C K Kerala Varma
[A novella based on the Ramayana and S R D Prasad's Bharatakaandam in Malayalam; continued from the previous post]
An introduction by the author: The genesis of this book was a long walk my friend Prasad and I took on a beautiful stretch of beach near our village Chirakkal in March 2008. We must have walked about 20 kilometres that day, discussing Ramayana and how Bharata, like Bhishma in Mahabharata, had led a selfless life devoid of any personal ambition for the sake of his family, country and people. We decided to rewrite the epic from Bharata's perspective, he in Malayalam and me in English. I then read and reread an excellent translation in verse of Valmikiramayana by Griffith (1870 or thereabout). Prasad based his on a Malayalam verse translation by Vallathol Narayana Menon, a leading Malayalam poet in the mid-twentieth century and Adhyatma-ramayanam by Ezhuthachan, who was one of the first poets in Malayalam. We exchanged our drafts and drew on each other.
MOTHER
The honeymoon did not last long. The first indication of bad tidings came to me in a terrible dream that I had one night in my grandfather’s palace. The dream was too gory for comfort. The moon fell off from the sky shattering the earth into pieces separated by deep craters and split mountains. There were no trees, no greenery, no flowers and no animals. The land and the sea got mixed up. I could see only mud, blood, slush and rocks in darkness and smoke. Suddenly my father fell down from a high cliff into a sea of dirt and blood. Then a monstrous woman in red cackling like a hyena and jeering at him and the world took him away in a donkey-drawn cart amidst fire and leaping flames. I woke up bathed in sweat from this intriguing nightmare. It seemed to tell me of an imminent death and disgrace in the family.
I had barely finished describing the bad dream to Mandvi, sweating profusely in the process and making delirious statements that something terrible was going to happen and me or Lakshmana or Rama or my father would surely die, when along the road that led to the palace came messengers of doom riding horses of speed and ferocity, with deep shades of gloom painted on their faces or so it seemed to me shaken out of my composure by recurring images from the inexplicable dream.
The messengers carried summons from Ayodhya for our urgent return. We rushed back not knowing what was in store. The seven days of journey was a long torture of suspense to my anxious mind. I became restless when I found the streets of Ayodhya devoid of the usual gaiety and joy. The eerie silence and the absence of joyful life on the wide roads of the city I knew so well made my heart gallop faster than my horses. Where had all the familiar sounds of Ayodhya gone? There was no neigh of horses, no ringing of the archer’s bow and no seductive song of the enchantress, her ample breasts heaving by the beats of a gentle drum and her hands weaving music on her lute and her sensuous lips leaving her flute breathless in desire. The trees that lined the streets grieved and shed leaves of sorrow. Birds sang no more. Beasts stood still and dull. Men and women made no merry. A mist of melancholy had enveloped the palace. I did not find my father in his court or quarter. All I met was the silent stare from the courtiers and guards. Perplexed and fearing the worst, I rushed to my mother. What she told me hit me like a lightning that turned the clouds of sorrow into a thunderstorm of shock, anger and then remorse.
“Your father is no more, my son,” she said softly. “We have been waiting for you to do the last rites. His body is waiting in a boat of oil.”
“Why, Rama and Lakshmana could have done that in good time,” I managed to mutter, the words choking in my throat.
“The king had sent them and Sita on exile,” said she haltingly in a matter-of-fact tone. I was both shocked and confused. An exile would normally be a punishment for theft, adultery or abortion. How could they ever deserve a penalty of exile?
“Did Rama grab the house or wealth of another? Did he kill or harm an innocent? Did he eye another’s wife?” I asked feebly of my mother in trembling words that seemed to pause hesitatingly on my tongue, “Did Sita kill an unborn child?” The memory of the dreaded dream that I had in Rajagriha haunted me and made me weak in my knees.
“No, my dear,” she hastened to say, “Rama has done no crime. He who is full of virtue and compassion would never steal or kill or look at another’s wife. When your father wanted to make Rama the heir, I claimed the throne for you. I made him promise that he would banish Rama for fourteen years. Sita and Lakshmana, his ever doting wife and brother also went on exile with Rama.”
I could scarcely believe what she told me. “Your father kept his word given to me and asked Rama to go on exile. Rama said yes, for he was a noble prince and a dutiful son. He lost no time in leaving for the forest along with his wife and brother. But the king kept pining for his favourite son. He became weak and sick and died of grief and remorse.”
