him, Rama, and Lakshmana to golden thrones set apart for them.

Dasaratha said solemnly, “Janaka, my friend, my guru Vasishta will recall the ancestry of the young man who is to marry your daughter.”

Vasishta rose and traced the line of Manu. He told of the greatness of Ikshvaku, who was the first mortal king to rule Ayodhya. He told of Trishanku, Yuvanashva of renown, and his son Mandhata, who was called the jewel of the krita yuga. Of Sagara he spoke, of Anshuman and Bhagiratha, of Kakushta and Raghu, and of Aja, whose son was Dasaratha himself. He ended formally, Brahma’s son, the kulaguru of Ikshvaku, the royal House of the Sun: “Now you know the antecedents of Rama. Be pleased to give your daughter Sita, who is a rare treasure among women, to Dasaratha’s son.”

Janaka bowed to Vasishta. He rose from his throne and said, “My lords, I too will tell you about my ancestors. Nimi was the first of our line, and after his son Mithi our city was called Mithila.” He began the account of his illustrious line. Each king was named, down the august generations, and his fame recited, until he came to Svarnaroma, who was his own father.

Then Janaka said, “I ask you humbly to accept my daughter Sita to be your son Rama’s wife. I have another daughter Urmila. She, also, is a lovely child, and I would be delighted if you take her to be the magnificent Lakshmana’s bride.”

He bowed to Dasaratha, who smiled and said, “It is our privilege to have your daughters for our sons’ wives.”

Viswamitra stood up suddenly and said, “Your brother Kusadhvaja has two daughters. I propose that they be married to Bharata and Shatrughna. Let your two ancient houses be bound together inextricably.”

A murmur of approval hummed through the court, and Kusadhvaja rose and endorsed Viswamitra’s proposal. Embracing Dasaratha, Janaka said, “My friend, let your sons purify themselves with the proper rituals. Three days from today, under the auspicious Uttara Phalguni nakshatra, we will solemnize the weddings.”

The kings returned to their apartments.

 

18. Rama kalyana

In the sabha of Mithila, purified with mantras and incense, flowers and sacred yantras, Dasaratha waited with his sons and Vasishta, the chief priest. The princes of Ayodhya had also purified themselves with a three days’ homa.

Vasishta said ritually to Janaka, “My lord, the princes wear the sacred kankanas on their wrists. They await the kanyadana, which blesses the giver and the receiver.”

Now Janaka fetched his daughter. Sita was like the Goddess Lakshmi risen in her primordial lotus. The sabha fell hushed to see such loveliness upon the earth. She was as bright as a streak of lightning. Her eyes were as long as lotus petals, set wide, and she kept her gaze turned down to the ground. Her tresses, night-black and hanging below her waist, were braided with jasmine and stranded with strings of pearls. She wore a tawny silk sari, edged with gold threads and woven with crimson swans. She was entirely beautiful.

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.