Chapter 23

Thus spake the virtuous sage: and then Ráma addressed the king of men. In laws of meek behaviour bred, Thus to his sire he meekly said:

“King, I renounce all earthly care, And live in woods on woodland fare. What, dead to joys, have I to do With lordly train and retinue! Who gives his elephant and yet Upon the girths his heart will set? How can a cord attract his eyes Who gives away the nobler prize? Best of the good, with me be led No host, my King with banners spread. All wealth, all lordship I resign: The hermit’s dress alone be mine. Before I go, have here conveyed A little basket and a spade. With these alone I go, content, For fourteen years of banishment.”

With her own hands Kaikeyí took The hermit coats of bark, and, “Look,” She cried with bold unblushing brow Before the concourse, “Dress thee now.” That lion leader of the brave Took from her hand the dress she gave, Cast his fine raiment on the ground, And round his waist the vesture bound. Then quick the hero Lakshmaṇ too His garment from his shoulders threw, And, in the presence of his sire, Indued the ascetic’s rough attire. But Sítá, in her silks arrayed, Threw glances, trembling and afraid, On the bark coat she had to wear, Like a shy doe that eyes the snare. Ashamed and weeping for distress From the queen’s hand she took the dress. The fair one, by her husband’s side Who matched heaven’s minstrel monarch,(312) cried: “How bind they on their woodland dress, Those hermits of the wilderness?”

There stood the pride of Janak’s race Perplexed, with sad appealing face. One coat the lady’s fingers grasped, One round her neck she feebly clasped, But failed again, again, confused By the wild garb she ne’er had used. Then quickly hastening Ráma, pride Of all who cherish virtue, tied The rough bark mantle on her, o’er The silken raiment that she wore.

Then the sad women when they saw Ráma the choice bark round her draw, Rained water from each tender eye, And cried aloud with bitter cry: “O, not on her, beloved, not On Sítá falls thy mournful lot. If, faithful to thy father’s will, Thou must go forth, leave Sítá still. Let Sítá still remaining here Our hearts with her loved presence cheer. With Lakshmaṇ by thy side to aid Seek thou, dear son, the lonely shade. Unmeet, one good and fair as she Should dwell in woods a devotee. Let not our prayers be prayed in vain: Let beauteous Sítá yet remain; For by thy love of duty tied Thou wilt not here thyself abide.”

Then the king’s venerable guide Vaśishṭha, when he saw each coat Enclose the lady’s waist and throat, Her zeal with gentle words repressed, And Queen Kaikeyí thus addressed: “O evil-hearted sinner, shame Of royal Kekaya’s race and name; Who matchless in thy sin couldst cheat Thy lord the king with vile deceit; Lost to all sense of duty, know Sítá to exile shall not go. Sítá shall guard, as ’twere her own, The precious trust of Ráma’s throne. Those joined by wedlock’s sweet control Have but one self and common soul. Thus Sítá shall our empress be, For Ráma’s self and soul is she. Or if she still to Ráma cleave And for the woods the kingdom leave: If naught her loving heart deter, We and this town will follow her. The warders of the queen shall take Their wives and go for Ráma’s sake, The nation with its stores of grain, The city’s wealth shall swell his train. Bharat, Śatrughna both will wear Bark mantles, and his lodging share, Still with their elder brother dwell In the wild wood, and serve him well. Rest here alone, and rule thy state Unpeopled, barren, desolate; Be empress of the land and trees, Thou sinner whom our sorrows please. The land which Ráma reigns not o’er Shall bear the kingdom’s name no more: The woods which Ráma wanders through Shall be our home and kingdom too. Bharat, be sure, will never deign O’er realms his father yields, to reign. Nay, if the king’s true son he be, He will not, sonlike, dwell with thee. Nay, shouldst thou from the earth arise, And send thy message from the skies, To his forefathers’ custom true No erring course would he pursue. So hast thou, by thy grievous fault, Offended him thou wouldst exalt. In all the world none draws his breath Who loves not Ráma, true to death. This day, O Queen, shalt thou behold Birds, deer, and beasts from lea and fold Turn to the woods in Ráma’s train. And naught save longing trees remain.”