She sounded ecstatic when she reasoned that I would straight away be crowned the king, now that Dasaratha was gone and Rama was on exile, “Go ahead and do the funeral rites of your late father, my son, and then you’ll be the new king.”
She also confided in me with no little pride that she had stopped Dasaratha from sending the entire granary, gold and wealth with Rama to the forest. She had thought that I would not be interested in taking over an impoverished kingdom!
She saw that I was not looking very pleased. She tried to put me at ease. She said Rama had readily agreed to carry out her wish. “My kingdom, my wealth, my life, my wife ... all will be Bharata’s, if that’s my father’s wish,” Rama had said.
I exploded into a thunder of anger that took my mother by anguished surprise. My rage at her despicable scheming was overshadowed by my anguish at my mother’s lack of understanding of my character. How could she have assumed that I would ever agree to upstage Rama or any other brother of mine to capture the crown? I did not have to think twice before declaring that my first task, after my father’s funeral, would be to bring Rama back to his rightful place.
My anguish grew more when I later fell at the feet of Kausalya. She was like a mother to me. She pushed me away saying with unconcealed scorn that I had won the kingdom without a battle. Lying distraught on the cold floor of sorrow and distress, with no care for hair or dress, she wept her heart out to me, “Please banish me also to the forest so I’ll spend my last days with my luckless child.”
“Your wail of blame pains me, mother. You’ve loved me like a son. I’ve loved you and Rama equally well. I’ve but no love lost for those who sent Rama away. My mother has become my enemy by killing my father and getting my brothers exiled. Please don’t despise me. Give me strength instead so I’ll go get Rama back and undo the injustice done unto him,” I cried out to Kausalya.
It broke my heart to see that my three mothers had been seeing me in this light, a light darker than darkness. The world around me went black; darkness surrounded me. I do not know how long I remained unconscious.
Kausalya’s tears falling on my face woke me up. She had rested my head on her lap. Her tears washed my fears away. She bode me no ill. I felt my honour had been restored. If Rama’s mother could forgive me, I need fear nothing. I could feel the ground giving way under my feet when I heard her telling me, “Before leaving Rama told me, ‘I’m leaving behind my father and mothers with no anxiety and sorrow because the virtuous and courageous Bharata will look after them.’” I assured her that I would win Rama back at any cost.
I remained firm in my resolve to not usurp the throne that was legitimately Rama’s. My mother had by now become quite meek and remorseful. My outburst on hearing what she foolishly thought would please me must have been the final verdict on her scheming misadventure. Earlier, Siddhartha, one of my father’s venerable advisors, had reminded her about our ancestor Sagara who had banished his wicked son Asamanj from the kingdom as a punishment for killing children for pleasure. Who would now deserve a sentence of banishment? The selfless Rama without a fault or the wicked Kaikeyi of enormous sin?
Kausalya, while weeping over the dead body of Dasaratha, had abused my mother as her husband’s killer.
Even Vasishtha, the embodiment of quiet dignity and humility, had come down heavily on my mother’s wickedness when he set his eyes on Sita ready for her life in the forest in a simple cloth made of bark. He was the only person who seemed to have read me correctly, for he had warned my mother that I would rather follow Rama to the forest than agree to be a part of her scheme. I wonder how my mother had taken his words of reproach. His was generally the last word in history, morality and conduct. For he was so ancient that he used to be the teacher of my father's ancestors of at least three generations. He continued to be the mentor and teacher of the highest reverence for my father and us as well.
My mother no longer tried to change my mind by pointing out the great fortune that had come my way on a platter. She did not try to convince me with the same arguments she had used with my father. She seemed happy to see my resolve to make amends for her sinful act.
I felt remorse at having treated her in a way a son should never do his mother. She probably had done it at a moment of weakness, carried away by a mother’s selfish love for her child. What made her do it? Was it her desire for power? Was it to strengthen her position as the favourite queen of the king? She was the youngest and the prettiest of Dasaratha’s wives. She was also the most accomplished. She had been trained in horse riding and basic warfare. That was how she had once accompanied him in his battle against the demon-king Shambara. My father believed that it was only due to her being with him during the equal and fierce battle that he could defeat the enemy. He had at that time agreed to fulfill her fondest wishes.
