The Ramayana

The most told story in India. Retold.

[theramayana]

Vamana.

Note 1: I’m sorry. But I think I had good reasons for temporarily abandoning this blog. I will post regularly from now. Or as regularly as I can.

Note 2: Our last post went far away from the story at hand and left our hero facing a mid-life crisis. Coming back to the main narrative - our young boys after tasting success in their first battle have finally reached the place they set out for. A place full of fascinating history.

“I think we have finally left the forest of Tadaka!” exclaimed Rama. The landscape had changed rapidly. They could now see lush green grass, a gurgling river and a divine light emanating from a distance.

"Right you are, my young tiger”, Vishwamitra smiled. He was still bursting with pride on their success against Tadaka. “The light you see in the distance is where we are headed. The hermitage of Accomplishment, the Siddhashrama. It once belonged to Lord Vishnu himself, in his avatar as Vamana.”

“Vamana?” the boys quizzed.

Vishwamitra laughed despite himself. He was amused to see the confusion writ on Rama’s face when he knew, that Vamana and he were but one. He suppressed the thought quickly.

"Oh please forgive our ignorance, Guru! And tell us the story of Vamana”, begged Rama. And so it began.

~~

He was tiny. A small, tiny little boy, clothed in a single garment tied around his waist. Slowly and timidly, he entered the great sacrifice hall. He was slightly intimidated by all the people in the hall, going about their various chores. Strains of musical instruments, pundits chanting mantras, servants ordering food, ministers giving instructions - there was a cacophony of sounds and actions around him. He felt shy, but determined. He focused his eyes on the grandest looking person in the hall, a gigantic figure of a man who sat on high pedestal - King Mahabali.

The little fellow joined the line of people who were waiting to meet the king. Word had it that on the occasion of this great sacrifice he was conducting, the king had promised to give anything - just ANYTHING that one asked for. He had taken a vow to never say no. Word had spread fast and people poured in from all countries. The king gave and gave, from his treasury that seemed to never diminish. Bali was a good king, despite being a demon and was known for his generosity and valour. He had learnt well from his grandfather Prahlada, recognized as a just king and one of Vishnu’s best devotees. He had conquered with his might, all the three worlds - Bhuloka (Earth), Devaloka (Heavens) and of course, the breeding ground of all demons, the Patalaloka (Netherworld) - earning him the name Mahabali. Gods feared him; smaller kings trembled at the mention of his name. The Devas, lead by Indra, had been trying for several years to unseat him from his prime position, but their every scheme had failed. So far.

“What’s your name, little boy?” the king enquired. They had reached the very end of the long line.

"Vamana”, he said, in what he assumed was a strong voice.

The court erupted in laughter. “How apt!”, “We should’ve known!”, “What else could it be?” screamed voices around him. He didn’t blame them. ‘Vamana’ meant short. With his stunted height, protruding belly and shaven head, he must look funny to royal folks.

"And what can I give you, boy?” continued Bali.

Vamana was quiet. He stood looking at his feet.

"Gold coins? Better clothes? Maybe some food to start with? You look like you haven’t eaten in days! Or maybe, I can arrange for shoes to make you taller?” the demon winked at his own joke. Power had gotten to Mahabali’s head. He was drunk on his own strength and had forgotten his manners.

"I would be happy, Your Majesty, if you will just let me measure out three feet of land for myself”, Vamana finally replied.

The laughter was louder this time. Some courtiers fell off their seats. It took a while for everyone to calm down. The King stifled his guffaws and brought the court to order.

“Are you sure, son? You could have the greatest of riches, the most delicious of food and why, even the grandest palaces if you so wished. Please ask for more. Bali shall not refuse”, he said.

“I’m sure, Your Majesty”, replied Vamana calmly.

Bali was confused by the weird request, but obliged, in keeping with his vow.

“You may take your three steps now, boy. My servants will measure the distance and have the same amount of land handed to you”, he ordered.

Vamana smiled, for the first time. He closed his eyes and prepared to take the first step. Mahabali’s eyes grew wide in surprise. Surprise soon turned to shock and then to fear. Vamana was growing. It seemed like he would never stop. In a span of minutes, he had gone from little boy to a grown adult to a giant towering over the palace. All the courtiers who had laughed now looked like dozens of Vamanas at his feet. The King realized his folly. His sharp mind quickly guessed what was happening. But it was too late to change his promise.

The now giant-sized Vamana finally took the first step. And in a single stride, he covered the whole of the earth. As Bali and his people continued to stare in disbelief, Vamana took his second stride and covered the Heavens too. Bhuloka and Devaloka did not belong to Mahabali anymore.

“I have no space left for my third step, Your Majesty”, teased Vamana in a booming voice. “Now where do I put my feet?”

“Forgive me, my Lord!” bowed the mighty Bali. "I have now seen your true form. You have shattered my arrogance and destroyed my ego. Bless me, Lord Vishnu and may your third step be upon me”. He had realized who Vamana really was and had prepared himself for the inevitable.

And soon, as rishis blew their conches and devas beat their victory drums, Vamana put his feet to Mahabali’s head and suppressed him back into the Netherworlds. His fairness and devotion, however, earned him immortality, as long as he was confined underground. Legend has it that the king returns every year in the month of the Lion, when star of Shravana shines bright, to meet his people and look after their welfare.

“And as for Vamana, he came here and sat in penance for many years, leaving his calm and divinity behind permanently”, finished Vishwamitra with a flourish, just as they stepped into the periphery of Siddhashrama.

The boys, who were till then engrossed in the tale, realized with a jolt that they had in fact arrived at the very land once occupied by their tiny hero.

“This is now my hermitage, dear Rama, which you shall guard for the next 6 days”, continued Vishwamitra with a twinkle in his eye, “for it is as much yours as it is mine”.

The boys missed the implicit meaning.

[theramayana]

Another birthday.

Disclaimer: This post comes purely out of my imagination is not a part of Valmiki Ramayana or any other popular version of the Ramayana. Happy Ram Navami!

I turn 53 today. It has stopped feeling special. It doesn't matter to me anymore,the day I was born. But I do celebrate it, because it seems to matter so much to a lot of others. My people, my brothers, my sons.  I love seeing theirexcitement as they hustle and bustle, making a big deal out of it. 

I woke up earlier than usual today. Took a dip at the Sarayu, offered special prayers to the Sun. Gurus, rishis and pundits competed with each other to string the choicest of words together, as I sought each of their blessings in turn. After the prayers, I came straight here to my people. Court is cancelled today. Everyone is celebrating. Except me, maybe. I stand now at the biggest of the stages that have been erected specially for the occasion. On either side of me, various points are manned by my brothers and sons, each giving away a different gift. Bharata is giving away cows to the Brahmans and the poor, Shatrugna has chosen the best silks brought from afar. Lakshmana is being restless as usual, trying to be in several places at once. Lava and Kusha are distributing sweets. Queues have lined up for miles around all of us, full of people talking, laughing and yearning to take a closer look at their kings and princes. A few crane their necks to spot me from afar. I like to occasionally acknowledge some of them with a smile or a wave. The twinkle in their eyes makes everything worth it. But as I stand here dressed in my best clothes, bathed in exotic fragrances and giving away fistfuls of gold to a never-ending line of people, I can’t help but wonder - what have I done to deserve this? How many men have the honour of having their birthday celebrated by so many people, each treating me as one of their own? I can tell from their eyes that their admiration is true. Their love genuine. They don’t love me just for the gold I am giving away. I must have done something right.

Sita gives me a mocking smile. She knows better. If she had been here, she would have fussed around the buttermilk stand, making sure everyone got second helpings. Where Ma Kausalya always stood. But she now mocks at me only from within a life size statue. I got one made in solid gold, to pay for all my mistakes. But she was worth more than her weight in gold, my Sita. The only love of my life. What a terrible husband I have been to her. I failed to protect her in the forest and allowed that rascal Ravana to carry her away. Oh, how I lost my mind back then. I would still be roaming those forests like a madman had it not been for Lakshmana. And when I finally fought a long battle and won her back, I doubted her. Like an idiot, I doubted the woman who was as pure as fire. As if that was not enough, I did it again. I sent her to the forest while she was still pregnant. Which woman would love a man who did that? My Sita did. She loved me through all that. I didn't deserve it. I never told her I loved her too. I wish I had had the opportunity to tell her one last time that she was the only woman I cared for. That I had not been happy for a single minute after sending her away. How could I? She was my soul. Numerous courtiers had begged me to take a second wife, fearing that my lineage would go without an heir. I refused. I could not bring myself to replace Sita. Still cannot. I cringed and hated myself every day, telling myself I had done what I had to. It was what was expected of a king. All my life, I have made decisions based on the social norms set out for a king. I refused to stand up to my father. I killed people who I thought deserved to live. I went to war. I destroyed armies. I didn’t spare even the women. I punished myself and my family so I could be an example to my people. I sometimes wish I could run away from it all and be a normal person. Away from all the spotlight and judgmental eyes. Live the life of a nomad. Or a mundane one like that washer man. To whom Kshatriya dharma was nothing but yet another piece of gossip. At the fag end of my life, I yearn for ordinariness. I am tired of being hailed as the greatest. I am tired of the achievements and adulation. I don’t want to be worshiped. I just want another chance at life… one where Sita and I can grow old together. One where I get to sing lullabies to my sons. And teach them the basics of archery. 

My father did all that. Maybe he got the balance right, that man. I envy him now. I wish I’d been more like him. I remember hating him thoroughly on my first night in the forest.  A man who was almost a hundred continued to enjoy the pleasures of a palace while I, the king-in-waiting, slept on the cold hard floor. He had exposed the entire kingdom to threats by choosing to rule for 14 more years. A weak, old king would provide an easy target for neighboring kings to invade. How could one little promise made to his lover in weak moment upset the balance of the entire kingdom? How difficult was it to stand up to one’s wife, really? Wasn’t that his dharma as a Kshatriya and as a father? I thought him a weak man back then. I vowed that day never to let my family stand in the way of my duty. I have always put my people first. I am a monarch, but I try my best to rule democratically. My ministers have been instructed to mingle with the people as much as they can. What my people think matters to me. That is probably the one thing I would give myself credit for. I am a good king. One of the best, I say with pride. I have ruled without an iota of selfishness. All my decisions have been for the welfare of my people, for strengthening the position of Koshala, for glory to my land. It brings me great satisfaction to know that my people hail my rule. To know that they lead happy, content lives, free of crime, lies and famines. To know that this kingdom has come a long way from the crisis it went into after I departed to the forest. Today we are most prosperous nation in Bharat Varsha. I am proud of that. Someday I will cease to exist, and that day, I hope my sons will take this legacy forward. I want them to realize that public good matters much more than the joys of a single man. It is a burden that comes with being a king. But I also pray that they find a middle path between kingship and being a father, son and husband. I know they must secretly hate me for what I did to their mother. I haven’t given them much in their formative years; I haven’t had the time to teach them. But I hope they will make my life their lesson. In some parts I have been successful, in some I have failed and some I have just complicated. I hope my sons have the wisdom to tell the difference. I fear that the excessive adulation of my people might cloud their judgment. Some call me the perfect role model. Some call me the greatest man ever. Some learned men even have theories that I am an incarnation of God. I am not any of that. I am only but an example. I want my sons to learn from my mistakes and take the right lessons out of my life. I trust the wisdom of the future generations to do so. 