Canto XXXVIII. Care For Kausalyá

Then when the people wroth and sad Saw Sítá in bark vesture clad, Though wedded, like some widowed thing, They cried out, “Shame upon thee, King!” Grieved by their cry and angry look The lord of earth at once forsook All hope in life that still remained, In duty, self, and fame unstained. Ikshváku’s son with burning sighs On Queen Kaikeyí bent his eyes, And said: “But Sítá must not flee In garments of a devotee. My holy guide has spoken truth: Unfit is she in tender youth, So gently nurtured, soft and fair, The hardships of the wood to share. How has she sinned, devout and true, The noblest monarch’s child, That she should garb of bark indue And journey to the wild? That she should spend her youthful days Amid a hermit band, Like some poor mendicant who strays Sore troubled, through the land? Ah, let the child of Janak throw Her dress of bark aside, And let the royal lady go With royal wealth supplied. Not such the pledge I gave before, Unfit to linger here: The oath, which I the sinner swore Is kept, and leaves her clear. Won from her childlike love this too My instant death would be, As blossoms on the old bamboo Destroy the parent tree.(313) If aught amiss by Ráma done Offend thee, O thou wicked one, What least transgression canst thou find In her, thou worst of womankind? What shade of fault in her appears, Whose full soft eye is like the deer’s? What canst thou blame in Janak’s child, So gentle, modest, true, and mild? Is not one crime complete, that sent My Ráma forth to banishment? And wilt thou other sins commit, Thou wicked one, to double it? This is the pledge and oath I swore, What thou besoughtest, and no more, Of Ráma—for I heard thee, dame— When he for consecration came. Now with this limit not content, In hell should be thy punishment, Who fain the Maithil bride wouldst press To clothe her limbs with hermit dress.”

Thus spake the father in his woe; And Ráma, still prepared to go, To him who sat with drooping head Spake in return these words and said:

“Just King, here stands my mother dear, Kauśalyá, one whom all revere. Submissive, gentle, old is she, And keeps her lips from blame of thee, For her, kind lord, of me bereft A sea of whelming woe is left. O, show her in her new distress Still fonder love and tenderness. Well honoured by thine honoured hand Her grief for me let her withstand, Who wrapt in constant thought of me In me would live a devotee. Peer of Mahendra, O, to her be kind, And treat I pray, my gentle mother so, That, when I dwell afar, her life resigned, She may not pass to Yáma’s realm for woe.”

Canto XXXIX. Counsel To Sítá.

Scarce had the sire, with each dear queen, Heard Ráma’s pleading voice, and seen His darling in his hermit dress Ere failed his senses for distress. Convulsed with woe, his soul that shook, On Raghu’s son he could not look; Or if he looked with failing eye He could not to the chief reply. By pangs of bitter grief assailed, The long-armed monarch wept and wailed, Half dead a while and sore distraught, While Ráma filled his every thought. “This hand of mine in days ere now Has reft her young from many a cow, Or living things has idly slain: Hence comes, I ween, this hour of pain. Not till the hour is come to die Can from its shell the spirit fly. Death comes not, and Kaikeyí still Torments the wretch she cannot kill, Who sees his son before him quit The fine soft robes his rank that fit, And, glorious as the burning fire, In hermit garb his limbs attire. Now all the people grieve and groan Through Queen Kaikeyí’s deed alone, Who, having dared this deed of sin, Strives for herself the gain to win.”

He spoke. With tears his eyes grew dim, His senses all deserted him. He cried, O Ráma, once, then weak And fainting could no further speak. Unconscious there he lay: at length Regathering his sense and strength, While his full eyes their torrents shed, To wise Sumantra thus he said: “Yoke the light car, and hither lead Fleet coursers of the noblest breed, And drive this heir of lofty fate Beyond the limit of the state. This seems the fruit that virtues bear, The meed of worth which texts declare— The sending of the brave and good By sire and mother to the wood.’”

