Simplified and faithful rendering of the Adi Kavya-45 >>>>> Ayodhya Between Dharma and Human Desire >>>> The Exile of a Prince, The Moral Trial of a King : Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

 Simplified and faithful rendering 

of the Adi Kavya-45

Ayodhya Between Dharma and Human Desire

The Exile of a Prince, The Moral Trial of a King

Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (October 27, 2026)

 In the preceding movement of this narrative, the palace of Ayodhya had already begun to fracture under the weight of repentance. King Dasharatha, shaken by Sumantra’s earlier account, found himself suspended between authority and anguish. The departure of Rama was no longer a Kaikeyi driven event. It became a moral tremor spreading through hearts, homes, and the very air of the kingdom. If the forest received Rama in quiet dignity, Ayodhya was left to confront the echo of its own decision.

Urged by unbearable longing, Dasharatha pressed Sumantra to continue. What followed after the parting at the River Ganga? How did the princes bear the first marks of exile? What did the charioteer witness when royal grace clothed itself in ascetic simplicity? This chapter turns to that moment of transition, when silk gave way to bark, when crowns yielded to kusa grass, when protection reversed its direction, and when even nature seemed to grieve. For exile was not merely a change of place, but it was a revelation of character. And in that revelation, both forest and kingdom stand judged.

On hearing the words of Sumantra, Dasharatha urged him to narrate what followed thereafter. Sumantra replied that Rama and Lakshmana matted their hair into ascetic locks and clothed themselves in garments of bark and kusa grass. Then, crossing the sacred River Ganga, they proceeded toward Prayag. Lakshmana walked ahead, vigilant, and protective. Behind him followed Sita Devi, and after her came Sri Rama. Sumantra added that the sight pierced his heart beyond measure, and his sorrow knew no bounds.

When Sumantra yoked the horses and turned the chariot back, the animals, as though overwhelmed by Rama’s departure, shed warm tears in abundance. However much he urged them, they would neither move forward nor turn back. Even the horses seemed to sense that dharma itself was walking away from Ayodhya. When righteousness departs, even the inanimate world feels its absence. Thus, the forest journey began, yet Ayodhya’s heart remained behind, shattered.

Sumantra continued further: as he returned along the path, the flowers upon the trees had withered. Half-bloomed fruits and tender buds shrank and dried. The waters of ponds, rivers, and lakes seemed to boil in restless agitation. Leaves rustled like brittle husks in the wind. Seeing all this, his heart trembled. It was as though even the trees could not endure Rama’s separation. Because of the hardship that befell Sri Ramachandra, serpents no longer emerged in search of food. Forest elephants stood motionless where they were. The fierce beasts of the wild fell silent.

When dharma suffers, nature itself appears disturbed. The ancients perceived no division between moral order and natural harmony: a truth modern humanity is rediscovering through the intertwined crises of climate and conscience. Sumantra continued: because of Rama’s departure and the grief that overwhelmed him, even the landscape seemed altered. Lotus leaves that should have floated gracefully lay submerged in the water. Fish hid beneath the surface. Water birds were nowhere to be seen. Lotuses appeared scorched by heat, their petals shriveled. The tender blooms and lilies that once diffused fragrance now emitted none at all.

Further describing what he had witnessed, Sumantra said that in the gardens birds lay silent and motionless, their cheerful calls absent. In the city, not a single face shone with brightness. Again and again, people heaved deep sighs. As he entered without Sri Rama, citizens stood frozen: hearts pierced, speechless, unmoving, like lifeless statues. Grief shared by a community becomes a collective silence. In such moments, a city ceases to be a cluster of dwellings and becomes one wounded heart.

When the citizens beheld the chariot returning without Sri Ramachandra, they were overcome with unbearable sorrow and staggered along the royal road. Women from the terraces of lofty mansions cried aloud in anguish, Sumantra told Dasharatha. ‘What more can I say of their grief? Tears streamed from their eyes, washing away the dark collyrium and leaving them pale and swollen. Unable even to look steadily at one another, each wept without restraint.

Sumantra continued, saying that because all grieved alike, he could no longer distinguish who were friends, who were enemies, or who stood indifferent. In the matter of Sri Ramachandra, there were neither neutrals nor adversaries. All were united in sorrow. Amid the sounds of weeping horses and elephants and the heavy sighs of anxious hearts, Ayodhya seemed to mirror Kausalya herself. As the mother who bore Rama was, so was the entire city. Her sorrow was not greater because she was his mother, nor was that of others lesser because they were unrelated. To look upon her was to behold the city; to behold the city was to see her, concluded Sumantra.

Such is the mark of a truly beloved leader, the one whose absence dissolves all divisions. Rama was not merely a prince of Ayodhya, but he was its moral center. When that center moved away, the city felt unmoored. Ayodhya stood not merely as a geographical kingdom but as a living embodiment of maternal grief, its pulse beating in unison with Kausalya’s broken heart. In answering Dasharatha’s questions, Sumantra did more than recount events. He laid bare the turmoil that had overtaken the realm.

Hearing this, Dasharatha felt that Sumantra’s narration was a quiet yet piercing reminder that his action had neither upheld righteousness nor won the approval of his people. Acknowledging within himself that he had committed a grievous wrong, he opened his heart to his minister. Truth does not always accuse in raised tones. Often it reveals itself through consequences. In the suffering of his subjects, the king perceived the moral verdict upon his own deed.

Dasharatha then confessed that, driven by Kaikeyi’s sinful persuasion, and in his own folly and confusion, he acted without discernment of what ought to be done and what ought not. Though wise ministers, elders, well-wishers, and learned citizens gathered for the coronation, he admitted that he had not consulted even one of them. Blinded by attachment and clouded judgment, fearing that delay might invite disaster, he hastily committed the reckless deed.

‘Perhaps’ he continued, ‘it was destined that our lineage should decline in this manner, and that is why such overwhelming sorrow descended upon me without granting time for reflection. What was done cannot be undone. If ever I have done you any good, if you wish to repay it, or if you still regard me as your king and feel bound to obey my command, then take me at once to Sri Rama. If, however, you deem it improper for me to go, or fear that the people will follow me in great numbers, then bring Sri Rama back immediately. If I do not behold him, I shall not live long. Even as we sit speaking, he moves farther away with every passing moment.

‘Therefore’ Dasharatha implored, ‘prepare the chariot without delay and bring Rama back at once. If I do not see him with my own eyes while life still remains in me, death is certain. Sumantra! What sorrow can exceed separation from Sri Rama? If, standing at the threshold of death, I cannot behold him, what refuge remains for me? Ha Rama! Ha Lakshmana! Ha Sita Devi! Unaware that I perish in this unbearable anguish, you have left me like one abandoned, directionless, and forsaken.