[theramayana]

First Battle.

“But, revered Guru, she is woman…”  Rama’s voice trailed off into an eerie silence, as his eyes shifted to focus on his feet.

Vishwamitra had just finished recounting the tale of Tadaka, her curse and her subsequent violence that threatened the peace and prosperity of the entire region. She had chased away civilians, eaten many of them alive, and killed their cattle. She had particularly tormented learned Brahmans who came to the forest for meditation or for conducting sacrifices. He had appealed to Rama to end her terrible reign by eliminating her.

“She can only be killed by one as pure and valiant as you, Raghava, for her strong curse can be broken by none else”, he had said. But Rama had not jumped at the idea and held his bow at the ready, as Vishwamitra had imagined he would. He had shifted uneasily, looked at the trees as if asking for an answer and maintained a disturbed silence. Now he knew why. Vishwamitra smiled. He should have seen this coming. Killing a woman was considered sinful and inhuman.

“Now is not the time for compassion, Rama. The foremost dharma of a kshatriya is towards his people. Killing any evil being, male or female, for the welfare of defenseless people is neither a sin nor a crime. History is replete with examples of kings who have had to kill women for the greater good. It is a burden that comes with kingship, Kakutstha. Indra had to kill demoness Manthara when she threatened to destroy the earth. Why, even Lord Vishnu has done it”.

“Lord Vishnu himself?”, it was the curious Lakshmana this time.

“Yes, my son”, replied Vishwamitra. “There was a time when battles between Devas and Asuras was a routine affair. To strengthen the position of Asuras, their guru Sage Sukracharya went into the forest to perform penance and acquire the Mritha Sanjeevini, a mantra that can raise the dead. His absence left the demons vulnerable for a short while and making the most of it, Indra launched a full-fledged attack. But he was not successful. Kaavya, mother of Shukrachara and wife of Sage Bhrigu, filled her son’s space and knocked the Devas unconscious by summoning the goddess of sleep with her powers. She then threatened to devour Indra and Vishnu too. Realizing her malevolence and left with no option, Lord Vishnu raised his glorious discus and killed her. You are now in a similar situation, and performing your duty is your only dharma. You will have failed in it, if you were to spare Tadaka for being a woman.”

Rama listened intently and grew immersed in deep thought. He thought of Tadaka and her atrocious acts. He thought of all her innocent victims who had lost their lives for no fault of theirs. He looked around at the forest that had lost its sheen. What could have forced a woman to do all this? He then thought of Kaavya. Of Manthara. Of Vishnu and Indra. He thought of what his Guru had told him about dharma. He thought of his father. He remembered his own promise to him, never to disobey Guru Vishwamitra’s orders. He took a deep breath.

“Upon my father’s honour, I promise you, my mentor… The task shall be done”, he bowed. 

Vishwamitra beamed. “May victory be yours!”

Rama clenched his fist around his bow gave it a great twang. The forest resonated with the sound. Tadaka roared. She did not like being challenged. She ran towards the source of the sound, eager for fresh meat. They soon caught their first glimpse of her through the trees. Large, powerful, wild. Her eyes were bloodshot, her teeth gnashed, her temples throbbed. A great cloud of dust gathered at her feet. She moved towards them in long strides that made the trees vibrate. Rama turned to Lakshmana.

“The power of a thousand elephants and endowed with magical powers too.. she looks unstoppable, doesn’t she?”, he whispered. “But let us try not to kill her, Lakshmana. Cut off her limbs, restrict her mobility. Chop off her ears and nose if you will, to curtail her impertinence. But don’t kill her yet”. Lakshmana nodded and took aim.

A cloud of dust soon engulfed them, rendering the duo temporarily blind. Before they could make their next move, she rained a torrent of stones upon them. Rama grew indignant. He countered her stone storm with an equally strong storm of arrows and soon cut off both her arms. Her roar was earth shattering. Lakshmana used the weak moment to quickly mutilate her ears and nose. Tadaka wailed. Screamed. And then vanished. She had begun to use her magic. Invisible to their eyes, Tadaka moved rapidly around the trees and rained stones on them from various directions. The boys stood bewildered, defending a new direction every minute. Some they took, some they ducked and some they countered with arrows, but the stones continued to come from everywhere. Vishwamitra decided he had had enough.

“Enough with your benevolence, Rama! What have you earned by being nice to her? She is sinister and evil and must be destroyed. Be hasty now, for the sun is about to set and demons become more powerful at night!”, he ordered.

Rama realized his folly. There was no place for kindness in the battlefield. He closed his eyes and using his knowledge of sonic archery, rained arrows in her direction. Her frequent cries of pain made her easier to spot. An arrow soon pierced her chest and she fell, like a blast of thunder. Her final cry could have pierced any heart. As her humongous form touched the ground, forest quivered one last time. Eyes half open, Tadaka could see patches of a golden heaven between the dark branches. Leaves gleamed in the evening light. Her breathing slowed. The sun was setting on her forest. She realized she had never truly appreciated its beauty for several years now. With that last thought, she closed her eyes. And left the ghastly body she hated so much. Tadaka was finally at peace. 

[theramayana]

Tadaka.

The earth shook a little as she sat up with a start, eyes darting on all sides. Her breasts danced like great temple bells at the evening hour. Vultures napping on surrounding trees took off in a whoosh. She flung a Terminalia arjuna at the universe, aiming at nothing in particular. A stray elephant rumbled deeper into the tall grasses. Tadaka was in a foul mood. How could there be humans in her forest? Who would dare enter the dark fortress of Tadaka, the invincible? It was not possible. But she was sure she had heard them. There was no doubting her extraordinary sense of hearing. She could pick up a wild boar’s footsteps from miles away. Tadaka stood and let out a war cry. The earth shook again. Her frown turned into a greedy smile. It was time for lunch.

Towering above the tallest of trees, Tadaka could spot three figures making their way into her forest. They were clearly rishis, the older one walking behind while the two younger ones cleared the path ahead. Anger rose from the pit of her stomach and reached her throbbing temples. Spite coursed through her veins, taking her back several years. She hated these rishis who pretended to be the up-holders of dharma. What did they know, but prayers and silly rituals? What did they know of the dilemmas of life and the agony of loss? How could someone who lives in isolation from society be given powers to pass judgement? They lived in forests, but advised the greatest of kings on administration. They claimed to be divine souls, but did not think twice before mouthing the deadliest curses. What ever happened to the virtue of mercy? Oh, but how would they know empathy when they had never been in love? How could anyone be truly enlightened without having loved even once? She had loved. And lost. She knew the answer to life. The answer was that it didn’t matter. Because there was no life left in her anymore. 

Tadaka had been born as the daughter of Suketu, a formidable yaksha known for his trouble-making. He had performed rigorous penance towards Brahma for a powerful son. Anticipating more trouble if the already strong yaksha were granted a son, the Creator had given him a daughter with the strength of a thousand elephants, trusting the intrinsic benevolence of females. Tadaka grew up to be a beautiful maiden who attracted the eyes of several men, well-learned and all-powerful, yet kind and loving. She lived her life to the fullest, enjoying the simple pleasures of life in the forest, talking to animals and making friends with trees. When it was time for her marriage, the power-hungry Suketu gave her hand to Sunda, a demon chief. Tadaka fell madly in love with her husband. He was strong, fearless, handsome and moved about like a dark cloud that holds thunder within. He was struck by her rare combination of great physical strength and a deep emotional sensitivity. They made passionate love and produced two sons - Mareecha and Subahu, who inherited their mother’s power and father’s looks. The family spent their lives in the wilderness, hunting, eating and drinking to their heart’s content. But one fateful day, driven by intoxication, Sunda had damaged the great Sage Agastya’s ashram and earned his wrath. On seeing the demon wreak havoc, the angry sage had burnt him down to ashes. When news of Sunda’s death reached his wife, she was devastated. For the first time in Tadaka’s life, sadness gripped her. Her chest constricted, she could not breathe. The happy times she had spent with Sunda flashed in front of her eyes. Every nook of the forest brought back a memory. Every bird wailed a funeral song. Every creeper reminded her of his embrace. Tadaka was angry. And for the first time, she realized the full extent of her powers. She wanted to harm the man who had done this to her. Who had left her sons fatherless. She wanted to tear his limbs and toss them to the vultures. Tadaka wanted revenge. She remembered running. Running like the wind towards her villain and watching her sons run ahead of her. She remembered feeling proud of her sons for a fleeting moment, before she saw them disfigure and turn into ugly monsters in front of her eyes. The sage must have cursed them. She lunged forward with greater vigour and met his second curse half-way. 

“You will lose all your beauty, you yakshii! You will turn a man-eater, with your form contorted, face distorted and body monstrous”, he said.

Tadaka roared. Lamented. Saw her own body transform into a mountain of flesh. She was consumed by bitterness. She began to hate anything that lived. From a yakshi who had cared about little other than her family, she now became a demoness who wanted to destroy the world. Why did her love have to be taken away so suddenly? So forcefully? For a tiny misjudgment made in drunken stupor? She uprooted trees, gobbled up anything that stood in her way. Why was she being punished when she had not committed a crime? She could never go back to her father now. Her folks would never want a monster to live with. She had been singled out, broken and left with nothing to live for. She took revenge on rishis every day, disrupting their sacrifices with her sons for company. The darkness in her heart flowed out into every living being around her. Trees in her forest spread their thick branches and blocked out the sun. Small animals fled, leaving only wild boars and venomous snakes behind. No flowers bloomed in her forest. Weeds and cobwebs filled almost every corner. Water bodies turned poisonous. The earth burned with heat and cracked open. Her sons moved out and joined other rakshasas, but Tadaka refused to leave her sanctuary. Her hair grew matted, her breath stank of blood and her nails hid piles of dirt. She lived a life of misery, knowing nothing but anger, hate and a greed for revenge. She missed him everyday. She missed being in love. Her forest stood out like a sore thumb in an area of peace and sparkling beauty, showing the world how it felt inside a broken woman’s heart. Her forest was the fortress she had built against life itself. And it had now been breached.

[theramayana]

Kama.

kausalyaa suprajaa raama puurvaa sandhyaa pravartate | uttiShTha nara shaarduula kartavyam daivamaahnikam ||

"Kausalya is indeed fortunate to beget you as her son, Dear Rama! Arise, my little tiger, the east is slowly turning bright and it is time for morning prayers." - Vishwamitra (Valmiki Ramayana 1-23-2)

~

It was a beautiful golden dawn that Rama and Lakshmana woke up to on their first day. The brothers were up at Vishwamitra’s first call, alert and raring to go. The soft grass bed they had slept on had been surprisingly comfortable. They finished their morning ablutions at the Sarayu, Rama showing balance and composure, while Lakshmana almost knocked his brother over in nervousness and excitement. He still couldn’t believe he was here. At one point, he had thought their father would never let him go. All his drama had gotten him nowhere. But Anna had made it happen with a meek “Let him also come, please?”. Anna always got his way.