I did not know that my father had promised her father that her son would be made the heir. Manthara, the personal maid of my mother, had used exactly these stories to convince her that she should stop Dasaratha in his plan to crown Rama as the heir. She, at her devious best, had won my mother over by insinuating that Dasaratha had deliberately chosen a time when I was away to announce Rama as the heir. He had also decided against telling Kaikeyi or her father about it.
Shatrugna was as upset as I. He just could not stand the sight of the bejewelled Manthara wearing the very ornaments gifted by my mother as a reward for her role in the misadventure. He dragged her down by her hair and drew out his sword in a fit of anger. It took me quite an effort to calm him down and prevent him from the unbecoming act of slaying a woman.
[C K Kerala Varma is a friend of mine and a senior officer in the State Bank of India. When I read his version of the Ramayana in English, I was moved by the poetry of his language. We do not come across prose of such exquisite beauty often. I am honoured to publish his novella and I thank him for allowing me to do so. This is the fourth chapter. Please go back in this blog if you wish to read the previous chapters. Santanu Sinha Chaudhuri]
Friday, 26 February 2010
Saturday, 20 February 2010
The path of truth: 2
A novella based on the Ramayana and S R D Prasad's Bharatakaandam in Malayalam; continued from last week
C K Kerala Varma
Father
My father Dasaratha had been an heir-less king for long. His three wives Kausalya, Sumitra and my mother Kaikeyi bore him no child. Was it due to the curse of the blind Brahmin couple whose only child my father had killed by accident? No, it can’t be. The curse was that Dasaratha would die due to intense grief caused by his son. He must have hoped that he would certainly beget a son, if only to cause his death by grief later as cursed by the blind Brahmin sage.
After years of fruitless wait he offered prayers and sacrifices seeking divine intervention to make his wives conceive. The sacrificial fire brought forth god’s gift to the queens in the form of a sweet. Why did Dasaratha give half of it to Kausalya, two parts of the rest to Sumitra and the smallest potion to my mother? Maybe, after Sumitra gave birth to twins, people would have assumed that the king had given her the nectar of fertility twice! He must have wanted his heir from the eldest queen to be as great as his famed ancestors like Dileepa, Bhageeratha, Raghu and Aja. He would have foreseen a possible rift among equal brothers that might weaken the state. The heir-apparent should be a stronger and a more complete person than his siblings. Was it not his duty as the king to look ahead at the future of the kingdom?
Rama grew up to be a peerless archer and a fearless warrior amidst the myth of divinity surrounding his birth. I remember the visit of Sage Viswamitra to the palace when we were just about sixteen. Our father went out of his way to welcome the great sage, taking care not to offend him even in the slightest way. He was prone to destructive anger.
My father had heard about his fight with the saintly Vasishtha over the latter’s favourite cow Kamadhenu, which he had tried to take away by force from its owner. Viswamitra had once tried to build a paradise outside heaven for his protégé Trishanku, one of our ancestors. He had even demanded that Brahma make him a brahmarshi, though he was not a Brahmin. The irony of Viswamitra finally seeking the help of Vasishtha to get brahminhood and the title of brahmarshi amuses me now. The story was a lesson in humility. I wonder if Viswamitra had learnt his lesson. Wise, learned and powerful he certainly was; so was he imperious and arrogant.
Viswamitra wanted Rama to go with him to drive away the demons that had been attacking his place of meditation. My father was not sure if the young Rama was fully trained in warfare. The king offered to lead an army himself for the protection of the sage and his hermitage. Maybe it was just a father’s boundless love and anxiety for a young son. Viswamitra, perhaps sensing the potential of Rama as an invincible warrior, took only Rama and Lakshmana with him.
Rama was young and fresh. Yet he was equal to the task. On the way the sage taught Rama advanced archery and techniques to overcome hunger and thirst during war. He killed or drove away all the mischievous demons. Rama’s first victim was Tadaka, a female demon. He killed her reluctantly. No man would want to kill a woman in battle. Rama was probably ashamed of the fact that he began his illustrious record of successful battles by killing a woman. I have heard that he had even wanted to do a penance for this unmanly and inauspicious act.
Mandvi
Shatrugna and I stayed back in Ayodhya. We missed Rama and Lakshmana badly. Our daily lessons in statecraft and warfare also seemed to miss the star student. Little did I realise that this short period of lull was just a prelude to interesting happenings in our lives.