Then, turning to Kausalya, Dasharatha said: ‘This grief for Rama is like a vast ocean. Its distant shore is separation from Sita. Its currents are my lamentations. Its foam is my tears. Its terrifying waves are my cries. The fish within it are my restless gestures. the entangled water-weeds are my disheveled hair. Kaikeyi is the submarine fire that burns beneath its waters. The rivers that feed it are the streams of my sorrow. The crocodiles are the cruel words of Manthara. The embankments are the boons I granted to Kaikeyi. Its immeasurable depth is Rama’s exile itself. Unless Sri Rama comes as my rescuer, I shall drown in this ocean of grief. I cannot cross it. Is there a greater sin than mine?’

Having spoken thus, Dasharatha fell unconscious. For Kausalya, grief doubled: sorrow for her son and fear for her husband. Trembling, she stood helpless. Power unchecked by counsel had turned upon itself. At last, the king realized that impulse, when entangled with attachment, could undo generations of honor. In his longing, he no longer saw merely a prince, but something sacred. Separation stripped away politics and revealed essence. As remorse deepened, pride dissolved.

The king who once commanded the world now cried out like a helpless father. The tragedy of Ayodhya had ceased to be political. It had become existential. A kingdom might survive exile, but a father could not survive repentance. Ayodhya stood suspended between life and loss. The forest received Rama. The throne rejected justice. The king was consumed by remorse, and the mother trembled between widowhood and bereavement. In the turning of events, exile transformed from a royal decree into a moral reckoning. Rama’s departure tested not only those who walked into the forest, but also the conscience of those who remained behind.

This leads to enduring questions: What is leadership without moral courage? What is power without self-restraint? What is family without fairness? And above all, when dharma walks away, what remains of a kingdom? Power, when unchecked by counsel, becomes self-destructive. The king at last realized that impulse, when mixed with attachment, could undo generations of honor. In longing, he no longer saw merely a prince, but divinity itself. Separation strips away politics and reveals essence. When remorse ripens, pride dissolves.

Kausalya, as though possessed, unaware of her own body and moving like one whose life had departed, looked at Sumantra and cried out: ‘O Sumantra! Leave me where Sri Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana are. For if I remain separated from those illustrious souls, I cannot survive even a moment. If you have not yet unharnessed the horses, please do not do it. Turn the chariot back at once. Take me swiftly to Dandakaranya (Forest Dandaka). If I do not behold them, my journey will surely be to the abode of Yama.’ In moments of overwhelming grief, a mother does not seek comfort, and instead, she seeks only nearness. Even today, distance feels unbearable when love is the bond.

Seeing Kausalya weep thus, Sumantra bowed before her and spoke gently: ‘Mother, cast aside the sorrow that Rama had left. Do not even entertain the thought that any danger may befall them in the forest. Abandon the mistaken belief that Rama is suffering. Your son moves through the woods without distress, and Lakshmana, out of reverence for dharma, desires no worldly pleasure. Having conquered his senses, he serves Sri Ramachandra steadfastly, seeking as his highest goal the attainment of Rama’s lotus feet.’

Sumantra continued: ‘As for Sita, the jewel among women, she had fixed her entire mind upon Rama. Just as she lived contentedly in her own home, so she dwells in the forest, without perceiving it as strange, without fear, without sorrow, moving about happily and courageously. Because her mind rests wholly upon her husband, she scarcely even realizes that she is in the wilderness. Just as she once wandered freely and fearlessly in royal gardens, she now moves joyfully through forests devoid of human presence. Having surrendered her mind entirely to her husband’s care, she roams even the lonely woods like a carefree child.

When the mind is anchored in devotion, circumstances lose their power to intimidate. Inner steadiness transforms unfamiliar spaces into places of belonging. Security is not always born of walls and guards. Sometimes it arises from trust, purpose, and unwavering companionship. Andhra Valmiki Vavilikolanu Subbarau observes here that, the life of devotees remains the same whether lived in a house or in a forest. To them, the home appears like a forest and the forest like a home. The essential task, wherever they are, is to keep the mind firmly fixed upon Sri Rama, without deviation.

If that is done, nothing else need be feared. Did not Sumitra herself say that the forest is Ayodhya? It is only when the mind, led by the senses, runs toward objects and engages with them that sights and sounds disturb. When the mind is concentrated wholly upon the Divine, nothing else is perceived. No sound is heard. And when nothing is seen or heard to unsettle the heart, from where can fear arise? This insight feels strikingly relevant even today: fear multiplies when attention scatters. Steadiness returns when purpose anchors the mind.

Sumantra continued: ‘For Sita, who had entrusted her very life to Sri Rama, who had placed the burden of her protection upon him and fixed her mind entirely upon him, Ayodhya without Rama is but a forest, and the forest with him is Ayodhya. How can a body devoid of mind and life experience happiness anywhere? For devotees, Sita’s life is worthy of emulation and constant remembrance. As they journeyed, she did not weep. Instead, she walked asking Rama and Lakshmana about the names of villages, towns, rivers, and trees, and about where the rivers flowed.’ Resilience is not loud endurance; it is quiet curiosity even in unfamiliar terrain.

Sumantra continued: ‘With a pure and tranquil mind, Sita moved through the forest just as playfully as one strolling in a garden near our own city. It is for the ignorant to weep for her, but not you. Neither the fatigue of travel, nor the harsh winds, nor the scorching heat altered in the least her form. This is the truth. Her face shone like the full moon. Its bloom did not fade even slightly. Her feet were red like tender sprouts, naturally radiant like lotus buds. Desiring no comfort, she did not remove her anklets, and as she walked briskly beside Sri Rama through the forest, I heard them ring sweetly.’ Grace under hardship is the quiet signature of inner strength. It does not diminish, and instead, it shines.

Sumantra further continued: ‘Taking refuge in the fortress of Sri Rama’s mighty arms, Sita does not fear even the fiercest beasts of the forest. Mother, do not grieve thinking that they suffer in the wilderness. Their story will endure upon the earth, crowned with lasting fame. You may wonder whether wandering in forests like directionless birds is an act worthy of glory, and whether it brings benefit in this world or the next. Rama went to forest to fulfill his father’s command and to demonstrate his truthfulness to the world. Living like sages in the path of vanaprastha, he is earning eternal renown through the path of dharma. Therefore, do not sorrow.’ Hearing this, Kausalya remembered her son and cried out.