After long drawn goodbyes that he couldn’t wait to get to the end of, the duo had finally followed Vishwamitra, dressed in shining royal silks. They had carried bows that were studded with jewels and bottomless quivers that would never run out of arrows. Appa had also insisted on gloves made of animal-hide, to protect their deft, yet delicate fingers. They had walked through the streets of Ayodhya, with a friend propping up every few feet to wave goodbye or gape in wonder, finally reaching the banks of Sarayu at sundown. During their evening prayers, the sage, who was now also their guru, had taught them the very rare bala-atibala chant, which could make them forget hunger, thirst and tiredness.

"Practice these hymns everyday, my children and you shall know no hunger or thirst, no tiredness or fever, no disease or disfigurement. No demons can attack you, when you are awake or while you sleep. No one can equal your handsomeness, win you in an argument or surpass you in calibre", he had said.

The boys had listened rapt with attention and mastered the mantras in one recital. Pleased, the sage had then made a grass bed for them to sleep on. Rama and Lakshmana lay side by side, staring at the stars and blessing their own luck. They had ensured that the Guru’s snores were loud enough before they began their whispering.

"Can you believe it, Anna? We’re here! It’s just a few hours and we already know things that no other 12-year-olds can boast of!", hissed Lakshmana.

"Yes, indeed! Do you think they will let us teach it to Bharata and Shatrugna when we get back?", Rama had been having different thoughts.

"Umm… I don’t know. I miss them already", Lakshamana’s voice lost its lustre.

"Do you remember the time when we sneaked out and slept in the garden?", Rama’s eyes reflected the stars.

"Oh yes… Our miserable firefly catching expedition…"

The silent sniggering had gone on all night, much to the delight of the boys and the amusement of the sage. Before they knew it, dawn had come upon them and the boys now found themselves standing waist-deep in the river, reciting their morning prayers. They felt no fatigue, despite a sleepless night. Maybe it was just the elation of being there. Maybe the bala-atibal was kicking in. One couldn’t tell. Prayers done, the brothers continued their journey along the river, taking in the glorious morning. They had been here on picnics several times, but today everything looked different. The river sparkled a little more brightly, the birds chirped a little more sweetly, the trees danced a little more gracefully and the sun had never appeared so bright. And thus they went on for several days, stopping only for prayers, sleep or a bite of fruit. In due course, they reached the confluence of the Ganga and Sarayu, where the boys spotted a hermitage bustling with ascetics.

"Highly merited Guru, whose hermitage is this that we have arrived it? Where are we and who lives here? Please tell us, we’d love to hear their stories", ventured Rama.

Vishwamitra smiled. “This, dear Rama, is one of the holiest places you will ever see. Here once sat Lord Shiva himself, deep in meditation, untouched and unwavered by any force of nature. The hermits you see here are all direct descendants of his first disciples”, he said.

"And then? Why did he leave?", asked Rama, eyes wide in adoration.

"The same reason why several other godly men abandon their pursuits, my dear", Vishwamitra paused for dramatic effect. "Love".

"Love?", the boys chorused. Vishwamitra launched into the story.

~

Lord Shiva had once sat in the place where they stood, deep in meditation and with a vow of silence. He weathered the harshest sun and the fiercest cold, yet did not stir an inch. He knew not what his surroundings were, he cared not for food or drink. His body was stiff, yet seemed to float like a feather. To his disciples he appeared like an embodiment of serenity, but they were all aware of the anger that burned inside him. He had lost his beloved Sati in a fit of nasty anger and things had never been the same again. He had mourned, become depressed and had briefly lost his mind, before turning to penance. The void she left inside him could never be filled. His heart had turned to stone. He had lost the power that made him feel alive. And that made him eternally angry, harsh and gloomy. He could never care for another woman.

Elsewhere, the Devas had called an emergency meeting to discuss the atrocities of Tarakasura, an evil demon who could only be killed by the son of Shiva. How was Shiva ever going have a son if he just sat there meditating? Not to mention his vow of silence and celibacy! And so they plotted to get him married. Sati had reincarnated as Parvati, daughter of the mountains and had been praying for reunion with her Lord. When all of her attempts to woo him had failed, Indra sought the help of Kama, the God of love. Kama came on his emerald parrot, spreading love and lust wherever he went. The spring was there to announce his arrival, creating the most beautiful flowers, most seductive birdcalls and the most romantic sunsets. He landed in Shiva’s hermitage with his floral arrows of lust. He took careful aim and launched one at the Supreme Being, making sure Parvati was in the vicinity. He had hoped for an overflowing of love. What he got was overpowering anger. The instant the soft arrow touched his skin, Shiva had realized the conspiracy. How DARE they? What did this Kama think of himself? What gave Devas the right to meddle with his fate? When he stood up, the whole earth shook with the sound of his feet stomping the ground. Birds flapped their wings restlessly, animals hid behind trees, the sun took cover behind the clouds. Everything suddenly turned dark and cold, all the happiness was sucked out of the world. He turned to look straight at Kama, the third eye flying open, giving vent to all his bottled rage. Only a second had passed, and the God of love had been reduced to ashes. In his attempt to safeguard his own penance, Shiva had annihilated all the love in the world. The Earth had turned into living hell. But Shiva just stood there, his anger burning like hot coal.

Kama’s consort Rathi came running with cries of agony. The most handsome man in the world, her passionate lover and husband, had just vanished in a speck of dust. The Gods begged his mercy, eager to subside a rage that could destroy the world. Parvati fell at his feet, pleading with him to accept her. Shiva slowly came around. He admonished Indra for his silly plan, but accepted Parvati’s true love and devotion. Soon, on a full moon day in the middle of the glorious spring Kama had left behind, Shiva and Parvati were married. Love flourished on earth again, the colour came back into the world. Shiva revived Kamadeva’s soul, his body visible only to his wife. Since then, Kama has roamed about unseen by the world, unleashing his tricks on innocent beings unaware of his presence. That day, is still commemorated across the world, as a welcoming of spring, as a celebration of love, as the festival of colours.

~

"Wow! So did their son kill Tarakasura?", Lakshmana could not resist. Vishwamitra let out a high, booming laugh.

"He did, Lakshmana, he did. Their son Kartikeya, the warrior God, went on to kill Tarakasura and his two evil brothers too", said Vishwamitra. "Now come, let us spend the night here and continue onward in the morning"

And so Rama went to sleep that night, hugging the earth where love was once destroyed and resurrected. Little did he know then, that it would turn out to be his greatest weakness too.

[theramayana]

Separation.

The commotion hit his ears suddenly, like a blast of light on a dark winter night. His ears took time to accustom to the sound. Now he recognized voices. The courtroom came slowly into focus. Rama’s face caught his eye first. Worried, confused and trying hard not to show signs of weakness. His boyish bravery brought a smile to his face. How could he have asked for this innocent child? Dasharatha sat up with a start. He soon realized he had zoned out only for a few seconds. But that had been enough to put the entire durbar into disarray. Vasishta had come up to see if he was alright. Vishwamitra still stood exactly in the same spot, with an expression that betrayed a tinge of amusement. Dasharatha waved for silence. He knew he had to say something. He couldn’t. He had heard something he could not even fathom. How could a learned rishi ask for something so insane? Vishwamitra wanted Rama to guard his ten-day ritual, that had been continuously disrupted by evil minded asuras. Two very mighty demons called Mareecha and Subaahu had taken it upon themselves to irritate the Rajarishi and stop his sacrifices. They were instigated by the even mightier Ravana, who was fast gaining notoriety for tormenting the three worlds, thanks to a special boon from Brahma that made him invincible in war. The foul devil had grown from strength to strength and made even the devas shudder at the thought of him. Dasharatha himself was quite unsure if he would be able to take on Ravana or his accomplices in war. But this man wanted his twelve-year-old to do it! He had seriously begun to doubt the old man’s senility now. The excess anger and disappointment at the incomplete yagnya must have finally gotten to his head. The man was blabbering. Not in his senses. Yes, that had to be it. There was no other explanation. He broke the silence that pressed against his ears.

"He is just a boy!", he blurted out. "You know better than me I am sure, that a man who is not even sixteen is unfit for battle. How can you ask for him to guard your sacrifice against the evilest rakshasas we know? Do you know how delicate my Rama is? His eyes droop with the setting of the sun, tired from all the day’s practice and play. Do you know how many days I have carried him to bed after he would fall asleep in the middle of Kaikeyi’s stories? How can you expect him to guard your yagnya night and day? He doesn’t know how to judge his opponents. He is not equipped with enough astras yet. How can he equal the asuras in battle, who are so known for their deceitful tricks? He has no knowledge of strategic war at all! It does not make sense. He will not be of any use to you even if I were to send him", Dashathara’s voice rose with every sentence. He could feel the ire rising in the sage too. But he didn’t care. He was not going to send Rama. No way.

"So this is what one gets in the noble house of Ikshvaaku! I believed you were a rightful king, Dasharatha. This is unbecoming of your stature. You made me a promise and dare you go back on it? What kind of Raja dharma have you been taught? How do you even manage to control such a vast empire? Do you know what the Gods are saying about you? They told me you were the tallest beacon of ethics in all the three worlds. Is this what you have come down to? Is your little son more important to you than the successful completion of my sacrifice? Are you allowing your personal emotions to come in way of protecting your citizens?", Vishwamitra unleashed an onslaught of insults. They didn’t fail to touch the right nerve.

"Wise and learned, Brahmarishi! Please hear me out", Dasharatha softened a little. He decided he had to handle this carefully, lest it earn him a bad name amongst neighbouring kings. "I do know that it is the duty of a king to protect his citizens, more so a wise one like you, whose sacrifices and tapasya would benefit the entire world. And that is precisely why, I am reluctant to send a little boy to do that job for you. Please know this, respected guru, that nobody cares more about the success of your rituals than I. I now vow upon my kingship, that I will be there personally, with my entire army, to protect your ashram from the fierce demons who dare to attack it. The asuras will be no match for my well-trained warriors and will run home in fear, no doubt, once they hear that Dasharatha is there to defend you. You will complete all your rituals on time and will achieve your goals as required. Let us not waste a minute more in arguements. Please allow me to make preparations for the journey", he offered.

"Do you think I am fool, Dasharatha?", the rishi seethed in anger. Damn. The offer had clearly done more damage than good.

"Do you think I am a fool to ask for a little boy instead of an army? Are you teaching me what needs to be done to protect my sacrifice? Listen now, you ignorant king! You have allowed affection for your son to blind you so much that you do not realize his true potential. How little you know of your own son! I know who he is. So does Vasishta. He is indeed capable of eradicating those demons. They will run berserk at the twang of his bow. Under my guidance, your son will achieve a fame that will last for generations to come. Pray, don’t stand in the way of his greatness. Take off your blindfolds and send him with me!" The request had now become a command.

What if it was true? What if he and pointless emotional drama did indeed stand between Rama and his path to greatness? He wanted nothing more than for his son to take on life’s challenges and become a man of his own. But if that meant separation from Rama… no, he couldn’t bear it. There had to be a middle path.

"Thank you, great soul, for your kind words about my son. I do realize that I might hamper his progress by refusing to let him go. I will send him with you, but on one condition. My army and I will follow the two of you to your hermitage. Allow me to assist my son in battle. He has never spent a night outside the palace before, let alone face deadly enemies. I will be there to guide him, teach him and help him emerge victorious. Please grant me this small mercy, I beg of you", pleaded Dasharatha. It was a fair thing to ask, he thought. They could both get what they wanted. But he was answered by Vishwamitra’s thunderous laughter.