He heard the monarch, and obeyed, With ready feet that ne’er delayed, And brought before the palace gate The horses and the car of state. Then to the monarch’s son he sped, And raising hands of reverence said That the light car which gold made fair, With best of steeds, was standing there. King Daśaratha called in haste The lord o’er all his treasures placed. And spoke, well skilled in place and time, His will to him devoid of crime: “Count all the years she has to live Afar in forest wilds, and give To Sítá robes and gems of price As for the time may well suffice.” Quick to the treasure-room he went, Charged by that king most excellent, Brought the rich stores, and gave them all To Sítá in the monarch’s hall. The Maithil dame of high descent Received each robe and ornament, And tricked those limbs, whose lines foretold High destiny, with gems and gold. So well adorned, so fair to view, A glory through the hall she threw: So, when the Lord of Light upsprings, His radiance o’er the sky he flings. Then Queen Kauśalyá spake at last, With loving arms about her cast, Pressed lingering kisses on her head, And to the high-souled lady said: “Ah, in this faithless world below When dark misfortune comes and woe, Wives, loved and cherished every day, Neglect their lords and disobey. Yes, woman’s nature still is this:— After long days of calm and bliss When some light grief her spirit tries, She changes all her love, or flies. Young wives are thankless, false in soul, With roving hearts that spurn control. Brooding on sin and quickly changed, In one short hour their love estranged. Not glorious deed or lineage fair, Not knowledge, gift, or tender care In chains of lasting love can bind A woman’s light inconstant mind. But those good dames who still maintain What right, truth, Scripture, rule ordain— No holy thing in their pure eyes With one beloved husband vies. Nor let thy lord my son, condemned To exile, be by thee contemned, For be he poor or wealthy, he Is as a God, dear child, to thee.”

When Sítá heard Kauśalyá’s speech Her duty and her gain to teach, She joined her palms with reverent grace And gave her answer face to face: “All will I do, forgetting naught, Which thou, O honoured Queen, hast taught. I know, have heard, and deep have stored The rules of duty to my lord. Not me, good Queen, shouldst thou include Among the faithless multitude. Its own sweet light the moon shall leave Ere I to duty cease to cleave. The stringless lute gives forth no strain, The wheelless car is urged in vain; No joy a lordless dame, although Blest with a hundred sons, can know. From father, brother, and from son A measured share of joy is won: Who would not honour, love, and bless Her lord, whose gifts are measureless? Thus trained to think, I hold in awe Scripture’s command and duty’s law. Him can I hold in slight esteem? Her lord is woman’s God, I deem.” Kauśalyá heard the lady’s speech, Nor failed those words her heart to reach. Then, pure in mind, she gave to flow The tear that sprang of joy and woe. Then duteous Ráma forward came And stood before the honoured dame, And joining reverent hands addressed The queen in rank above the rest: “O mother, from these tears refrain; Look on my sire and still thy pain. To thee my days afar shall fly As if sweet slumber closed thine eye, And fourteen years of exile seem To thee, dear mother, like a dream. On me returning safe and well, Girt by my friends, thine eyes shall dwell.”

Thus for their deep affection’s sake The hero to his mother spake, Then to the half seven hundred too, Wives of his sire, paid reverence due. Thus Daśaratha’s son addressed That crowd of matrons sore distressed: “If from these lips, while here I dwelt, One heedless taunt you e’er have felt, Forgive me, pray. And now adieu, I bid good-bye to all of you.” Then straight, like curlews’ cries, upwent The voices of their wild lament, While, as he bade farewell, the crowd Of royal women wept aloud, And through the ample hall’s extent. Where erst the sound of tabour, blent With drum and shrill-toned instrument, In joyous concert rose, Now rang the sound of wailing high, The lamentation and the cry, The shriek, the choking sob, the sigh That told the ladies’ woes.

Canto XL. Ráma’s Departure.

Then Ráma, Sítá, Lakshmaṇ bent At the king’s feet, and sadly went Round him with slow steps reverent. When Ráma of the duteous heart Had gained his sire’s consent to part, With Sítá by his side he paid Due reverence to the queen dismayed. And Lakshmaṇ, with affection meet, Bowed down and clasped his mother’s feet. Sumitrá viewed him as he pressed Her feet, and thus her son addressed: “Neglect not Ráma wandering there, But tend him with thy faithful care. In hours of wealth, in time of woe, Him, sinless son, thy refuge know. From this good law the just ne’er swerve, That younger sons the eldest serve, And to this righteous rule incline All children of thine ancient line— Freely to give, reward each rite, Nor spare their bodies in the fight. Let Ráma Daśaratha be, Look upon Sítá as on me, And let the cot wherein you dwell Be thine Ayodhyá. Fare thee well.” Her blessing thus Sumitrá gave To him whose soul to Ráma clave, Exclaiming, when her speech was done, “Go forth, O Lakshmaṇ, go, my son. Go forth, my son to win success, High victory and happiness. Go forth thy foemen to destroy, And turn again at last with joy.”