Turning to her husband Dasharatha, through tears, Kausalya said: ‘You may be called generous, compassionate, truthful, and famed. But what kind of generosity and what kind of compassion was it is the question. Was it granting boons merely because a woman demands them? was it ignoring the sorrow of sons, daughters-in-law, and an entire kingdom? You are praised as truthful, steadfast, hailed as a man of sacrifice etc. Was it because, you abandon that very son to the forest, who after countless vows and austerities was borne? Did you ever consider how these tender children of yours, and daughter-in-law Sita, would endure such suffering?’

Kausalya continued: ‘Even if sons might somehow endure hardship in the forest, how will Sita bear the cold without shivering, the heat without burning, the winds without distress? Accustomed to comfort, tender in age, delicate in body, how will she wander there? how will Sita, who relished rice seasoned with lentils, pickles, and chutneys to her taste, eat tasteless, saltless grains fallen upon the ground? Reflect upon the deed you have done. How will she listen to the dreadful roars of tigers and lions without fear who delighted in songs accompanied by auspicious instruments?’

‘Where does Rama, who is like a lofty banner of Indra, lie upon the bare earth, his arm placed beneath his head as a pillow, like one without refuge, resting upon a bed of tender green grass? When a father himself, casts his child into an ocean of sorrow, who remains as protector? When shall I behold again that beloved face of my son with the hue of a blossomed lotus petal, the fragrance of the finest red lotus, eyes like lotuses, curls falling over his charming face, and a smile radiant like moonlight on the full moon?’

‘You have driven my son, my daughter-in-law, and dear Lakshmana: worthy of every comfort, into the wilderness. Is my son not your son? Is my daughter-in-law not your daughter-in-law? Can anger toward me justify such destruction? Who sets fire to his house in anger at a rat? When my son returns after fourteen years and finds Bharata ruling, he will not desire the throne. Even if offered, he will refuse. A mighty tiger never eats what another creature has left behind. If such dignity exists among animals, will Rama, foremost of men, desire a kingdom enjoyed by another? Can offerings once used in one sacrifice be used again in another?’

‘Like liquor drained of its essence, like a sacrifice without Soma, will my son desire a kingdom emptied of its worth by others? Do you think he has lived so dishonorably? If you say he does not seize the throne because he lacks valor or strength, know that it is not from weakness. Even if the fourteen worlds united in the battle, they could not instill fear in him. He went to the forest not from inability, but to uphold dharma and to guide the erring back to righteousness, bearing sorrow himself as example. With his arrows he could burn the ocean and all beings. Such a person has been undone by his own father. Do you truly know dharma? In what scripture is such an act sanctioned?’

‘You are a great monarch. You have Kaikeyi and son Bharata to attend upon you. But what is my fate? I am a woman and my first refuge is you as my husband, and if he is absent, my second refuge is my son. In the absence of both, loving relatives and brothers become my third support. Beyond these three, however much one thinks, I have like any woman, no other shelter. Because of you, an unwise man who became king, this earth and this kingdom are ruined. If there are no subjects, what is a king? Is not a king meant to exist for the people? As for me and my son, there is nothing more to say. We are already destroyed. When all are gone, live happily with your beloved and your son, enjoying incomparable pleasures.

All that what Kausalya spoke to Dasharatha implies that: ‘Virtue, when stripped of discernment, can turn into cruelty disguised as righteousness. When comfort has been lifelong, even imagining its loss wounds the heart, and such is the anguish of a mother’s love. When authority turns against affection, the deepest wound is not physical exile, but emotional abandonment. True nobility refuses what is morally compromised, even when it is legally available. Moral strength is proven not by seizing power, but by renouncing it when justice demands restraint. When leadership fails in wisdom, its damage spreads beyond the palace and wounds the very fabric of society.’

Hearing Kausalya speak thus sternly, Dasharatha could not bear the weight of grief. Falling upon the ground, he said, ‘Though she is a woman and speaks in sorrow, she speaks the truth. There is no falsehood in her words. A dharma that causes suffering to others without cause is no dharma at all. One who practices righteousness must ensure that his righteousness does not violate another’s. This I failed to consider. I have committed a great sin, such as none have committed.’ True repentance begins when one stops defending actions and begins examining consequences.

Thus, he began to reflect on what past deed of his had brought upon him such terrible suffering in this life, and fainted for a while. When Dasharatha rose from his faint, deep reflection brought to his memory the sin he once committed: the killing of a young ascetic in ignorance. Folding his hands, recalling his grave offense toward Kausalya, he bowed his head in shame, sought her grace, and said:

‘You are compassionate even toward those who oppose you. Forgive my offense. Blinded by desire, I committed a great wrong against you. In that sense, I have been your enemy. Yet I bow to you with folded hands. For a chaste wife, whether her husband possesses virtue or fault, he is her visible deity. You are unparalleled in devotion to dharma. You understand what is right and wrong in this world. Endowed with noble qualities as you are, it is not appropriate to wound me further with harsh words when I already suffer the agony of losing my son? You please show compassion.’  Even the powerful must one day bow before the moral strength of those they have wronged.

Seeing her husband plead so humbly, Kausalya, moved by fear of violating dharma, placed his folded hands upon her head and wept. She said: ‘I fall at your feet and pray. I am but a woman, lacking wisdom. It is for you to guide me, not to appeal me. By doing so, you harm my own dharma, and such humiliation is equal to killing me, which is not righteousness. Truth maybe dearer to you than life, dharma maybe your ornament, but stronger than them, is the grief of a mother. when I remember my son my heart burns. Forgive me. It has been five nights since Rama departed to the forest. But, in my sorrow they feel like five years.’

As Kausalya spoke thus, the sun set and night spread across the sky. The king, though he heard her wise and gentle words, lay restless in anguish and closed his eyes in sorrow. Night descended upon Ayodhya, but no darkness outside could equal the turmoil within the king’s heart. The palace fell silent, yet Dasharatha’s mind did not rest. Kausalya’s words had pierced deeper than accusation. They had awakened memory. Grief had stripped him of royal pride. Repentance had opened a sealed chamber of the past.

For sorrow does not arise without a seed. What appears as sudden misfortune is often the flowering of actions long buried in time. The king began to sense that this agony was not born merely of Kaikeyi’s demand, nor of his weakness in that moment. It was older. It had a history. It had a voice waiting to be heard. As the night deepened, so did recollection. A sound once heard in a distant forest, an arrow once released in haste, and a cry that had never truly faded. The exile of Rama was not the beginning of this tragedy. It was its consequence. In the stillness before dawn, Dasharatha understood that destiny was not punishing him, but it was returning to him. What follows next would be unfolding the hidden cause behind the king’s unbearable grief, a forgotten act, a sage’s curse, and the slow ripening of karma.