"You amuse me, son. Do you think you are capable of providing better protection than the son of Kushi, who knows of every missile that exists in the world and is capable of creating new ones himself?", Vishwamitra seemed ready to take offence to anything. Nothing seemed to work according to plan today. "Do you think you will be of greater assistance to Rama than I, Vishwamitra, the knower of past, present and future, the ultimate authority on the art of warfare, whose very name can make his fiercest enemies tremble in fear? Nobody can lay a finger on your son as long as he is under my care. I do not ask for Rama because I cannot take on these demons by myself, Dasharatha. I am doing you and your son a favour by taking him along. If you still don’t see that, keep him wrapped up in this cocoon forever!" And with that, the sage began to storm out. Vasishta decided it was time to intervene.

"Please wait, holy Vishwamitra! Please forgive my King, for he is just another father blinded by love. He does not see beyond the veil of maya, like you or I". Vishwamitra stopped in his tracks. Satisfied, Vasishta now turned to address the King.

"Dasharatha, do you have any idea of the greatness this man holds inside him? Do not underestimate him because he stands before you asking for a favour. This once mighty king can destroy your entire kingdom with a single arrow. He knows all the hundred deadly astras that exist in the world. He has received divine weapons from Lord Shiva himself!" Praise coming from Vasishta cooled down the angry sage sufficiently. If one looked closely, one could have even spotted a gloat. "Learning those astras directly from Viswamitra is the greatest blessing your son can be given. Do not throw away this opportunity. Besides, you have given your word already. I have spent long years in this palace and have not heard of a single instance where an Ikshvaaku king went back on his word. Please don’t be the first", finished Vasishta.

Dasharatha realized he had been locked into a corner. He looked at his sons, who had been silently watching the scene unfold. Rama tried to keep a straight face, but frankly, he was way too excited to stay in one place. His hands were shaky and his face had grown hot. Lakshmana was thinking fast. He had to find a way to convince his father and mother. There was no way he could stay in this palace if Anna was going away. Bharatha was having mixed feelings. On one hand, he was proud of his brother for having been handpicked by such a great sage. What adventures he would have! He might even be able to pick up some tips from him once he was back. But he was also scared out of his wits. And worried. Those asuras sounded nasty. All he could do was look helplessly at Shatrugna. But that didn’t help either. Aghast and afraid, Shatrugna’s face had turned white. Something told him things would never be the same again.

[theramayana]

Vishwamitra.

The slender thigh of the doe came slowly in focus between the long blades of grass. He focused on the golden brown and let the greens blur away. He was determined to get it right this time. He pulled his arrow back and took aim.

"You can’t, You can’t, You can’t, You can’t!", his brat of a brother chanted in his ears.

"SHUT UP!", he screamed and took aim once again. The thigh. He could picture the whole doe in his head, head down, grazing on soft grass. He closed his eyes and aimed slightly to the left. He knew she would sense the arrow and dart forward a bit. Swoosh. A moment of tense silence. He didn’t move from his firing position. And then she yelped. It was a hit!

"Did you see that? Did you hear her go? Now you know who you’re messing with, don’t you big guy?", gloated Lakshmana, the pride on his face evident.

"NO! Unfair! You had one eye open! I saw it, liar!", protested Bharata. He hated losing. Especially to the younger ones.

Shatrugna caught Rama’s eye. They knew where this was headed. Though born only days apart, the four brothers were as different from each other as it could get. Rama, either by virtue of being the first-born, or because people around him always seemed to hold him in certain high esteem, was way more mature for a twelve-year-old. His skills in archery were a notch higher than the others, making him the Guru’s favorite. He also donned the role of big brother with grace, gently admonishing his brothers whenever they crossed a line. Bharata, on the other hand, was a perfect mix of the naughty brat and the sweet mama’s boy who could do no wrong. His grades were perfect, his nature gentle and his ravishing looks had many a female fan already. One would have never guessed Lakshmana and Shatrugna were twins. Lakshmana was mischievous, short-tempered and always up for a challenge, while Shatrugna was calm, composed and spoke only when necessary. 

"Come on, be a sport, Bharata. You know I won fair and square. Now carry my quiver for the rest of the afternoon", commanded the younger but more ferocious one, thrusting his heavy quiver at the elder-born.

"No I won’t. Cheats are losers so you carry mine! Anna, tell him he can’t get away with this every time!”, Bharata turned to Rama for help.

Rama smiled. He was suddenly filled with affection for his brothers. Their afternoon hunting expeditions were his favourite pass-time. The quiet of the forest, the rush of hitting fast moving targets, the mirth-filled company of his brothers and their silly pranks - he couldn’t have enough of it. He loved watching them fight, a secret he shared only with Shatrugna, the quiet one. Lakshmana and Bharata were both free spirits, who were constantly at loggerheads with each other. The duo had earned quite a reputation for being the troublemakers of Ayodhya, one often trying to outdo the other. Rama loved them all equally, but Bharata always accused him of having a special corner for Lakshmana. “You always take his side!”, he would whine. Rama never admitted it. Not even to himself.

Rama now stepped forward and picked up both their quivers. Hoisting them on his back, he signalled to Shatrugna and walked away without a word. Shatrugna smiled a knowing smile and ran after him. This was going to be fun. Bharata and Lakshmana stood stunned, guilt written all over their faces. They hated disappointing their elder brother. Lakshmana was the first to run.

“Anna, we’re sorry.”

"Please stop, let me carry it"

"No wait, let me do it"

"Oh shut up, don’t act like the good boy now"

"Why? Do you always want to be the one that takes credit?"

"You stop talking to me! Anna, wait!”

"Oh boy, that’s a relief. Anna let me walk with you please. This boy is eating my brains…”

The duo bickered all the way back to the palace. Rama and Shatrugna quickened their pace, silently giggling to each other, making sure the distance between them was always just enough for them to hear the squabble, but never enough for the other two to catch up. Those quivers of arrows didn’t seem heavy at all, thanks to the comic relief.

***

Back in the palace, Dasharatha was taking equally hurried steps towards the entrance, for his guards had just announced a very special guest. He felt elated and slightly anxious, but most of all, couldn’t wait to show his boys off. At the entrance, he bowed in reverence.

"Welcome, Brahmarishi!", Dasharatha chose his words carefully. "Your arrival to my humble abode has come like rains to a parched earth. My kingdom is blessed by your presence. Please come in".

He knew this man was a difficult one to please. Born as Kaushika, the sage had once been a powerful king like himself, but had chosen to renounce his kingdom and tread the path of enlightenment. He had spent several gruelling years in penance and had meticulously learnt all the vedas and scriptures befitting a rishi. He had accumulated divine powers worthy of the highest sages and his knowledge of the vedas second to none. But he carried with him his infamous anger, owing to which Vasishta had refused to accept him as a Brahmarishi, the highest of them all. One who couldn’t control his emotions could not be a rishi, he had been told. It had taken him thousands of years of tireless meditation, surviving on nothing but air, for Brahma himself to descend down and pronounce him Brahmarishi. Vasishta had then relented too, embracing him and instantly ending their enmity. Though he was now called Vishwamitra - friend of the whole world, tales of his notorious short temper still followed him everywhere. Even the greatest of kings often trembled in front of him, for none wanted to earn his wrath. Once they were inside the durbar hall, Dasharatha washed the sage’s feet and gave him a drink of water, as per tradition. The Rajaguru Vasishta then greeted the sage. It was quite an awkward moment which both tried to hide by being extra courteous to the other, making the obviousness embarrassing for the rest in court. Once everyone was settled, Dasharatha summoned his princes.

Vishwamitra was visibly pleased as he watched the four of them enter, all looking almost similar - athletic, confident and exuding a boyish charm. There was no trace of the long hunting expedition or the tiring walk back on their faces. His instinct told him that the dark, calm one was Rama. He was proved right before he could finish that thought.

"I am Rama, son of the valiant Dasharatha and grandson of the kind-hearted Aja, a Kshatriya of the Ikshvaku race, descended from the sons of Manu. Please accept the salutations of this disciple of Vasishta, O great sage!", he said, bending down to touch his feet. It was customary to introduce oneself by lineage, while meeting a learned Rishi for the first time. The other brothers followed suit. Vishwamitra was impressed.

"What handsome sons you have, Dasharatha! They are smart, talented and polite too. I can tell that they are destined for greatness", the rishi pronounced.

Dasharatha swelled with pride. “We are honoured by your blessings, Brahmarishi. Now pray, tell us the purpose of your sudden visit. My heart is pleased by your presence in my court. Do tell me how I can help you. I’ll give you anything you ask, you have my word!”, he offered.

Vishwamitra smiled in safisfaction. He knew precisely what he wanted alright.

"Dasharatha, whose righteousness the whole world praises, whose devotion has pleased even the stern Rishyashringa, remember that you have made me a promise. Are you sure you can give me anything I ask?"

Vasishta shifted uneasily. He knew, but couldn’t warn his king.

"Of course, Maharishi. Everybody knows that Dasharatha’s word is always written in stone".

Vasishta fixed his eyes on the floor. It was becoming a habit for the king to always get emotional and make promises he struggled to keep. When was he going to learn?

Vishwamitra took a deep breath and put his arm around the eldest prince of Ayodhya. For a second, Dasharatha caught what he thought was devotion in his eyes, but quickly dismissed it as affection. There was a brief silence. Dasharatha waited eagerly. Vasishta frowned.

"Dearest King, I have come to ask for Rama."

The collective gasp could be heard even by the guards outside. They knew something had gone horribly wrong.

[theramayana]

The Yagnya.

The golden brown cashews seemed to glow like gems on the smooth surface of pearly white milk. The ghee formed tiny swirls around the raisins, as if it had a mind of its own. This was truly the most divine payasam in the whole world! Little Audarika licked off his last portion from the leaf, as waiters clad in silk stood patiently next to him, as if they knew this would definitey not be the last. He loved this festival! He wanted the King to conduct Yagynas every month. The streets were filled with song and dance all day, there were new clothes for anyone who asked, horses and people from strange lands that he loved to stare at, and best of all - free food that tasted out of the world! His nerd friends were even able to drag him to the scholarly debates and tharkas he usually avoided, tricking him into thinking the food would taste extra special there (It did taste special alright, but mostly because he was just glad to get away).

Thousands of children like our Audarika and his friends, their fathers, mothers and grandparents, were having the time of their lives at the Ashwamedha Yagnya, even as the ritwiks toiled all day long to perform the initial invocations to Indra and several other Gods. The King was asked to crush the medicinal soma creeper and its juice was offered to the Gods. Once that was done, it was time to bring out the wooden ritual posts - twenty-one in all. Each was 21 cubits in length (a cubit is roughly 1.5 feet), with eight smooth surfaces pleated with gold - on Guru Vasishta’s precise instructions. The ritual posts were erected in the hall, decorated and worshipped. Various sacrificial animals were then tied to the posts, the bejewelled horse that had conquered several kingdoms, taking pride of place. It was time for the sacrifice.