As Mátali his charioteer Speaks for the Lord of Gods to hear, Sumantra, palm to palm applied, In reverence trained, to Ráma cried: “O famous Prince, my car ascend,— May blessings on thy course attend,— And swiftly shall my horses flee And place thee where thou biddest me. The fourteen years thou hast to stay Far in the wilds, begin to-day; For Oueen Kaikeyí cries, Away.”

Then Sítá, best of womankind, Ascended, with a tranquil mind, Soon as her toilet task was done, That chariot brilliant as the sun. Ráma and Lakshmaṇ true and bold Sprang on the car adorned with gold. The king those years had counted o’er, And given Sítá robes and store Of precious ornaments to wear When following her husband there. The brothers in the car found place For nets and weapons of the chase, There warlike arms and mail they laid, A leathern basket and a spade. Soon as Sumantra saw the three Were seated in the chariot, he Urged on each horse of noble breed, Who matched the rushing wind in speed. As thus the son of Raghu went Forth for his dreary banishment, Chill numbing grief the town assailed, All strength grew weak, all spirit failed, Ayodhyá through her wide extent Was filled with tumult and lament: Steeds neighed and shook the bells they bore, Each elephant returned a roar. Then all the city, young and old, Wild with their sorrow uncontrolled, Rushed to the car, as, from the sun The panting herds to water run. Before the car, behind, they clung, And there as eagerly they hung, With torrents streaming from their eyes, Called loudly with repeated cries: “Listen, Sumantra: draw thy rein; Drive gently, and thy steeds restrain. Once more on Ráma will we gaze, Now to be lost for many days. The queen his mother has, be sure, A heart of iron, to endure To see her godlike Ráma go, Nor feel it shattered by the blow. Sítá, well done! Videha’s pride, Still like his shadow by his side; Rejoicing in thy duty still As sunlight cleaves to Meru’s hill. Thou, Lakshmaṇ, too, hast well deserved, Who from thy duty hast not swerved, Tending the peer of Gods above, Whose lips speak naught but words of love. Thy firm resolve is nobly great, And high success on thee shall wait. Yea, thou shalt win a priceless meed— Thy path with him to heaven shall lead.” As thus they spake, they could not hold The tears that down their faces rolled, While still they followed for a space Their darling of Ikshváku’s race.

There stood surrounded by a ring Of mournful wives the mournful king; For, “I will see once more,” he cried, “Mine own dear son,” and forth he hied. As he came near, there rose the sound Of weeping, as the dames stood round. So the she-elephants complain When their great lord and guide is slain. Kakutstha’s son, the king of men, The glorious sire, looked troubled then, As the full moon is when dismayed By dark eclipse’s threatening shade. Then Daśaratha’s son, designed For highest fate of lofty mind, Urged to more speed the charioteer, “Away, away! why linger here? Urge on thy horses,” Rama cried, And “Stay, O stay,” the people sighed. Sumantra, urged to speed away, The townsmen’s call must disobey, Forth as the long-armed hero went, The dust his chariot wheels up sent Was laid by streams that ever flowed From their sad eyes who filled the road. Then, sprung of woe, from eyes of all The women drops began to fall, As from each lotus on the lake The darting fish the water shake. When he, the king of high renown, Saw that one thought held all the town, Like some tall tree he fell and lay, Whose root the axe has hewn away. Then straight a mighty cry from those Who followed Ráma’s car arose, Who saw their monarch fainting there Beneath that grief too great to bear. Then “Ráma, Ráma!” with the cry Of “Ah, his mother!” sounded high, As all the people wept aloud Around the ladies’ sorrowing crowd. When Ráma backward turned his eye, And saw the king his father lie With troubled sense and failing limb, And the sad queen, who followed him, Like some young creature in the net, That will not, in its misery, let Its wild eyes on its mother rest, So, by the bonds of duty pressed, His mother’s look he could not meet. He saw them with their weary feet, Who, used to bliss, in cars should ride, Who ne’er by sorrow should be tried, And, as one mournful look he cast, “Drive on,” he cried, “Sumantra, fast.” As when the driver’s torturing hook Goads on an elephant, the look Of sire and mother in despair Was more than Ráma’s heart could bear. As mother kine to stalls return Which hold the calves for whom they yearn, So to the car she tried to run As a cow seeks her little one. Once and again the hero’s eyes Looked on his mother, as with cries Of woe she called and gestures wild, “O Sítá, Lakshmaṇ, O my child!” “Stay,” cried the king, “thy chariot stay:” “On, on,” cried Ráma, “speed away.” As one between two hosts, inclined To neither was Sumantra’s mind. But Ráma spake these words again: “A lengthened woe is bitterest pain. On, on; and if his wrath grow hot, Thine answer be, ‘I heard thee not.’ ” Sumantra, at the chief’s behest, Dismissed the crowd that toward him pressed, And, as he bade, to swiftest speed Urged on his way each willing steed. The king’s attendants parted thence, And paid him heart-felt reverence: In mind, and with the tears he wept, Each still his place near Ráma kept. As swift away the horses sped, His lords to Daśaratha said: “To follow him whom thou again Wouldst see returning home is vain.” With failing limb and drooping mien He heard their counsel wise: Still on their son the king and queen Kept fast their lingering eyes.(314)