A great wave of excitement washed ashore with the arrival of galloping ministers sent by King Janaka of Videha. After my brothers had succeeded in their mission, Sage Viswamitra had taken them to Janaka’s palace at Mithila. The king was instantly struck by the radiance that exuded from the young princes. He wished to marry his daughter Sita to Rama and his niece Urmila, daughter of his younger brother Kushadwaja, to Lakshmana. He requested the sage to allow Rama to try his hand on the huge and heavy bow that no archer could draw till date as a test of strength and archery to win the hand of the virtuous and beautiful Sita.
Rama lifted the enormous bow with effortless ease and drew the string in a swift mighty move that broke the bow in two. The joy of the king found a match in the ecstasy of the coy princess.
The royal envoys carried an invitation to Dasaratha to go over to the palace of Janaka to accept the young brides. Viswamitra must have taken the detour to Mithila on purpose. A welcome and useful purpose, I should say!
Shatrugna and I accompanied our father to Mithila. My heartbeats of joy became distinctly palpable when Sage Viswamitra proposed that Shatrugna and I marry Urmila’s sisters Shrutikirti and Mandvi. The reunion with my brothers and the wedding of all of us together were probably the happiest time in our lives.
Looking back now, I am sure the shy and pretty brides getting married to the brightest princes of the time would not have bargained for the testing times ahead. Sita’s brush with a series of misfortunes is legion. We can blame Ravana for the first instance of her separation from Rama. Who’s to blame for the second and the final instances? My wife Mandvi did not have it as bad as Sita or even Urmila. But, have I given her the life that she deserved? A life that a wife expects from a scion of Ayodhya, a son of Dasaratha? The monkeys of Kishkindha and the demons of Lanka must have given their wives a better quality of family life.
We went back to Ayodhya after the wedding for a season of bliss and sensuous mirth. My mother’s brother Yudhajit came to visit us and to take Mandvi and me to his father’s palace at Rajagriha in Kekaya. His father Aswapati, the king of Kekaya wanted us to spend some time with him. Shatrugna and Shrutikirti came with us for a quiet holiday away from the bustle of Ayodhya. We, the two young couples, could not have asked for a better get-away to nights of delight and days of daze.
[C K Kerala Varma, a friend of mine, is a senior officer in the State Bank of India. I am honoured to publish his novella and I thank him for allowing me to do so. What you have read here are the second and third chapters of his novella based on the Ramayana. Please go back in this blog if you missed the first instalment. Santanu Sinha Chaudhuri]
C K Kerala Varma
Father
My father Dasaratha had been an heir-less king for long. His three wives Kausalya, Sumitra and my mother Kaikeyi bore him no child. Was it due to the curse of the blind Brahmin couple whose only child my father had killed by accident? No, it can’t be. The curse was that Dasaratha would die due to intense grief caused by his son. He must have hoped that he would certainly beget a son, if only to cause his death by grief later as cursed by the blind Brahmin sage.
After years of fruitless wait he offered prayers and sacrifices seeking divine intervention to make his wives conceive. The sacrificial fire brought forth god’s gift to the queens in the form of a sweet. Why did Dasaratha give half of it to Kausalya, two parts of the rest to Sumitra and the smallest potion to my mother? Maybe, after Sumitra gave birth to twins, people would have assumed that the king had given her the nectar of fertility twice! He must have wanted his heir from the eldest queen to be as great as his famed ancestors like Dileepa, Bhageeratha, Raghu and Aja. He would have foreseen a possible rift among equal brothers that might weaken the state. The heir-apparent should be a stronger and a more complete person than his siblings. Was it not his duty as the king to look ahead at the future of the kingdom?
Rama grew up to be a peerless archer and a fearless warrior amidst the myth of divinity surrounding his birth. I remember the visit of Sage Viswamitra to the palace when we were just about sixteen. Our father went out of his way to welcome the great sage, taking care not to offend him even in the slightest way. He was prone to destructive anger.