Kausalya stepped up. Her sweaty palms gripped the thin golden needles tight, as she went around the horse three times. And then, as custom demanded, the Chief Queen began the sacrifice by piercing the horse at three strategic points. The other queens followed suit. The ritwiks took over from there and the women were sent to their chambers. The horse’s fat was drawn out and added to the sacrificial fire. The pungent smell was unbearable, but Dasharatha readily moved closer to take a strong whiff. It smelt like magic to him. The agni gleefully swallowed everything that was sent its way and the sacrifice was soon complete. Dasharatha’s heart was so gladdened, that he offered his entire kingdom to Rishyashringa, as part of the thanking ritual. The wise sage, however, promptly returned it to the king, in exchange for cows and gold. He then proceeded to address his now beloved master.

"I am satisfied, Dasharatha! The world is yet to see a king as dutiful and rightful as you. Your devotion to this Yagnya has been monumental and rest assured, it will not be in vain. I will now perform the Putrakameshti Yagnya, by which you will have four majestic sons".

The king thought he was going to burst. He watched spellbound, as the sage began another series of ritual procedures, his mantras echoing louder and louder across the hall. He clanged bells, poured more ghee into the fire and almost commanded it to rise higher and higher. Gods lined up in the skies above. The crowd grew pregnant with anticipation. They knew they were about to witness a miracle. And BANG!

Right there, in the middle of the fire, stood a towering figure. His skin was red, eyes jet black and his whole body translucent. Flowing hair and a long beard framed his face, quite like a lion’s mane. He looked like fire itself had assumed a human form. He held in his hand what seemed to be a pot of molten gold, filled with a payasam that would put our Audarika’s favourite to shame. He spoke in a booming voice.

"Blessed be you, O King! Give your wives this divine dessert that I bring from the Gods. It will give you the progeny you so desire", he declared.

Overcome with emotion, Dasharatha prostrated before the Being, before accepting the offering. No sooner had Dasharatha’s hands touched the divine pot, that the Yagnya purusha vanished without a trace. After seeking the blessings of Rishyashringa and the other wise sages in the hall, the King half-ran to meet his queens. Excited and out-of-breath, he narrated the events of the hall, quite like a child that had won a special prize in school. He then proceeded to distribute the elixir among his queens, who were by now more exhilarated than he. Kausalya, being the Chief Queen, received half of the pot’s portion and consumed it immediately, should the others rise in protest. Sumitra, coming second, received half of the remaining half. Kaikeyi, being last, received one-eighth of the portion. And then after much thought, the king gave the little that remained to Sumitra again, drawing pangs of jealously from her sisters.

Now it was all done. They couldn’t believe it. The magnitude of what had just happened slowly began to sink in. The queens seem to emanate a divine glow, resplendent with joy. Their prayers had been answered. Finally, everything felt right. At a complete loss for words, all four merely hugged each other in silence. Tears streamed down Dasharatha’s cheeks, but he did not bother to wipe them away. He finally cried out all the years of pain and anguish. Now all he had to do was wait.

[theramayana]

Anjana.

He wielded his mace and practiced a few strokes in the air, showing off his strong shoulders and iron bisceps. He was quite aware of the loud sighs coming from the female part of the crowd behind him. He enjoyed the attention, but none of them interested him. Anyway, this wasn’t the time to get distracted. He looked up at the sky and tried to focus. From his position at the edge of the forest, he could see large pieces of blue stitched between canopies of green. The sun twinkled at him from a corner, a glorious ball of gold. He brought his arms together in prayer and directed his attention inwards. It was all a part of his battle preparation routine. Hardly had he finished muttering his mantras, when a piercing roar emanated from the trees. Screams erupted from the crowd. Without second thought, Kesari grabbed his mace and charged forward into battle.

Sambasadan was a terrifying rakshasa, who had been giving a lot of trouble lately. He had been terrorizing the people of his kingdom, particularly the rishis who lived in the forest to perform their austerities. As the King of the Monkeys, it was Kesari’s duty to protect his people. But for the first time, he was afraid he might fail. He wiped the sweat off his brow for what seemed like the millionth time, and ran forward again. This battle had raged for a long time, fought valiantly from both ends. While Kesari had definitely hurt the rakshasa, he was nowhere close to finishing him off. The demon seemed to feel no pain, despite wounds that bled profusely. On the other hand, Kesari’s energy was slowly wearing out. He felt sure he was missing something. He lunged forward to make another attempt at the demon’s chest, but stopped half way when he heard a wince of pain escape the demon’s lips. He was stunned and delighted at the same time. More winces followed. On closer look, he found thin silver arrows piercing the giant rakshasa at strategic points. And by God, did they make him angry. He demon pulled them out with cries of pain, each louder than the other. He was angry, frustrated and looked around for the source of the arrows like a madman. Kesari allowed himself a quiet chuckle and began to search for his saviour.

A slender form darted around the forest space, shooting arrows in quick silver flashes. He noticed that the arrows were dipped in the blood of the demon, that had now formed pools on the forest floor. So that was the trick he had been missing! He was sure his saviour belonged to his own vanara tribe, but walked closer to get a better look. Then he noticed. His jaw dropped. It was a girl. The most beautiful one he has ever seen. She continued to shoot arrows, face screwed up in concentration. She had the agility of a tigress, the skill of a warrior and the grace of a queen. She caught him watching and barked an insult.

"What are you doing just standing there? Finish him!"

Damn. Kesari had forgotten that he was in a battlefield. He cursed himself, red faced. He quickly bathed his entire mace in the blood of the demon and charged forward. With one huge blow to the chest, Sambasadan dropped dead. Kesari was satisfied.

"See? That’s how it’s done, girl. One blow and gone. What’s with those tiny arrows anyway?", he smirked.

"I’d like to have seen you do that before I arrived", she shot back and walked off, gathering her arrows as she went.

"Hey, wait! I was only kidding. You were brilliant. I’ve never seen a woman fight like that. You were…Hey, stop!"

And thus began a long and beautiful love story, which ended in years of happy marriage and a son who would change the course of history. Her name was Anjana.

[theramayana]

Preparations.

"Release the horse!", he ordered. "Send our most valiant soldiers along for its protection. Clear the northern banks of Sarayu for the Yagnyashaala. Let the requisite prayers be offered every day as per scriptures. Make sure to take the advice of Guru Vasishta every step of the way. Let no stone be left unturned. I want this to be flawless. Sumantra, can you take care of the invitations? You know my priorities, but consult our Guru before you do anything..."

Dasharatha was giving out instructions left, right and centre. Preparations for the Ashwamedha Yagnya had just begun. There was so much to be taken care of, and Dasharatha the perfectionist was at the top of his game. He had brought in the best of the best to conduct this great sacrifice, and he had better live up to their expecations. Convincing Rishyashringa to make the journey had been far easier than he had assumed. All it took was a humble request from Dasharatha and some cajoling by Romapada to get him to agree. Little did both men know that Rishyashringa had been waiting for this - and considered it the prime purpose of his life.

The day Rishyashringa arrived in Ayodhya was one of great joy and an unexplainable nervousness for the people of Koshala. The king had sent word that he would be arriving with Rishyashringa and Shanta, and that the city be readied for a grand welcome. The streets were cleaned and lined with flowers, the most learned scholars appointed at prominent locations to recite the vedas as a mark of welcome, the royal army was stationed at the entrance to the city, with the three queens and all of the king's ministers. Everyone wanted to see the man who was rumoured to be a magician, a strange soul who could transform their king's fortunes. But Kausalya alone, was filled with anticipation of a different kind. All she could think of was her first-born, whom she willingly gave up years ago. A mother who had disowned her baby instead of finding a cure for its illness. The act tormented her to this day and sometimes, she even attributed her subsequent childlessness as a punishment for the sin. But today was going to be her day of redemption. Her little girl had now grown up and was coming back to change their lives forever. She weeped when she set eyes on Shanta, seated majestically next to her husband on a royal elephant. The moment she entered the palace, the three mothers took her in, showering her with the love they had been denied all these years. It was time for them to be mothers again.

Several months passed, in which Rishyashringa and his wife settled into the palace - the former enjoying the company of the intellectuals of Ayodhya and the latter finally finding peace in her home. Winter passed and spring arrived, the time for auspicious beginnings. It was then that the King convened a meeting with Rishyashringa, Vasishta and all his ministers to start the pre-yagnya rituals. A sacrifice of this scale required preparations to be started a year before the actual yagnya could be performed. The royal horse had to be decorated and released, which would travel around to various territories and establish the king's invincibility. Any king that dared stop the horse would have invited the mighty Dasharatha to war. The vedic ritual hall had to be built at an appropriate place, with precise measurements as given in the ancient architectural texts. Kings from across the world had to be invited and due prepartions made for their stay. These kings usually brought with them small armies, horses and elephants, which had to be tended too. Huge sheds had to be erected for onlookers, mammoth kitches that would supply food and drink at all hours of the day, and large stages at different locations where song, dance and entertainment would take place in the evenings. Large quantities of clothes, gold, silver, cows and other gifts had to be kept at the ready. Certain hymns needed to be chanted at certain times of day, and all the Gods worshipped to ensure their support for a trouble-free event. Dietary restrictions were imposed on the King and his queens, and they were also to perform certain rites at requisite times. All of these needed to follow exact vedic prescriptions.

On instructions of the King, Vaishta summoned scores of brick makers, builders, supervisors, carpenters, sculptors, accountants, musicians, dancers, scholars, preists, foot soldiers, animal caretakers and the many others who needed to work together for the grand event and informed them of their duties. They were to follow his instructions to the last grain of salt and could not afford to err on any account. More importantly, they had to do it all with utmost devotion and respect, without a sign of negligience. Even a small mistake could prove costly, as the tiniest of errors could bring disaster to the entire kingdom, if the Gods were displeased.

Once all departments had been sent off to carry out the tasks cut out to them, Vasishta and Sumantra sat down to draw the guest list.

"We must invite all the rulers of the earth, Sumantra, who are righteous and perform their duties without flaw. All the people of their kingdoms shall be invited too - the Brahmanas, Kshyatrias, Vaishyas and Shudras, without any discrimination", said Vasishta. "And then of course, there are some kings I want you to invite personally".

"It shall be my honour, Gurudeva. Where would you like me to travel?", asked Sumantra.

"Firstly, invite the valiant Janaka, king of Mithila, for he never falters from the truth. The King of Kashi has always been friendly with us, so be sure to visit him too. And then of course there are Kaikeyi's father Kekaya, Kausalya's father Bhanumanta and King Romapada, without whom this Yagyna wouldn't have happened."

"And the southern kingdoms?"

"Ah yes, please invite all the kings of the south. And don't miss the mighty Magadha, Sindhu and Sauraashtra kingdoms either".

"I can do that. Are you sure we haven't left anyone out?"

Lists got longer, hours flew faster and the men toiled harder than ever. Four seasons came and went, all witnessing the earnest labour of the King and his people. Soon it was spring again. Sumantra was back from his long and ardrous journey. Slowly the visitors trickled in, surrouded by mighty armies and laden with generous gifts. The ritual hall was completed, the kitchen was doling out delicacies for all the guests, the entire city wore a festive look and the ritual steed flew back into Ayodhya, untouched and unbowed. The King and his queens, having completed a year of prayers and rites, bathed in the Sarayu and entered the packed Yagnyashaala. The servants kept double checking their lists and moving around tensely. The preists took their positions. The visitors fidgeted in anticipation. All the devas lined up on the skies to watch the spectacle unfold.