Canto XLI. The Citizens’ Lament.

The lion chief with hands upraised Was born from eyes that fondly gazed. But then the ladies’ bower was rent With cries of weeping and lament: “Where goes he now, our lord, the sure Protector of the friendless poor, In whom the wretched and the weak Defence and aid were wont to seek? All words of wrath he turned aside, And ne’er, when cursed, in ire replied. He shared his people’s woe, and stilled The troubled breast which rage had filled. Our chief, on lofty thoughts intent, In glorious fame preëminent: As on his own dear mother, thus He ever looked on each of us. Where goes he now? His sire’s behest, By Queen Kaikeyí’s guile distressed, Has banished to the forest hence Him who was all the world’s defence. Ah, senseless King, to drive away The hope of men, their guard and stay, To banish to the distant wood Ráma the duteous, true, and good!” The royal dames, like cows bereaved Of their young calves, thus sadly grieved. The monarch heard them as they wailed, And by the fire of grief assailed For his dear son, he bowed his head, And all his sense and memory fled.

Then were no fires of worship fed, Thick darkness o’er the sun was spread. The cows their thirsty calves denied, And elephants flung their food aside. Triśanku,(315) Jupiter looked dread, And Mercury and Mars the red, In direful opposition met, The glory of the moon beset. The lunar stars withheld their light, The planets were no longer bright, But meteors with their horrid glare, And dire Viśákhás(316) lit the air. As troubled Ocean heaves and raves When Doom’s wild tempest sweeps the waves, Thus all Ayodhyá reeled and bent When Ráma to the forest went. And chilling grief and dark despair Fell suddenly on all men there. Their wonted pastime all forgot, Nor thought of food, or touched it not. Crowds in the royal street were seen With weeping eye and troubled mien: No more a people gay and glad, Each head and heart was sick and sad. No more the cool wind softly blew, The moon no more was fair to view, No more the sun with genial glow Cherished the world now plunged in woe. Sons, brothers, husbands, wedded wives Forgot the ties that joined their lives; No thought for kith and kin was spared, But all for only Ráma cared. And Ráma’s friends who loved him best, Their minds disordered and distressed. By the great burthen of their woes Turned not to slumber or repose. Like Earth with all her hills bereft Of Indra’s guiding care. Ayodhyá in her sorrow left By him, the high souled heir, Was bowed by fear and sorrow’s force, And shook with many a throe, While warrior, elephant, and horse Sent up the cry of woe.

Canto XLII. Dasaratha’s Lament.

While yet the dust was seen afar That marked the course of Ráma’s car, The glory of Ikshváku’s race Turned not away his eager face. While yet his duteous son he saw He could not once his gaze withdraw, But rooted to the spot remained With eyes that after Ráma strained. But when that dust no more he viewed, Fainting he fell by grief subdued. To his right hand Kauśalyá went, And ready aid the lady lent, While Bharat’s loving mother tried To raise him on the other side. The king, within whose ordered soul Justice and virtue held control, To Queen Kaikeyí turned and said, With every sense disquieted: “Touch me not, thou whose soul can plot All sin. Kaikeyí, touch me not. No loving wife, no friend to me, I ne’er again would look on thee; Ne’er from this day have aught to do With thee and all thy retinue; Thee whom no virtuous thoughts restrain, Whose selfish heart seeks only gain. The hand I laid in mine, O dame, The steps we took around the flame,(317) And all that links thy life to mine Here and hereafter I resign. If Bharat too, thy darling son, Joy in the rule thy art has won, Ne’er may the funeral offerings paid By his false hand approach my shade.”