My father had heard about his fight with the saintly Vasishtha over the latter’s favourite cow Kamadhenu, which he had tried to take away by force from its owner. Viswamitra had once tried to build a paradise outside heaven for his protégé Trishanku, one of our ancestors. He had even demanded that Brahma make him a brahmarshi, though he was not a Brahmin. The irony of Viswamitra finally seeking the help of Vasishtha to get brahminhood and the title of brahmarshi amuses me now. The story was a lesson in humility. I wonder if Viswamitra had learnt his lesson. Wise, learned and powerful he certainly was; so was he imperious and arrogant.
Viswamitra wanted Rama to go with him to drive away the demons that had been attacking his place of meditation. My father was not sure if the young Rama was fully trained in warfare. The king offered to lead an army himself for the protection of the sage and his hermitage. Maybe it was just a father’s boundless love and anxiety for a young son. Viswamitra, perhaps sensing the potential of Rama as an invincible warrior, took only Rama and Lakshmana with him.
Rama was young and fresh. Yet he was equal to the task. On the way the sage taught Rama advanced archery and techniques to overcome hunger and thirst during war. He killed or drove away all the mischievous demons. Rama’s first victim was Tadaka, a female demon. He killed her reluctantly. No man would want to kill a woman in battle. Rama was probably ashamed of the fact that he began his illustrious record of successful battles by killing a woman. I have heard that he had even wanted to do a penance for this unmanly and inauspicious act.
Mandvi
Shatrugna and I stayed back in Ayodhya. We missed Rama and Lakshmana badly. Our daily lessons in statecraft and warfare also seemed to miss the star student. Little did I realise that this short period of lull was just a prelude to interesting happenings in our lives.
A great wave of excitement washed ashore with the arrival of galloping ministers sent by King Janaka of Videha. After my brothers had succeeded in their mission, Sage Viswamitra had taken them to Janaka’s palace at Mithila. The king was instantly struck by the radiance that exuded from the young princes. He wished to marry his daughter Sita to Rama and his niece Urmila, daughter of his younger brother Kushadwaja, to Lakshmana. He requested the sage to allow Rama to try his hand on the huge and heavy bow that no archer could draw till date as a test of strength and archery to win the hand of the virtuous and beautiful Sita.
Rama lifted the enormous bow with effortless ease and drew the string in a swift mighty move that broke the bow in two. The joy of the king found a match in the ecstasy of the coy princess.
The royal envoys carried an invitation to Dasaratha to go over to the palace of Janaka to accept the young brides. Viswamitra must have taken the detour to Mithila on purpose. A welcome and useful purpose, I should say!
Shatrugna and I accompanied our father to Mithila. My heartbeats of joy became distinctly palpable when Sage Viswamitra proposed that Shatrugna and I marry Urmila’s sisters Shrutikirti and Mandvi. The reunion with my brothers and the wedding of all of us together were probably the happiest time in our lives.
Looking back now, I am sure the shy and pretty brides getting married to the brightest princes of the time would not have bargained for the testing times ahead. Sita’s brush with a series of misfortunes is legion. We can blame Ravana for the first instance of her separation from Rama. Who’s to blame for the second and the final instances? My wife Mandvi did not have it as bad as Sita or even Urmila. But, have I given her the life that she deserved? A life that a wife expects from a scion of Ayodhya, a son of Dasaratha? The monkeys of Kishkindha and the demons of Lanka must have given their wives a better quality of family life.
We went back to Ayodhya after the wedding for a season of bliss and sensuous mirth. My mother’s brother Yudhajit came to visit us and to take Mandvi and me to his father’s palace at Rajagriha in Kekaya. His father Aswapati, the king of Kekaya wanted us to spend some time with him. Shatrugna and Shrutikirti came with us for a quiet holiday away from the bustle of Ayodhya. We, the two young couples, could not have asked for a better get-away to nights of delight and days of daze.
[C K Kerala Varma, a friend of mine, is a senior officer in the State Bank of India. I am honoured to publish his novella and I thank him for allowing me to do so. What you have read here are the second and third chapters of his novella based on the Ramayana. Please go back in this blog if you missed the first instalment. Santanu Sinha Chaudhuri]
Saturday, 13 February 2010
The path of truth
A novella based on the Ramayana and S R D Prasad's Bharatakaandam in Malayalam
By C K Kerala Varma
An introduction by the author: The genesis of this book was a long walk my friend Prasad and I took on a beautiful stretch of beach near our village Chirakkal in March 2008. We must have walked about 20 kilometres that day, discussing Ramayana and how Bharata, like Bhishma in Mahabharata, had led a selfless life devoid of any personal ambition for the sake of his family, country and people. We decided to rewrite the epic from Bharata's perspective, he in Malayalam and me in English. I then read and reread an excellent translation in verse of Valmikiramayana by Griffith (1870 or thereabout). Prasad based his on a Malayalam verse translation by Vallathol Narayana Menon, a leading Malayalam poet in the mid-twentieth century and Adhyatmaramayanam by Ezhuthachan, who was one of the first poets in Malayalam. We exchanged our drafts and drew on each other.