Rishyashringa made one final survey of the ritual hall and signalled to the King.

"The Ashwamedha Yagnya shall begin".

[theramayana]

Rishyashringa.

Recap: Dasharatha learns that his estranged daughter is now married to the man who holds the magical solution to his troubles. Previous post here.

~~~

Deep within a dark jungle, somewhere in the middle of modern day Nepal, sat a scantily clad man, eyes closed in deep meditation, oblivious to the singing birds and slithering snakes around him. 'Weird' is the word that would best describe him. His skin was flawless, almost translucent and seemed to glow from within. His hair was matted, gathered into a long bun at the top of his head, making him look like a human unicorn. He spent all his time praying, meditating, cleaning his place of worship, or just simply staring into space. Quite unusual for a young man hardly into his twenties. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper, yet his voice rang with the clarity of a bronze temple bell rung with fervent devotion. His life revolved around only two things - his father, and God. He did not know of anything beyond them and did not wish to. One could have said he was happy, if only he knew what it was to be happy. The only emotions he knew were the peace of his forest, the anger of his father and the devotion to God. He had never been sad to know what happiness meant. It never occurred to him that there might be other inhabitants on the planet, or that there might be a bustling royal city full of pleasures, just a few miles away from where he sat meditating everyday. And that was probably why, on this given day, he felt something new for the first time in his life.

While roaming about the forest aimlessly as he did on some afternoons, Rishyashringa, son of the great sage Vibhandaka and the lovely divine damsel Urvashi, chanced upon a curious creature. It looked similar to him in height and structure, but was somehow different. It had slender hips, long, lustrous hair that flowed down like a black waterfall, and a voluminous chest which was covered by a rich cloth and shining jewels. He felt himself feeling fear, confusion, excitement, and some strange feeling at the pit of his stomach, all at once. He couldn't take his eyes off the thing. And before he could get a grip on himself, the thing spoke.

"Greetings, O great tapasvin! I am honoured to have finally met you. I wander these forests in search of enlightenment and was hoping you could help me". Rishyashringa heard music for the first time in his life. He wanted to keep hearing it all day.

"I..um..What are you?", he managed to blurt out.

"I seek englightenment and liberation, O great soul. Please allow me to pay obeisance to you".

And Rishyashringa was half forcibly and half delightedly, taken to the thing's dwelling place. It made him an offering of flowers, the most delicious sweets and a soothing drink that calmed his nerves. In their clan, prostration was not the supreme mark of respect, he was told. The thing, instead, clasped Rishyashringa with its hands and held him close. He wondered if what he heard was his heartbeat or the thing's. When he finally broke away and rushed back to his hut, he was in a dizzy. He had never felt this way before. He just sat and stared and stared and stared into space, till he heard his father yelling at him.

"Shringa! Why haven't you offered the evening prayers? Why is the hut so dirty? Dare you ignore my questions? LOOK AT ME!", Vibhandaka shook his son out of his reverie.

"I am sorry, father. Something strange happened today. I chanced upon a student of spirituality, who looked so...different. It was fair, had long hair and two ball-like things on its chest. It was covered in shiny things and made a sound that was sweeter than the song of the koel. It showed me a new method of worship, which made me feel real spiritual bliss..", said the dutiful son and attempted to hug his father, to show how it was done. Vibhandaka, who hated women and had so carefully kept his son away from them since his birth, was furious. His son had been a mistake. He was the result of Indra's treacherous scheme to spoil Vibhandaka's penance and stop him from becoming more powerful than the King of Gods. Indra had sent his most beautiful apasara Urvashi, to seduce the sage and disturb his tapasya. In a moment of lust, Vibhandaka had given her a son. Mission accomplished, she had flown back to the heavens, with not an iota of guilt, leaving the baby's care completely to the rishi. Rishyashringa was a constant living reminder of his one moment of weakness that had stopped him from achieving the greatness he deserved. And now there he was, telling him how irresistible womenfolk were!

Shringa had never seen his father get so out of control before. He was admonished severely and told that the thing he saw was a rakshasa in disguise, who wanted to stop their continuous penance. He was warned never to get close to such a thing again. But try as he might, the new creature was all that Rishyashringa could think of day and night. He refused food and slept scarcely. He could not concentrate on his prayers. He longed to set his eyes on the creature again. He wandered the forests when his father was away, trying to spot a glimmer of shiny garment, or hear a whisper of its musical sound. Finally one day, he struck gold. And what a treasure it was, when he found not just one creature, but a whole flock of them! They welcomed him with glee and pampered him like he had never been. They sang and danced around him and fed him with foods that tantalized his senses. He realized what it was to feel happy. He was taught how to laugh. He learnt the magic of touch. He became aware of lust. And so, when those beautiful creatures invited him to visit their capital city, how could he refuse?

The entire population of Champapuri gathered on both sides of the road to watch this strange man who was supposed to be their bringer of good fortune. Romapada awaited at the entrance to the city, with his wife Varshini, daughter Shanta and a whole royal entourage. And the moment Rishyashringa set foot at the gateway, they say, the clouds darkened. When the king offered him the traditional royal welcome, they say, one could hear the thunder above the drums and dholaks. And as Rishyashringa walked the royal path towards the King's palace, the crowds gathered on either side had to run for cover. The parched earth of the kingdom of Anga finally saw rains, after years of drought. The king bowed in reverence, the people danced in joy and Rishyashringa just stood there, bewildered.

~~~

"Incredible!", exclaimed Dasharatha, as the father of his daughter finished recounting the tale of Rishyashringa. "It was quite a risk you took there, sending your courtesans to woo him. But it seems to have worked well". There was a hint of mischief in his voice. Romapada didn't miss it.

"Haha! You should have seen Vibhandaka when he arrived in my court a few days later. I almost thought my kingdom was going to be destroyed forever. He calmed down only when he heard of his marriage to Shantha. I still think he secretly hates me, though", Romapada chuckled as he took another sip of madhubaanam. He was glad to have finally found a chance to discuss these matters with an old friend. Someone who wouldn't judge him for what he did. Someone who would understand that a rightful king would do anything to end the misery of his citizens, even if that meant seducing holy men to visit his land.

"Do you really think this is the man that I ought to trust with my Ashwamedha Yagya? All the magic apart, he seems like some who is not quite himself", Dasharatha finally got down to business.

"Don't be so critical, my friend. Would you have been any less awkward if you hadn't seen a woman for twenty years? Several years have passed since he first set foot on my soil and I can assure you today that I haven't seen a wiser man walk this earth. And when it comes to rituals and vedic adherences, he is the go-to man. All that aside, there is something divine about him that I can't quite put my finger on, Dasharatha. If his mere arrival could bring rains to my scorched country, imagine what he can do for you if he performs the Yagya", answered Romapada.

"I trust you, my friend. I know I can take your word on this", said Dasharatha. "After all, if a father-in-law has this to say about a man, I'm sure there must be something divine about him!", he added as an after thought, triggering another round of guffaws.

Dasharatha felt light and joked freely that night. The long journey to Anga had been worth it. If meeting his daughter after several years had lifted a huge weight off his chest, a grand feast and a long conversation with his old friend had raised his spirits further. There was something therapeutic about nostalgia. Above all, he now knew the medicine to cure his heartache. Whether the medicine would agree to travel with him, could be pondered over in the morning.

[theramayana]

The Birth.

Dasharatha pranced around his room like a hungry cat. He was nervous, far beyond anyone could imagine. Dasharatha hated being helpless. Hated it when things were not in his control. Kausalya had gone into labour and he had been hushed away by the palace doctors, asked to wait in his chambers till they brought him news of the birth. At first he had protested, then fumed and then stormed to his chambers and summoned Sumantra for moral support. And that's where they sat for the next few hours. All the two men did was look at each other every few mins and exchange a curt nod or reassuring smile. Neither had much to say, because they both knew it was just a waiting game from here.

"Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!", a toddler's voice broke the silence between them. Both men rushed to the window, and spotted a little boy in the front lawns, tugging impatiently at his mother's saree, even as she tried her best to silence him.

Smiling to himself, Dasharatha surveyed his grounds. A small crowd had already gathered before the palace. Gosh, news travels fast in this city, he thought. They knew they could never see the little one before the eleventh day, but they still came. In dozens at first, and then in hundreds. Crowds flooded the streets around the palace. They just wanted to be the first to know. To rejoice and celebrate with their beloved king. 

It was a scorching hot April morning, exactly a year after the Ashwamedha Yagna had been completed. The infamous Indian summer had just begun. The sun was already up in the sky in all his glory, draining energy from anyone who dare stand in his way. But the people of Ayodhya did not care. This was the moment they had been waiting for, and they wouldn't let the heat get the better of them. They wiped sweat off their brows, fanned themselves with their uttariyas and huddled around under shady trees, but no, they wouldn't leave till they had heard about their prince. Dasharatha was suddenly overwhelmed by the love of his subjects. For a minute, the king forgot all about Kausalya and labour rooms and wailing babies. He immediately ordered pandals to be put up wherever possible, to serve sweetened water and cold buttermilk to the soothe the parched throats of his thronging citizens. A practice that is followed even today to celebrate the birth of the Prince of Ayodhya. On his birthday every year, people across India would forget the startling array of sweets their land is known for and instead serve the only drink that would take them back to that scorching day in Ayodhya when they waited for his arrival - cold buttermilk. What better way to celebrate his birth?

"It's a boy, your Majesty!", the words hit him when he was least expecting them. It took him a moment to realize what he was hearing. It was a son. His son. The son he had been waiting for all these years. On the ninth day of the Chaitra month, with the ruling star being Punarvasu and with five of the nine planets - Sun, Jupiter, Mars, Venus and Saturn in exhalted positions, the heir to the Ikshvaaku throne had arrived. He wanted to dance. He wanted to jump and skip and run. He looked at Sumantra and smiled the widest smile he had in ages. In an instant, both men were hugging each other and the next, running like little boys towards the queen's chambers. Celestial singers and dancers descended in Ayodhya. The heavens rained flowers on the blessed kingdom. People sang and danced in the streets all day, while veenas and dholaks played non-stop. All the young men got a little tipsy and hilarity filled the streets. Today, even the guards didn't mind. It was, quite frankly, the happiest day in Ayodhya's history.

Eleven days after his birth, an even larger crowd, if that were possible, gathered for the prince's naming ceremony. Big eyes darting around like bees, fists bundled together like little lotuses, and feet adorned with golden anklets, the prince lay in a grand crib, decked up in royal finery. Next to him, Kausalya looked resplendent and seemed to glow from within. Dasharatha beamed with pride, as Vasishta picked up the little one in his arms. A sudden silence descended over the court. No one dared to even breathe. One could almost smell the anticipation. It was one of those rare moments when the usually composed Vasishta felt emotional. He knew this was no ordinary child. He closed his eyes for a moment, and gently whispered into the baby's ears, "Rama!"

"Rama", echoed Kausalya, unable to find another word to channel the love that brimmed within her.

"Rama!", exclaimed Dasharatha for the first time, a word that would stay on his lips till his very end.