>>>>> Photographs Courtesy Rama Bhakta Vijaya Raghava Dasu

{{From my Published Book ‘Simplified and Faithful Rendering of the Adi Kavya’

Valmiki Ramayana: The Greatest Epic (Bala and Ayodhya Kandas)}}

(This Book is free of cost for all those who are interested to read the English Version of Valmiki Ramayana, provided they collect it from me in person preferably. Mobile: 8008137012)

 

The Narrative of Navigating Human Ecologies >>>>> 29th Friday Evening Team Meet (FETE): Making a Difference >>>Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

 The Narrative of Navigating Human Ecologies

29^th Friday Evening Team Meet (FETE)

Making a Difference

October 23, 2026: Press Club Hyderabad

Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (October 24, 2026)

The twenty-ninth consecutive gathering of like-minded journalist friends at the Press Club Hyderabad unfolded as a deeply reflective session that fundamentally altered the trajectory of the group’s ongoing weekly conversations. Moving away from the celebratory milestone of the previous week, the evening transitioned into a profound, objective exploration of the complex human ecologies that define public life, professional careers, and institutional governance.

The gathering saw a shift in its participant dynamics, welcoming back Saye Sekhar, accompanied by his former bank officer friend Ramesh, and also Lalita Iyer, whose presence had been missed during the previous session. Conversely, senior journalist Amar was unable to participate due to a sudden pressing urgency, leaving the core table to be anchored by Murthy, Subba Rao, Bharath Babu, and I. Club Secretary Ramesh greeted and was with us for dew minutes, extending his normal courtesies.

This specific alignment of analytical minds naturally steered the conversational convergence away from light anecdotes and toward a rigorous, message-oriented analysis of human behavior, professional ambition, and historical memory. The core thematic focus of the multilogue centered on a critical examination of the diverse array of personalities that media and PR professionals encounter over decades of active public service.

Across careers spanning journalism, politics, social activism, and the state bureaucracy, the participants mapped out the behavioral spectrum of individuals of immense reputation, popularity, and influence. Objectively stripping away the veneer of public relations, the table analyzed the dualities inherent in leadership and authority. The discussion candidly categorized these figures.

They vary as: contrasting those who deeply value lifelong professional friendships with those characterized by erratic uniqueness, unpredictable infamy, or deep-seated idiosyncrasies. FETE Members observed that the pressure of navigating high-stakes public environments often breeds split-minded tendencies or a propensity to ill-treat subordinates, political juniors, and peers alike. The FETE members reached a near consensus regarding a troubling behavioral pattern among certain political elites.

Despite receiving crucial assistance in the nascent phases of their careers, these figures conveniently forget their benefactors upon climbing the ladder of power ‘by hook or by crook.’ This opportunistic shift stands in sharp contrast to the exemplary, supportive approach historically demonstrated by their own illustrious families under similar circumstances. Using a poignant structural metaphor, the participants conceptualized these figures as mere airline or railway passengers: people who willingly share a temporary journey but feel no lasting loyalty to those beside them once they reach their destination.

Some remain in perpetual, meaningful contact, while others fade entirely into obscurity, completely unaware of what it truly means to maintain a human or professional touch within a fast-evolving social landscape. This analytical framework naturally expanded into an exploration of the dynamic boundaries of career mobility and institutional power. The participants examined the trajectories of individuals who excelled in their respective fields by beginning their journeys at the bottom or middle tiers of organizational hierarchies, only to eventually occupy the highest available positions of authority.

The table reached an objective consensus that such rapid ascent is rarely accidental; rather, it is the result of a zealous, calculated pursuit of power, often executed by employing every tactical and strategic mechanism available within corporate or political frameworks. This observation provided a perfect segue for the sharing of deep, firsthand institutional histories. I for myself, contributed a detailed exposition drawn from over five decades of close association with political titans, media leaders, and the foundational core of the state bureaucracy, alongside grassroots activist networks working for community welfare.

My professional journey included indirect associations with four to five Chief Ministers, and crucially, direct PR engagement with two formidable Chief Ministers: one of Erstwhile Andhra Pradesh and the other Telangana’s first CM. The table based on my revelations and drawn from my experience and association, analyzed how these two leaders collectively shaped contemporary history: one laying the rigorous institutional foundation for statehood, while the other strategically realized the actual achievement of a separate Telangana state.

However, the FETE members as a consensus also deliberated on ‘How they Could Have Done Better’ as leaders in engaging human relations. These reflections were further enriched by objective insights derived from my close collaboration with the Governor of the erstwhile unified Andhra Pradesh, as well as my time navigating the high-level educational mandates of the Apex State Training Institute. A particular narrative from my experience that resonated deeply with the FETE members was the 1989 Lok Sabha-Assembly Election scenario.

The unexpected defeat of serving Chief Minister NT Rama Rao in the Kalvakurthy Assembly Segment, alongside the broader defeat of the TDP across the state, vividly illustrated how heads of some highly influential non-governmental organizations (NGOs) can decisively sway political outcomes. It goes without saying that, one such influence resulted in securing a comfortable majority by Chittaranjan Das, who eventually became a Minister in Dr Channa Reddy’s cabinet. And for some he was then: ‘Giant Killer.’

The historical depth of the evening deepened as GK Murthy provided a sobering, counter-balancing narrative regarding the immense institutional vulnerabilities faced by media professionals. Murthy recounted the horrifying administrative and political realities of the 1975 National Emergency, meticulously explaining how the severe suspension of civil liberties and intense state censorship directly impacted his technical job and early career path.

This historical testimony served as a vital case study for the younger participants, demonstrating how macroeconomic and political shifts can abruptly alter individual professional trajectories. Building upon this narrative of media resilience, Saye Sekhar and Lalita Iyer shared critical milestones from their own respective journalistic journeys, emphasizing the evolving ethical responsibilities and operational challenges encountered by investigative reporters across different eras.

A central, unifying focal point of the night’s historical retrospection was the objective commemoration of the late Adiraju Venkateshwar Rao, a towering figure in Indian journalism who carved out an indelible legacy not only within Hyderabad but also across the highly competitive national media landscapes of New Delhi. The table remembered Adiraju as an exceptionally lively, serious, deeply knowledgeable, and uncompromising journalist throughout his entire life.

To illustrate his profound national impact, the participants reconstructed an iconic historical moment from a largely attended press conference in New Delhi, where the then Prime Minister of India, Late PV Narasimha Rao, explicitly pointed him out by name, acknowledging his sharp presence with the call of ‘Adiraju.’ Beyond his fierce professional independence, the group fondly and objectively reminisced about Adiraju’s enduring legacy of mentorship, highlighting his ever-prepared, innately helping nature that constantly lifted younger reporters entering the field.