Sarayu
All alone on the banks of Sarayu in the evening of my life I gaze intently at the gentle soothing flow of water, crystal clear despite the sins of men she has been washing on her way. I was born on the banks of this river, I have lived all my life by her and now am I looking to her to take me in like mother-earth did to Sita? This river taught me that we must change, evolve constantly without losing our basic character. You can’t step into the same river twice. Have I evolved for the better as effortlessly as the smooth flow of Sarayu? Her serene waters seem to reflect my content at having fulfilled all my promises. I have no burden left on my shoulders. But violent waves of self-doubt do disturb the serenity of the flow in monsoons of discontent.
Rama is on his way to the river. He has just finished his farewell prayer for his country and his forefathers. Or is it a penance for the sins committed in all the great battles won? For the pain and sorrow caused for the sake of righteousness?
Sita, pure and selfless, had taken all her woes in her stride. She had never sent out the slightest signal of complaint or displeasure. She had but once offended Lakshmana during their stay in exile at Panchavati. Rama had told him to guard her when he went hunting for a beautiful deer she was pining for. She started getting worried about Rama’s safety. She even thought she had heard his wail in pain. When Lakshmana refused to leave her guard, she lost her temper. She abused him and said he would not go because he had lustful designs on her! He was taken aback by her insinuation. She had said those harsh words for the sake of Rama, to arouse anger in Lakshmana so he will go to Rama’s rescue.
During the aswamedhayagna, an elaborate month-long prayer that Rama had ordained years ago, I had found it strange, and probably an ill omen, that he had used a gold statuette of Sita to represent his wife. She was not dead. It was just that Rama had banished her from his life. He had sent her away to the wilderness of justice. True to my clairvoyant fear, by the time the yagna was over, Sita was actually no more with us on this earth.
Sage Durvasav, I remember now, had once warned our father that my brother would give up everything. His wife, his brothers, his kingdom…. He had made this prophecy in the presence of the wise Vasishtha, my father’s teacher and adviser. The worried king had decreed that the prophecy be kept a closely guarded secret.
Lakshmana is already gone. He gave himself up to River Sarayu the moment Rama wanted him to go. He walked into the welcoming arms of the river, holding his breath and keeping at bay every stream of life.
Now Rama wanted me to be the king. The dilemma revisited. I just cannot go through the same test again. Let not the past haunt me anymore.
There is no dearth of people pleading with Rama to stay back at Ayodhya and continue to rule over his kingdom of Kosala. Donning minimal clothing, wearing rings made of grass and chanting God’s praises, he is now on his way to offer himself to the river in sacrifice. Brahmin priests holding palm leaf umbrellas to keep the flame of oil lamps from getting blown out are leading the way for him. He cannot walk brusquely away. Obstructing his path are people flocking to dissuade him from going away. Rama had always been obstinately unwavering in all his decisions. And now it is unlikely that anyone would succeed in dissuading him from walking away from his world. Yes, none can change the course that Rama chooses for himself.
I have decided to follow Rama to wherever Sarayu takes us beyond this life. Downstream Sarayu will take us to Ganga, the mighty river of forgiveness and then to the deep sea of infinite mystery. I glance upstream at the beginning. The gentle breeze blowing over the water flowing down from the Himalaya would always carry the fragrance of truth.