"Rama! Rama! Rama!", chanted the jubilant crowd.

And so would crores of others who came several millennia after them. Because such was the power those two syllables held. A word that would come to symbolize love, devotion and gratitude. A word that would become an exclamation, a greeting and a prayer. A word that was once just a name. Rama.

P.S: This is a special post for Ram Navami and is not a continuation of the previous post. I promise to bring you Rishyashringa soon, very soon. Also, Happy Ram Navami!

[theramayana]

Shantha.

Recap: King Dasharatha proposes an Ashwamedha Yagna in order to beget sons. His minister Sumantra suggests that the best man for the job would be the Majesty's own son-in-law. The stunned Dasharatha's mind wanders back a few years.

He still remembered how he felt when he first met her. He was usually a confident person who walked with his head held high. Nothing ever made the mighty Dasharatha nervous. However, the sight of this woman's face peeking out from behind the curtains had changed him. He longed to take one more look at her. He kept glancing towards the curtains, completely unaware of what King Bhanumanta was saying. He had never felt this way before.

A silent smile played on his's lips all the way back to Ayodhya. The kingdoms of Uttara and Dakshina Koshala (Northern and Southern Koshala) had finally become one under his reign. Bhanumanta, though much older in age, had reverently accepted to rule under his supremacy. The kingdom which had split into two several generations ago had finally been brought together with his tactful approach. But Dasharatha wasn't thinking about that. He was thinking about Kausalya, the most beautiful woman in all of Koshala. A woman definitely worthy of being his majestic queen. As his horse rode into the sunset, Dasharatha found himself blushing like a little boy. He surprised himself.

On getting back to his capital, he sent messengers to Dakshina Koshala, asking for the princess' hand in marriage. But it proved more difficult than he thought. He was refused, for possibly the first time in his life. As a daughter of the Koshala dynasty herself, Kausalya shared his gotra (lineage). And marriage in the same gotra was forbidden. The pain was too much. Dasharatha was angry. Nobody dare stand in front of what the greatest king in Bharata Varsha wanted. Not even his own ancestors. He wanted to shoot the messenger who brought the reply. He wanted to call for war. He wanted to destroy anyone who mentioned his gotra. Damn, he wanted her. And get her he did.

They married secretly on the banks of River Ganga, with the rituals conducted by Sage Narada and witnessed by the groom's close friend - Jatayu. The king of eagles had been Dasharatha's only support through this ordeal. He watched them with pride as they waved to the people of Ayodhya, several days later. They looked so happy together. He had done the right thing.

                                                     ***

If he thought his first sight of Kausalya was his most magical moment so far, Dasharatha was definitely not prepared for this. She was an angel. He felt himself go slightly dizzy just watching her sleep. A sudden sense of peace spread all over him. He named her Shantha. His lovely little girl. Ayodhya's first child. He looked up and found his wife watching him with amusement. He must've looked like an idiot with that grin on his face. Their eyes met and said a thousand things to each other. This is just too good to be true, he thought. And he was right.

In a few days, the palace doctors diagnosed a disability on one of Shantha's legs. Try as they might, they couldn't cure her. Her parents were heart broken. The mighty Dasharatha who could move in ten directions, had a daughter who couldn't walk? It shattered him. He turned to Vasishta for advice.

"You were warned not to marry in the same lineage, son. Shouldn't you have listened?", admonished the old Rishi.

"Please don't hurt me more than I already am, Guru. Show me the way to help my little one. I'll do anything to make her alright. Anything", pleaded the man who ruled the world.

"Anything, you say? Well then, you could give her in adoption to another royal couple and let them treat her. It might help remove the sins of marrying within the gotra. And I have heard the Anga kingdom has some of the best doctors", suggested Vasishta.

It was the most difficult decision of Dasharatha's life. Somehow, Kausalya seemed much stronger than he was.

In a silent ceremony where guilt hung around like a cloud, Dasharatha gave her away to Romapada and Varshini, the royal couple of Anga. Miraculously, their treatments worked and Shanta grew up to be a gorgeous young lady. Dasharatha had not seen her since that ceremony. He remembered how she had clung to her mother and refused to let go, as if she understood what was happening. How time had flown. He had almost forgotten his daughter. The first light of his life. She had now come back to save their clan. How appropriate that Sumantra should suggest her husband as the right man to perform the Ashwamedha ritual. Of course he was! Tears welled up in Dasharatha's eyes. A mixture of nostalgia and self-reproach took over him.

"Make arrangements for my travel to Anga", he managed to blurt out before he collapsed into a recliner. Sumantra decided to give him some solitude.

[theramayana]

Ayodhya.

Ayodhyaa Mathuraa Maayaa Kaashii Kaanchii Avantikaa | Purii Dvaaravatii chaiva saptaite mokShadaayikaaH ||

The Garuda Purana lists 7 cities as the holiest of holy, the sacred lands where one can obtain moksha (liberation) - Ayodhya, Mathura, Haridwar (Maaya), Varnasi (Kasi), Kanchipuram, Ujjain (Avantika), and Dwarka (Dvaaravati).

                                                     ~~

Spread over an area of roughly 10 square kilometres, present day Ayodhya has a population of around 50,000 people with an average literacy of 65%, according to the 2001 census. Every nook and cranny of this city, carries with it a legacy, sometimes with proudly and sometimes grudgingly. Everything in Ayodhya has a connection to the Ramayana. This is where Hanuman lived, this is where Luv and Kush took bath, this is where the horses were kept for the Ashwamedha Yagnya, this is where the karsevaks gathered on the fateful 6th of December...after a while, you never know where history ends and myth begins. But all of these spots are marked, photographed and even prayed to, with equal fervour and enthusiasm. Who cares really?

One of such landmarks is a lovely old building known by the locals as Badi Jagah - The Big Place. In its better days, it would have been a magnificient palace worthy of a king, where Dasharatha would have lived with his kith and kin. Little would he have imagined how his city would turn out several millenia later. His Ayodhya was a city that was true to its name. A-yudhya (yudh = war). The city that could not be fought. The inconquerable. It was a rectangular city, laid out like the ancient board game of Ashtapada (a precursor to chess), 180 kms in length and 36kms in width. Full of trees, gardens and happy people, Ayodhya was also impenetrable, with huge walls and deep moats guarding it on all sides. There were no liars, thieves and misers in Ayodhya. Neither were there any illiterates or starved ones. The city had the best horses, which were bred in countries far away. It also had the most skillful archers, who strictly followed the rules of archery. They would not kill someone who was alone, someone who did not have a successor or predecessor, or someone who was running away from them. Sonic archery - shooting a target by listening to its sound, was also banned in Ayodhya (Can you guess why?). As a patron of the performing arts, Dasharatha ensured that musical instruments like veena, mridangam and dundubhi were always played at central places in the city, for the enjoyment of his subjects. He lived a good life, our man Dasharatha. He ruled justly, conquered several colonies and had taken not one but three wives.

As he stood atop the terrace of his palace and watched the sun rise on his kingdom, he felt proud. This was a kingdom that would be spoken about for several thousand years to come. But something constantly bothered him. He needed answers. As he gazed at the rising sun, a dying Shravan's face suddenly flashed in front of his eyes. He shuddered and looked down. What he saw gave him some solace. Making their way towards him across the lawn were his eight ministers, the eight most intelligent men of Ayodhya. Dhristi, Jayantha, Vijaya, Suraashtra, Raashtravardhana, Akopa, Dharmapaala and Sumantra. Sharp, skillful and strategic, these men were brains behind all that Dasharatha took credit for. They spoke to each other in hushed voices, wondering what an emergency meeting this early in the morning could be about. Sumantra alone was quiet and walked by himself. Once they had reached the terrace and bowed to the King, they enquired what it was that was troubling a man so wise.

"Why don't I have any sons? Who will rule this kingdom after me? I didn't build all that to give it away for free or have it conquered by someone else!". Dasharatha was someone who couldn't stand being helpless.The ministers were silent, knowing fully well that he already had something in mind.

"Do you think performing an Ashwamedha Yagnya will help me beget sons?", he finished.

The discussion continued almost until lunchtime, as they discussed the feasibility, logistics and requirements for such a large exercise. The horse sacrifice was a long and arduous ritual to please the Gods, described in detail in the Yajur Veda. It was to be done by kings only, for power, glory and prosperity of his kingdom. It is also one of the five vedic rites banned in the Kali Yuga. The daunty Sumantra quickly fetched Suyajna, Vaama Deva, Jaabala and Vasishta to join the discussion, so that the exact vedic procedures could be discussed. At the end of it, everyone went back resolved to get started on the Yagnya as soon as possible. Sumantra alone stayed behind.

"Yes, my friend?" inquired the king.

"O Conqueror of the Universe, I'm sure you know fully well that in an exercise like this, we cannot leave anything to chance. The ritual must be performed without a single fault, in keeping with the exact rules laid down in the Vedas. Even the slightest mistake might anger the Gods and prove damaging for not just you, but our entire Kingdom.."

"Of course, Sumantra! We have the best vedic Brahmans right here in our kingdom. We will ensure that all their needs are met. No stone shall be unturned to make this the best sacrifice the Gods have ever seen. Are you not sure of our abilities?"

"I know of your quest for perfection more than any other man, my Lord. Which is exactly why I wanted to bring this up now. There is someone who has a track record in carrying out such large sacrifices with utmost precision and devotion. The Anga kingdom begot rains only after his interference, when a famine almost threatened to wipe out their populace. He is right person to lead this noble ritual and ensure progeny for your great race. But it is a mammoth task to convince him to come to our land. He lives in the forests and prefers not to mix with humans. If you consent, then I-"

"Who is he?", interrupted the impatient king.

"Your son-in-law", Sumantra snapped back.

Dasharatha stood stunned, as realization slowly dawned upon him.

[theramayana]

Unquenched Thirst.

The roots of the tree they were reclining on were starting to become uncomfortable. Her throat was drying up more by the second. She wiped the sweat from her brow, fumbled for a while and then found her husband's shoulders. She and her husband were both old, blind and didn't even know where they were. But her only worry at the moment, was about her son. He had been gone for a long time now. If the journey had been hard on them, she couldn't imagine the strain he was going through. She suddenly felt very guilty.

"He has never been gone this long before. What if..", she began.

"Hush! Stop worrying,", her husband cut in. "He must have gone a long way looking for water and would have lost his way. He'll be back soon. There's nothing in this forest that would harm a pure soul like our son". His confidence reassured her.

And even before he could complete his sentence, they heard footsteps..

***

Dasaratha, now crowned the King of Koshala, was an able and talented young man. Though he was only in his twenties, there was nothing about his reign that suggested inexperience, or an inability to handle political affairs. He devoted all his time to his people and to his land. The only occasional luxury he gave himself, were those long solitary journeys into the jungles, where he felt close to nature. Being an expert archer, hunting was his favourite hobby. Fighting a full fledged army on a chariot was one thing, but moving around stealthily trying to hunt down an animal in its own territory was something else. In a battlefield, he knew exactly what moves to make. In a jungle, you never know what you are up against. The thrill of facing the unknown excited him. And his skills in archery made him a natural hunter. He could hit moving targets with precision, even if it were several miles away. He was always alert and had a sharp ear. He could make the perfect judgement to send a perfectly timed arrow zooming through the woods to hit his target, just by listening to its sound.