As the evening drew toward its natural conclusion, the intellectual rigor of the multilogue was balanced by the traditional elements of the Press Club gatherings, with Social (Drink) refreshments, shared snacks, light-hearted laughter, and moments of genuine camaraderie dominating the table before the session officially concluded. The 29^th gathering successfully reinforced the eternal motto of the team, setting a sophisticated baseline of institutional memory and historical analysis that seamlessly paves the way for the next consecutive Friday meeting.

An Evening of Wit, Wine, and Wise Recollections >>>>> Five of us in Ponnala Lakshmaiah’ House Yesterday Evening : Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

 An Evening of Wit, Wine, and Wise Recollections

Five of us in Ponnala Lakshmaiah’ 

House Yesterday Evening

Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (October 23, 2026)

            A pleasant autumn evening unfolded at the Jubilee Hills residence of 83-year-old veteran politician Ponnala Lakshmaiah, seamlessly bridging the gap between old-world statesman-like hospitality and a profound exploration of India's evolving socio-political landscape. The evening brought together a distinct group of intellectual minds, and I had the occasion to join them and collect few learning points, which will reflect here.

They are: Dr Sanjaya Baru, renowned political commentator, author of The Accidental Prime Minister, and former Media Advisor to Prime Minister Manmohan Singh; S Venkat Narayan, senior independent journalist, former executive editor of India Today, and biographer of NT Rama Rao and Chandrababu Naidu; and Dr Parakala Prabhkar, a sharp political economist, author, and deeply insightful analyst.

In the context of today's polarized political ecosystem, these three figures represent a crucial segment of India's intellectual vanguard: public intellectuals who maintain the courage and nuance to question structural injustices, challenge mainstream narratives, and subtly yet forcefully defend democratic institutions. Ponnala Lakshmaiah himself anchored the gathering perfectly.

As a former Information Technology and Communications Minister for erstwhile Andhra Pradesh, a lifelong Congress loyalist, and now a respected voice in the Bharat Rashtra Samithi, his political journey reflects a lifetime of dedicated public service, administrative acumen, and a deep-seated commitment to regional development.

The evening was a masterclass in unparalleled hosting, defined by a ‘Social Drink’ sequence that progressed with a speed and velocity that left the guests delightfully struggling to cope. It began with the crisp popping of a pint of fine Champagne, seamlessly giving way to expensive Royal Salute Scotch specially kept for such a gathering, and ultimately leading to an exquisite, aged Australian wine, interspersed with a relentless, quick succession of perfectly paired appetizers.

They were ranging from prawns, eggs, and non-veg delicacies to classic boiled groundnuts, cashews, fine cheeses, and fresh apple pieces. Eventually, a choicest dinner left the guests entirely nonplussed as to which culinary masterpiece they could possibly bypass, forcing an unawares surrender to every single dish. The entire experience was set against a striking visual backdrop of dramatic ‘Prussian Blue Table Mats’ that lent a royal, highly sophisticated touch to the dining room.

The premium spirits were served in exceptionally heavy, brilliantly cut, authentic Waterford crystal glasses bought directly in Ireland. As the drinks poured, Lakshmaiah shared a deeply moving learning point about his ‘Family Chef’ Manga of over two decades, a woman from a backward, below-poverty-line family in Tamil Nadu. With immense pride, he recounted her incredible grit and concerted determination to educate her daughters.

Ponnala said that, the elder one is now an IT professional married to a software engineer, and the younger one is on the absolute precipice of cracking the Union Civil Services, a testament to the transformative power of dedication. However, the tone for this memorable gathering was set the moment the guests arrived, when a warm surprise awaited them, and before being led to the dining area.

Sanjaya Baru, Venkat Narayan, Parakala Prabhakar, and me were each formally felicitated in traditional Indian style with an elegant shawl presented by Lakshmaiah. Along with the shawl, he gifted them a copy of his Telugu biography, ‘Once Upon a Time, a Lakshmaiah… From a Remote Village towards the Wide World,’ alongside a copy of the International Edition of ‘Most Fabulous,’ which profiles him as one of the world's most fabulous personalities.

Photographs were clicked to freeze the moment, a warm camaraderie that persisted all the way until Lakshmaiah saw them off at their vehicles in traditional, hospitable Telangana style.

The conversation initially flowed into lighter, highly entertaining veins right after the Champagne was poured, as Lakshmaiah narrated the history of his curated, small collection of glasses. This prompted a cheerful recollection of Sanjaya Baru’s sponsored visit to Scotland.

He traveled there to personally witness the distillation of ‘Single Malts and Blended Whiskies,’ which later inspired a memorable ‘Times of India Article’ where he recounted tasting drops of the spirits to discern their intricate differences. The table collectively observed, with a touch of shared humor, that if one studies the industry deeply enough, many variations across the same manufacturing houses ultimately share the same foundational spirit.

The banter then shifted toward political satire, touching upon actor and host ‘Shekhar Suman,’ whose modern digital talk show ‘Shekhar Tonite’ frequently delivers sharp, satirical takes on Prime Minister Narendra Modi while maintaining a nostalgic, poetic reverence for former Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee.

This led the guests to reflect on the current nationwide corporate-political alignment, noting how the phenomenon of high-stakes industrial families quietly anchoring or opposing ruling regimes has remained a uniquely Indian reality since the days of Jawaharlal Nehru.

Nostalgia for the golden era of Indian print media was palpable as the group reminisced about the legendary editors and columnists of the old Indian Express and National Press titans like Frank Moraes, Dom Moraes, RK Vepa, Nandan Kagal, Sitanshu Das, and the unparalleled Hindu GK Reddy, drawing stark, passing comparisons to the fast-paced, noisy nature of contemporary journalism. This smoothly transitioned into a deep historical retrospective on PV Narasimha Rao.

Ponnala Lakshmaiah reminisced about his own political upbringing under PV's mentorship, which originally inspired him to return from the United States, settle back into Indian politics, and ascend the ladder as an MLA, Minister, and PCC President. Lakshmaiah recounted being a literal witness to the historic, foundational meeting between PV Narasimha Rao and Dr Manmohan Singh in 1991, occurring just a couple of days before PV was formally elected as the Congress Parliamentary Party leader to head a minority government.

The table debated the exact mechanics of Manmohan Singh's entry into the cabinet as Finance Minister, corroborating that the post was first offered to IG Patel, who declined, after which PC. Alexander prevailed upon Manmohan Singh to accept. The discussion also circled back to the intense political maneuvering of an ambitious Sharad Pawar, who did his utmost to secure the Prime Ministership at the time, only to eventually throw his support behind PV.