[C K Kerala Varma is a friend of mine and a senior officer in the State Bank of India. When I read his version of the Ramayana in English, I was moved by the poetry of his language. We do not come across prose of such exquisite beauty often. I am honoured to publish his novella and I thank him for allowing me to do so. This is the first chapter. I am going to serialise it over the next few weeks. Santanu Sinha Chaudhuri]
By C K Kerala Varma
An introduction by the author: The genesis of this book was a long walk my friend Prasad and I took on a beautiful stretch of beach near our village Chirakkal in March 2008. We must have walked about 20 kilometres that day, discussing Ramayana and how Bharata, like Bhishma in Mahabharata, had led a selfless life devoid of any personal ambition for the sake of his family, country and people. We decided to rewrite the epic from Bharata's perspective, he in Malayalam and me in English. I then read and reread an excellent translation in verse of Valmikiramayana by Griffith (1870 or thereabout). Prasad based his on a Malayalam verse translation by Vallathol Narayana Menon, a leading Malayalam poet in the mid-twentieth century and Adhyatmaramayanam by Ezhuthachan, who was one of the first poets in Malayalam. We exchanged our drafts and drew on each other.
Sarayu
All alone on the banks of Sarayu in the evening of my life I gaze intently at the gentle soothing flow of water, crystal clear despite the sins of men she has been washing on her way. I was born on the banks of this river, I have lived all my life by her and now am I looking to her to take me in like mother-earth did to Sita? This river taught me that we must change, evolve constantly without losing our basic character. You can’t step into the same river twice. Have I evolved for the better as effortlessly as the smooth flow of Sarayu? Her serene waters seem to reflect my content at having fulfilled all my promises. I have no burden left on my shoulders. But violent waves of self-doubt do disturb the serenity of the flow in monsoons of discontent.
Rama is on his way to the river. He has just finished his farewell prayer for his country and his forefathers. Or is it a penance for the sins committed in all the great battles won? For the pain and sorrow caused for the sake of righteousness?
Sita, pure and selfless, had taken all her woes in her stride. She had never sent out the slightest signal of complaint or displeasure. She had but once offended Lakshmana during their stay in exile at Panchavati. Rama had told him to guard her when he went hunting for a beautiful deer she was pining for. She started getting worried about Rama’s safety. She even thought she had heard his wail in pain. When Lakshmana refused to leave her guard, she lost her temper. She abused him and said he would not go because he had lustful designs on her! He was taken aback by her insinuation. She had said those harsh words for the sake of Rama, to arouse anger in Lakshmana so he will go to Rama’s rescue.
During the aswamedhayagna, an elaborate month-long prayer that Rama had ordained years ago, I had found it strange, and probably an ill omen, that he had used a gold statuette of Sita to represent his wife. She was not dead. It was just that Rama had banished her from his life. He had sent her away to the wilderness of justice. True to my clairvoyant fear, by the time the yagna was over, Sita was actually no more with us on this earth.
Sage Durvasav, I remember now, had once warned our father that my brother would give up everything. His wife, his brothers, his kingdom…. He had made this prophecy in the presence of the wise Vasishtha, my father’s teacher and adviser. The worried king had decreed that the prophecy be kept a closely guarded secret.
Lakshmana is already gone. He gave himself up to River Sarayu the moment Rama wanted him to go. He walked into the welcoming arms of the river, holding his breath and keeping at bay every stream of life.
Now Rama wanted me to be the king. The dilemma revisited. I just cannot go through the same test again. Let not the past haunt me anymore.
There is no dearth of people pleading with Rama to stay back at Ayodhya and continue to rule over his kingdom of Kosala. Donning minimal clothing, wearing rings made of grass and chanting God’s praises, he is now on his way to offer himself to the river in sacrifice. Brahmin priests holding palm leaf umbrellas to keep the flame of oil lamps from getting blown out are leading the way for him. He cannot walk brusquely away. Obstructing his path are people flocking to dissuade him from going away. Rama had always been obstinately unwavering in all his decisions. And now it is unlikely that anyone would succeed in dissuading him from walking away from his world. Yes, none can change the course that Rama chooses for himself.
I have decided to follow Rama to wherever Sarayu takes us beyond this life. Downstream Sarayu will take us to Ganga, the mighty river of forgiveness and then to the deep sea of infinite mystery. I glance upstream at the beginning. The gentle breeze blowing over the water flowing down from the Himalaya would always carry the fragrance of truth.
[C K Kerala Varma is a friend of mine and a senior officer in the State Bank of India. When I read his version of the Ramayana in English, I was moved by the poetry of his language. We do not come across prose of such exquisite beauty often. I am honoured to publish his novella and I thank him for allowing me to do so. This is the first chapter. I am going to serialise it over the next few weeks. Santanu Sinha Chaudhuri]
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