Shhh! He's just heard something.

***

Yess! Finally! Shravan did a little dance by himself in spite of feeling like the most tired man on the planet. The sight of water after several kilometers of trees, thorns and thirst gave him unimaginable joy. He half-ran to the lake and dipped his hands and feet. The cool water soothed his tired muscles. He had been carrying his parents around for several days now. Like every elderly person, their hearts had longed for oneness with the divine. They had wanted to travel to the holiest shrines and give their offerings to the Lord. Why should being old and blind stop them? And so he had made two huge baskets, tied them to a large pole, seated his parents in them and carried them on his shoulders. It was the least he could do for them. If the journey had been hard on him, he couldn't imagine what they must be going through.

Damn, he was late. He hurriedly proceeded to fill up the jug for his parents, even before he could wet his own parched throat. Just as filled up the jug and bent down to have a drink for himself, the unimaginable happened.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHH!

His voice pierced the stillness of the jungle. It seemed to shake the very earth.

***

Dasharatha shuddered. He looked at this shaking hands and found his bow fallen on the forest floor. Something had gone terribly wrong. He rushed to where the voice came from. He found a young man lying in a pool of blood, where he had supposed to find an injured elephant. His eyes turned to the water jug near him. He had mistaken the sound for an elephant's drinking. He cursed his own accuracy. The arrow had hit the boy's back and passed right through. Why hadn't he missed this time?

"I'm sorry..I didn't know..I..I'll help you..are you okay?", Dasaratha fumbled as he tried to prop up his victim. He couldn't find the right words to say. But the boy seemed calm. He knew he didn't have much time left.

"Listen. I don't know who you are", he said. "I'm dying and you cannot save me. But if you wish to help, please do this. Keep walking North-West of here and you will find my blind parents awaiting my return. Give them the water they asked for. They would be dying of thirst. And tell them Shravan is dead. Please, please, do this for me. This is my last wish". Before Dasharatha could muster up a response, he faded away to unconsciousness.

Even today, in a small village named after Shravan in the Unnao District of Uttar Pradesh, there lies a stone statue of a young man on the banks of an almost dry lake. Villagers believe it to be the place where Shravan breathed his last, and gather there every Monday to offer their prayers. They tell us that no matter how much water is poured into the navel of the statue, it never gets filled up. Shravan's thirst remains unquenched, to this day.

***

"You are not our son!", exclaimed the old man. "Where is he? What have you done to him?!". Fear, anger, worry, there was everything in that voice.

Just moments ago, he had seen the glee on the blind couple's faces, when he had handed them their jug of water. They had assumed him to be Shravan. As the father leaned in to give his son a welcome hug, he had sensed something was wrong. Dasharatha explained, his voice choking in many places. He had never felt this ashamed of himself before. Seeing the state of the old couple further weakened him. He promised to take them back to his kingdom and give them all the comforts they deserved.

"Can your riches bring our son back, O King? How dare you utter such a word to me?!", shouted the furious old man. "We would rather die here than enjoy your blood stained money. Go away, now. Don't dare stand before us, you arrogant creature. There will come a day when you will lose your son just as we have. And you will die of loneliness, just like we will. Only then will you pay for your grave sin", he cursed.

Forlorn Dasharatha rode back to Ayodhya, with a curse he would carry in his heart forever.

P.S.: You can find here a map showing the relative positions of the people in this story. This is loosely based on local myths and could be completely wrong, but does offer some perspective. For example, we find that Dasharatha's arrow had to travel roughly 2 kms to reach Shravan. Quite a feat, considering today's modern snipers can only fire to a maximum range of 2.5 kms. And remember, Dasharatha relied only on sound.

[theramayana]

Ikshvaaku Kula Tilaka

Sage Vasishta's mind was unusually troubled. He looked down at the infant on his lap. Little Nemi smiled up at the Rajaguru, quite unaware of the tragedy that had befallen him. Both his parents had left this world a few days ago. The only remaining son of the Ikshvaaku dynasty, the Ikshvaaku Kula Tilaka, had been orphaned when he was just 18 months old. The child was the 39th descendant of a race, whose lineage was said to begin with Lord Brahma himself. Great kings like Manu, the father of humanity, Trisanku, who created a new heaven for himself with the help of Vishwamitra, Bhageeratha, who brought the Ganges to earth, and Raghu, the great warrior after whom the clan was nicknamed 'Raghuvamsa', were his forefathers. The heir to this legacy, was now smiling up at Vasishta. The sage now had the responsibility of bringing him up to be righteous king. He looked up at Sumantra, the wisest minister in all of Koshala, who was equally lost in his thoughts. Vasishta decided to break the silence.

"Sumantra, look at me. There is no use brooding over the loss of the King anymore. Enough time has been wasted already. We have work to do."

"I agree with you, O great Sage! But quite honestly, I have still not come to terms with the events of the last few days. The mere thought that the entire future of the Ikshvaaku clan now rests in our hands is quite unsettling. Who will care for Prince Nemi? What if something happens to him? Who will tutor him in warfare, politics and administration? What if he yearns for his mother's love? Who will rule the kingdom till he comes of age? There are just too many things on my mind right now", said Sumantra.

All had been normal in the great Kingdom of Koshala until a fortnight ago. King Aja had ruled the vast expanse of land on the southern banks of River Sarayu, with the great city of Ayodhya as his capital. Aja was a good ruler and ensured that all the needs of his citizens were met. But he was not without his faults. Aja was known to spend most of his time seeking worldly pleasures. He loved to drink, dance and frolic with womenfolk. He was quite a romantic and loved surprising his wife with the most heavenly gifts. Ah, Indumathi. Man had yet to invent words that could describe her beauty. He had fallen in love with her at first sight. They spent many an evening together in their private garden, both unable to get enough of the other. It was on one of those evenings that the divine Sage Narada had happened to pass by in the skies. As he crossed the king's gardens, one of his garlands slipped and fell on the couple, who were until then, lost in a world of their own. As soon as the garland touched the queen, she transformed into an Apasara, her beauty increasing manifold. But from that moment on, she also lost her earthly body. The shocked king watched her glow with a divine light, as she stood up, bowed and murmured a prayer of thanks to Narada. She then turned to her erstwhile husband and told him her story.

"It is time for me to take leave of you, O King!", said she. "I am an apsaras from the heavens, a free spirit who was cursed to be born as a human. Narada's garland has relieved me of the curse and it is now time for me to return to my abode. I wish you well in all that you do." And in the blink of an eye, she vanished from sight. Aja was unable to take it. He searched the entire garden like a madman, for the woman who had made love to him just minutes before. He wore the garland she left behind, hoping it would take him where she went. It did not. He screamed for help, he called to the Gods, he even looked behind the bushes to see if she was just pulling a trick on him. Nothing worked. She had indeed gone. Forever. Heart broken, the King had run into his palace and killed himself.

"Sumantra! Are you listening?" The minister was jolted back into reality. "Whether you like it or not, we are duty-bound to bring up our Prince. And we will achieve nothing by just staring into space and cursing our luck. Now if you will listen to me, I have a plan. If you won't, I'll just leave". Vasishta was livid.

"Please accept my apologies, RajaGuru. I have not behaved like a responsible minister. Please tell me what I should do. I will do anything to ensure the well-being of our Prince and our kingdom". Sumantra realized that he had to get his act together. Decisions had to be made. People had to be taken care of. The show had to go on.

Vasishta smiled, for the first time in several days. Sumantra the Minister was back.

After long discussions, Sumantra agreed to take care of the state administration till the prince turned 18. Vasishta left the prince in the care of Rishi Marudanva, who was learned in all the sastras, vedas and puranas. He grew up drinking the milk of Nandini, the divine cow. He excelled in every subject he learnt. He became a most skilled warrior, displaying a special talent for archery. At 18, he was crowned the King of Koshala. The people loved him. Enemies feared at the mention of his name. Even the Gods sometimes seeked his help to win battles against the demons. Never had the world seen such a wise and brave man, they said. He was so skilled that it was like fighting ten warriors at once, they said. His chariot could move in ten directions, they said. The usual eight, upwards and downwards. And so, they called him Dasharatha. The man of ten chariots.

[theramayana]

The Beginning.

The Demoiselle Crane is a light-weight, elegant species of Cranes found in Central Eurasia and China, which takes one of the toughest migratory routes in the world. Every August, the birds in China begin their winter migration and take an arduous route, flying across the Himalayan terrain to reach India by November.

And it was a couple of these, that our great Sage Valmiki happened to chance upon, on a bright winter day, several hundred years before the birth of Christ. Thin, graceful and full of love, the kraunchas (as they were called back then), began their now famous mating dance on the banks of River Tamasa. Bending, jumping and calling out to each other, the red-eyed creatures were engrossed in a world of their own. Evidently, they were soul mates. The backdrop of the thick green trees somehow brought out the majesty in the slender grey birds. The cool breeze soothed Valmiki's heart, as he watched the birds reinforce their conjugal bond. He stood mesmerized, relishing the moment and becoming a silent part of their passionate ritual. And then, out of nowhere, tragedy struck.

The male krauncha suddenly fell to the ground, blood colouring his feathers red, fighting for his life. A hunter's arrow had pierced his wing and passed right through his body. The female made long high pitched calls, as if calling out to some divine force to restore her lover. The sage stood transfixed, unable to take in the sudden developments. And then, with a quiver, the male krauncha became lifeless. Nature made the kraunchas monogamous, which means, quite like some humans, they fall in love only once. When they find a mate, they stick to each other for life, creating intimate bonds by breeding, raising their families, singing and dancing. If fate decides to break a pair, the one left behind does nothing but lament all life, never attempting to find new love. Knowing this tore Valmiki's insides apart. He couldn't bear to hear the cry of the heart broken female, who would spend the rest of her life mourning her lover.  Were rules different for humans and animals? Wasn't love the same everywhere? The hunter couldn't be forgiven. Her agony bred his anger, and the words were out before he knew it:

|| mAnishAda pratishTAtum samagah sAshvatIssamAh yat krouncha mithunAdEkam sokam avadhIm kAma mOhitam ||

“Oh! Ill-fated hunter! You shall not command any respect in society for a long time as you have shot dead one of the pair of krauncha birds indulged in passion."

And there, without his knowledge, he had created the first piece of poetry to ever be written by man, earning him the title 'Aadi Kavi' - the oldest poet. Impressed by his verse, down came The Creator himself, seated on a lotus, all four faces lit up in smiles. He blessed the rishi, and entrusted him with the all important task of writing Rama's story. The story of the greatest man to have ever lived. The writer was given the power to see well into the past, the present and even the future, into events, into people's minds and their emotions, so he could write the story as it happened. And so began the Ramayana, with Valimiki's outburst being it's first verse.

As for the Demoiselles, well, they continue to live and breed, unaware of their significant role in the history of literature. Even today, you can see thousands of them every winter, taking the same gruelling route into India. They mostly gather at the tiny village of Khichan near Jodhpur, Rajasthan, where the entire village comes together year after year, to feed the birds and care for them during their stay there. If you happen to be in Khichan between November and February, you can still watch thousands of kraunchas sing, dance and keep their families together. But be careful not to intrude. You never know.