PV however, brilliantly outmaneuvered Pawar later, by sending him back to Maharashtra politics: a move the table viewed as the definitive capping of Pawar's national-level prime ministerial career. Adding to the rich tapestry of 1991 anecdotes, Sanjaya Baru recollected his own experience of meeting PV on the very morning the political situation was fluid, just hours before his elevation as Prime Minister-designate.

Then about trying to meet after PV was PM designate. Emerging from his car and walking on foot due to the immense security and crowds, Baru found himself temporarily blocked at the gates, watching in amusement as a very senior Congress politician actively turned his head away to avoid eye contact and avoid helping a young journalist secure entry. PV's multifaceted genius and linguistic brilliance remained the central anchor of the evening, as every individual present shared a distinct personal touchpoint with the late Prime Minister.

Venkat Narayan, reminded by Parakala, Sanjay, and me recalled his ground-breaking days at India Today in 1983, where his reporting and political predictions accurately captured the thunderous, historic rise of NT Rama Rao's Telugu Desam Party in Andhra Pradesh, alongside his sharp analyses of Indira Gandhi’s staging a comeback second time, after voted out. To draw a sharp contrast between the past and the present state of democratic tolerance, Baru narrated a famous, powerful anecdote from September 1977.

A young, firebrand JNU Students' Union President, Sitaram Yechury, led a massive student march right to the residence of former Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. Standing just inches away from her, Yechury read out a fierce, highly critical student memorandum demanding her resignation as the Chancellor of the university. Instead of reacting with state power or anger, Indira Gandhi stood in perfect, dignified silence, listening to the stinging critique of her regime: which was captured in an iconic photograph that exemplified how the student leaders of 1974 were truly the original, fearless ‘Gen Z’ long before the term existed.

As the night steadily melted into the early hours of the morning, the conversation inevitably turned toward the baffling contemporary political climate, raising heavy, unanswered questions: What exactly is happening to the fabric of the country? Who is truly supporting whom behind the scenes? Which massive corporate houses are anchoring the government, and which ones are fueling the opposition, and what are their ultimate long-term motives?

Will the systemic anxieties of the current electoral apparatus truly be solved if central figures like Chief Election Commissioner Gyanesh Kumar step aside? It was collectively agreed that some structural questions are best left unanswered to the passage of time. Realizing that hours had flown by in a flash of brilliant, deep, and deeply missed intellectual stimulation, the gathering reluctantly drew to a close.

Sanjaya Baru had departed slightly earlier, offering a profoundly heartwarming reason: his well-educated, 99-year-old mother was waiting up for him at home, proving that no matter how formidable one's stature is in the corridors of national power, a mother's watchful eye remains the ultimate anchor. The remaining friends parted ways, thoroughly nourished by the vintage spirits, the stellar cuisine, and a rare, comforting return to the lost art of meaningful socio-political conversation.

Simplified and faithful rendering of the Adi Kavya-44 >>>>> Ayodhya in Agony: The Kingdom Without Rama: Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

 Ayodhya in Agony: The Kingdom Without Rama

A King’s Remorse and the Ocean of Separation

Simplified and faithful rendering 

of the Adi Kavya-44

Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (October 21, 2026)

            In the previous chapter, the forest of Chitrakoota had slowly transformed into a dwelling sanctified by discipline, devotion, and acceptance. Amid flowering trees and flowing waters, Sri Rama shaped exile into a life of quiet purpose. Nature received him. The mountain stood witness. The hermitage was consecrated. Yet while serenity settled upon Chitrakoota, Ayodhya began to unravel. The departure that rooted Rama in the forest left a kingdom rootless. What was peace there became anguish here. What was renunciation in exile became desolation in the capital. The narrative now turns from the stillness of Chitrakoota to the tremor of a city that had lost its moral center.

Grief-stricken Sumantra and Guha stood watching Sri Rama until he vanished from sight. Speaking only of him, absorbed in the pain of separation, they lingered long before returning to their abodes. After Sita, Rama, and Lakshmana crossed the Ganga, tidings of their progress reached Guha day by day through messengers: the first night beneath a tree, the second at Bharadwaja’s hermitage, the third upon the banks of the Yamuna, the fourth toward Chitrakoota. On the fifth day, the account was complete.

Hearing all this, Sumantra, with Guha’s leave, turned his chariot toward Ayodhya. Sorrow weighed upon him, yet the road revealed fragrant forests, flowing rivers, and thriving towns. Though his heart burned, his eyes could not deny the world’s beauty. Such is the human condition: grief may cloud the spirit, but life continues to unfold before it. The world does not halt for private anguish; it moves forward, indifferent yet quietly instructive.

When Sumantra entered Ayodhya, he found the city unnaturally silent. It appeared desolate, almost abandoned. No horses neighed in the courtyards, no elephants stood adorned at gateways, no bustling citizens filled the streets, no royal presence animated the avenues. The city seemed scorched by the fire of Rama’s separation. With tears streaming down his face, Sumantra drove through streets that felt as though they were smoldering in grief. Citizens, their faces swollen with sorrow, stopped his chariot and anxiously asked of Rama’s whereabouts.

Sumantra replied that, having obeyed Rama’s command on the banks of the Ganga, he had returned alone, for Rama had journeyed onward into exile. Hearing this, the people cried aloud, overcome with anguish. When righteous leadership departs, it is not merely a throne that falls vacant; the collective heart of a people feels orphaned. A kingdom may endure in structure, yet collapse in spirit. Some wept openly. Others lamented in hushed despair. Many stood stunned, unable to comprehend their loss. Gathering in small groups, they asked one another what remained to be done.

Several declared that life without Rama was no life at all. At charities, sacrifices, sacred assemblies, and even weddings, his name was uttered with tears. In every gathering arose the same question: would they ever behold him again? Some reflected that without Rama there was no happiness; others felt that without his presence there could be no true liberation, no blessedness, no enduring good. Gradually a shared conviction took root among them, that, only reunion with Rama could restore meaning to their lives.

They cried out together: ‘For us who are helpless, Sri Rama was as a father. If such a protector departs, who remains to guide us? In distress, a father is refuge, and if he himself leaves, where shall we turn? How unfortunate we are that a soul so righteous, so compassionate, so noble-hearted had gone, leaving us thus to grieve! Rama always reflected upon what would bring happiness to the people, what would be dear to them, what would ensure their welfare, and he acted accordingly. He guarded us like a father guards his children.’ Their lament was not merely for a prince, but for a presence that embodied justice, affection, and moral clarity.

Societies instinctively recognize integrity. Titles may command obedience, but character alone commands love. When leadership is rooted in dharma, people do not merely follow, but they feel that they belong. At this juncture, Andhra Valmiki Vavilikolanu Subbarau, in his Mandaram, observes with poignancy that one who has once experienced the living presence of the Divine through devotion and then loses that awareness is indeed most unfortunate. Thus began Ayodhya’s long night, a kingdom awakening to the irreversible cost of a single decision.

On the day Sri Rama departed for the forest, many citizens had fallen to the ground like creepers severed at the root. When they later heard the sound of Sumantra’s returning chariot, a tremor of hope stirred within them. For a fleeting moment, some imagined that Sri Ramachandra himself had returned. But as they gazed from their windows and saw the chariot without Rama, that hope dissolved into deeper despair. They lacked even the strength to step into the streets. Sumantra, unable to endure the sorrow in their eyes, and ashamed that they might question him as to why he had left Rama in the forest, a question for which he possessed no answer, covered his face with a cloth, and drove swiftly toward the royal palace, hoping to avoid being stopped.

Even after alighting, he moved hurriedly, fearing that any pause would invite the crowd to surround him. Meanwhile, citizens gathered in anxious clusters, waiting to hear of Rama and to learn of their king’s condition. When a nation undergoes moral shock, silence spreads more swiftly than proclamation. In such an hour, a messenger carries not merely news, but the weight of unspoken blame. From modest dwellings to seven-tiered mansions, from the homes of nobles to the inner quarters of royalty, women stood upon balconies and terraces, searching the road below, and wept when Rama was nowhere to be seen.

Their voices dissolved into broken sounds of anguish as they looked helplessly at one another. Long streams of tears flowed, as though grief itself had found visible channels. The collyrium (eye-lotion) lining their eyes melted and ran, leaving pale streaks upon their faces while tears traced burning paths across their cheeks. Within the inner palaces, where the queens of King Dasaratha remained near him, sorrow was restrained but no less intense. They wept softly, subdued by proximity to the stricken king. Among themselves they wondered how Sumantra would answer Kausalya. Whether he spoke or remained silent, what comfort could there be? How were they to continue living, and for what purpose?

They reflected upon Kausalya’s endurance, that she still bore the weight of her body despite separation from Sri Rama, and they marveled at the strength such survival demanded. If grief of this magnitude consumed the heart, what meaning remained in sustaining life? How could such sorrow be borne? These questions lingered not only in whispers but in the silence between them. Grief, in its extremity, does not merely wound the heart, but it unsettles the very instinct to endure. In moments of irreversible loss, even the act of breathing demands quiet courage.

As the royal women thus lamented, Sumantra, hearing their sorrow, entered the palace, which seemed scorched by an unseen fire of anguish. Passing through successive chambers, he reached the eighth inner apartment. There he beheld King Dasaratha, spirit broken, body weakened, consumed by separation from his son, and seated within the white palace, yet devoid of royal radiance. Sumantra bowed low before him and began to convey all the words spoken by Sri Rama.

Dasaratha listened without interruption. As Sumantra concluded, the king’s mind, overwhelmed by agitation, gave way, and he collapsed to the ground in a faint. The women present cried out in distress and rushed to raise him. With Sumitra’s support, Kausalya lifted the fallen monarch and reminded him that Sumantra had returned as the messenger of Sri Ramachandra, he who accomplished even the impossible. If the messenger had come back from the forest, there was yet news to be heard.

But sorrow soon gave way to reproach. Kausalya questioned her husband as to why he now shrank in shame, as though suddenly aware of the unrighteousness of his deed. With restrained anguish, she spoke of his fear of Kaikeyi, for whose sake he had not even dared inquire after his own son, and urged him to gather courage and speak openly. Her words carried the weight of accumulated grief: once a rash decision was enacted, regret cannot reverse it; and when accountability was delayed, suffering deepens. The palace, which once echoed with royal authority, now bore witness to the consequences of unguarded promise and unexamined resolve.

Thus, Ayodhya’s sorrow, once dispersed among its people, settled fully within the palace walls. The grief of the kingdom found embodiment in the collapse of its king. Having spoken, Kausalya herself was overcome by intensified anguish. She too fainted and fell to the ground. The women of the inner chambers, beholding her condition, cried aloud in despair, and their lamentation filled the halls. After some time, Dasaratha regained consciousness. Turning immediately to Sumantra, his longing fixed upon his eldest son, he sought to hear every detail.

Sumantra approached respectfully, prepared to recount all that he had witnessed. The king began to question him with restless urgency. How was Sri Rama, who had been destined for royal comfort, passing his days in exile? Beneath what trees did he dwell? Upon what harsh ground did he rest? In which lonely forests did he wander? How did those tender youths endure wildernesses filled with serpents and wild beasts? He inquired especially about Sita, delicate, devoted, unacquainted with hardship, untouched by guile, and wondered how she had descended from the chariot and walked into the forest depths.

Each question revealed not merely curiosity, but the torment of imagination. For a parent, separation is pain; yet imagining the lost comfort of a beloved child deepens that pain beyond measure. Dasaratha then spoke words of praise to Sumantra, observing that he had been blessed with the rare fortune of witnessing with his own eyes Rama and Lakshmana entering the forest. Such a sight, the king declared, had sanctified his very birth. Yet praise quickly yielded again to longing. He asked Sumantra to recount in detail all that had transpired when Sri Rama commanded him to return.

‘What had Rama said? What words had Sita spoken? How had Lakshmana borne himself? Where had they chosen to reside, and by what means did they sustain their bodies?’ In these questions lay more than inquiry. When the presence of the noble cannot be attained, remembrance of their words and deeds becomes a form of solace. In separation, memory itself assumes the character of prayer. Seeing the king thus overwhelmed, Sumantra too was overcome with grief. Tears rose and choked his voice; his words faltered and broke as he began to speak.

He conveyed first the message of Sri Rama: that he bowed in reverence to his father, offering repeated prostrations in spirit at his feet; that he sent salutations, according to propriety, to all elders and well-wishers; and that he inquired with affection about the welfare of the women of the inner palace. Thereafter, Sumantra said, Rama had instructed him to approach Mother Kausalya, bow fully before her, ask after her well-being, and only then convey his words. Sumantra then repeated Rama’s message to his mother.

‘Rama urged her to continue performing all duties as before, not to neglect sacred observances on account of sorrow, and to tend the consecrated fires at the proper times. She was to remain steadfast in her dharma as a devoted wife, not to withdraw from Dasaratha in resentment, nor to dwell upon the suffering caused under Kaikeyi’s influence. He pleaded her to relinquish pride in noble lineage and to conduct herself in a manner that would not wound Kaikeyi’s heart, who by then stood in equal status as queen. Even in exile, Rama’s concern rested not upon his own hardship, but upon the preservation of harmony in the household.

Sumantra continued, recounting that Sri Rama, his eyes filled with tears, had further instructed him thus: Kausalya was to remember that Kaikeyi’s son would be the future king. Rama had observed, that Kings were rendered venerable not merely by seniority but by charity and righteous conduct. Therefore, she was to keep firmly in mind the principles of Raja Dharma. When Bharata returned, she was to inquire after his welfare on Rama’s behalf and to address him with the dignity due to a reigning monarch.

Sumantra also conveyed what Rama desired Kausalya to communicate to Bharata: that he should act with fairness toward all his mothers, harbor no thoughts that would cause distress to their aged father, and enjoy royal privilege only along the path indicated by him. Even in exile, Rama’s concern rested upon preserving order within the household and the kingdom. His words bore no trace of grievance, only an unwavering commitment to harmony. True nobility reveals itself most clearly when wronged, it seeks order, not revenge.

The palace thus heard the magnanimity of the one who had departed. Rama had further asked that Bharata be told to regard Kausalya, whose love for her son ran deep, as he would his own mother. Just as a mother’s affection toward her child was natural, so too should Kausalya’s love for Rama never be misjudged as partiality. Having spoken these words, Sumantra said, Sri Ramachandra had lowered his head, his eyes reddened like blossoming lotuses and brimming with tears. Overcome by emotion, he could speak no further and fell silent. In that silence lay his resolve: though wronged, he guarded relationships from fracture, refusing to let affection become a seed of division.

Sumantra then recounted the words of Lakshmana, whose tone had differed sharply. His voice, he said, trembled with indignation, and his eyes burned with restrained fury. Lakshmana had asked that the king be questioned: what offence had the eldest son, Sri Ramachandra, committed that he should be banished to the forest? Was it because he was not Kaikeyi’s child that such affliction had been imposed? A command unworthy of execution had been accepted as binding, and a deed that ought never to have been done had been performed as though it were righteous duty. Thus spoke Lakshmana, unable to reconcile obedience with justice.

Lakshmana further told Sumantra that: ‘Perhaps Dasharatha might say that, it was not wrong to fulfil a boon once granted?’ If so, did Rama at that time ask to be exiled? Did Bharata then ask to be crowned king? Were the boons asked then identical to what was demanded later? Did the king question this? Even if he argues they were the same, how could one grant boons that were against scripture, harmful to others, condemned by the world? Scriptures forbid abandoning one’s only and eldest son. Can one fulfil a vow that violates dharma. By what law does a younger son inherit the throne, which by all means was due to the elder? Should Bharata not have refused? Since the king transgressed scriptural propriety, there was no penance for such a sin.’

Yet Lakshmana’s vehemence was not born of rebellion alone, but it arose from wounded devotion. When authority appears to deviate from justice, the heart most loyal to righteousness feels the first sting. He had further declared, Sumantra recounted, that no fault lay in Rama. If destiny were invoked as explanation, then what cause had set destiny in motion? Fate itself did not operate without antecedent reason. If the king had consented knowingly to such an act, why then was he consumed by regret? Tears, Lakshmana suggested, were silent witnesses against the decision itself.

Sumantra continued to relay Lakshmana’s words. The princes, he had said, grieved not merely for their exile but for the manner in which it had been decreed, contrary to moral order and undertaken without due reflection. If an action were truly righteous, why should it be followed by lamentation? Anticipating reproach for speaking harshly of his father, Lakshmana had confessed that, in that moment, the filial bond itself seemed eclipsed by a deeper allegiance. One who committed so grievous an act could scarcely be recognized in the fullness of that sacred relation. For him, he had declared, Rama alone embodied elder brother, father, guide, and kin. Apart from Rama, no other bond held meaning. In that fierce declaration lay the measure of his character: lineage receded before loyalty to embodied dharma.

Thus, the voices of the forest, Rama’s restraint and Lakshmana’s flame-like indignation, seemed to resound within the palace of Ayodhya. Lakshmana had further commanded that the king be addressed in his own words: if Dasharatha still desired that the title of ‘King retain meaning after abandoning Sri Rama, let him declare how he intended to win the hearts of the people in comparison with Rama. For this act, Lakshmana had said, perhaps only Kaikeyi and Bharata might find cause for satisfaction, and none else. Whether the people were pleased or not, such a deed had shaken the very fitness to rule.

Never, Lakshmana asserted, had even an unrighteous sovereign committed an act so opposed to moral order. Therefore, if kingship were to retain dignity, the king ought to relinquish it. In Lakshmana’s protest lay not merely anger at a decision, but a challenge to the moral legitimacy of power itself; for authority severed from righteousness stands diminished in spirit. Having conveyed the distinct tones of Rama and Lakshmana, Sumantra then described the scene he had witnessed. Sri Rama had spoken with gentleness and filial reverence, Lakshmana with burning intensity. Sita, unaccustomed to sorrow and overwhelmed by events, appeared bewildered, as though the world around her had lost direction.

Sumantra continued and said: Sita uttered little. Tears flowed silently as she beheld her husband’s grief-stricken face. Lakshmana stood vigilant, bow in hand, eyes fixed unwaveringly upon his brother. Rama himself stood with folded hands, tears descending, not for his own hardship but for the pain his departure caused others. Sita’s gaze had moved between Sumantra and the departing chariot, heavy with unspoken anguish. In that forest clearing stood three living ideals: devotion, loyalty, and responsibility, and each bearing sorrow for the sake of the other. Their suffering was not self-regarding; it arose from love.

Thus, ended Sumantra’s account of that parting in the forest. The palace, already burdened with grief, bore the added weight of remembered virtue and unspoken reproach. The king had heard of Rama’s obedience, Lakshmana’s indignation, and Sita’s silent endurance. Yet the narrative of exile was not complete. Hearing these words, Dasaratha urged Sumantra to recount what followed. Sumantra then continued: Rama and Lakshmana matted their hair into ascetic locks and clothed themselves in bark and kusa grass.

>>>> Photographs courtesy Rama Bhakta Vijaya Raghava Dasu

{{From my Published Book ‘Simplified and Faithful Rendering of the Adi Kavya’

Valmiki Ramayana: The Greatest Epic (Bala and Ayodhya Kandas)}}

(This Book is free of cost for all those who are interested to read the English Version of Valmiki Ramayana, provided they collect it from me in person preferably. Mobile: 8008137012)