Across the Boundaries of Kosala:
Dharma Set in Motion
The Journey
Beyond Attachment
Simplified and faithful rendering
of
the Adi Kavya-39
Vanam Jwala
Narasimha Rao
The
previous chapter of the Ayodhya Kanda closed upon a haunting stillness.
Ayodhya, once vibrant with coronation music and festive expectation, had fallen
silent as though the very pulse of the city had paused. In that silence, the
deeper meaning of exile began to unfold. What appeared outwardly as loss was
inwardly the commencement of a greater moral drama. As we now move forward in
this article, the narrative shifts from the collective grief of Ayodhya to the
steady movement of Rama away from familiar boundaries.
The
chariot that once symbolized royal transition now carries renunciation into
unfamiliar lands. This section marks not merely a geographical crossing, but a
crossing of emotional, political, and civilizational thresholds. In every age,
moments arise when societies must confront whether their strength lies in power
or in principle. Rama’s journey now begins to answer that question through
action rather than proclamation.
A poignant
portrayal of the city of Ayodhya, once resonant with song, celebration, dance,
and instrumental music, and fallen into profound silence was portrayed in its
concluding paragraphs. It was a striking image painted by Valmiki in his Adi
Kavya, the Sanskrit Ramayana, and echoed with equal devotion by Vavilikolanu
Subbarau (Vasudasa Swamy) in his Telugu rendering Mandaram. The imagery
conveyed a powerful truth: a civilization without its moral center resembles a
vast ocean whose waters have dried away.
Thus
concluded a deeply moving phase of the Ayodhya Kanda, an episode marked not by
dramatic battle, but by the quiet valor of Rama’s renunciation. For modern
readers, this image remains strikingly relevant: prosperity, art, and culture
flourish only so long as they are anchored in righteousness. When ethical
foundations weaken, even the most magnificent cities grow hollow within.
Sri Rama,
revolving steadily in his mind the command of his father, journeyed onward
through the remainder of the night, accompanied by Sita and Lakshmana. The
chariot moved swiftly, carrying them far from the grieving capital. Gradually,
that serene night gave way to dawn. They crossed beyond the familiar boundaries
of their homeland, passing villages whose outskirts were fertile and
cultivated, and forests richly adorned with blossoming trees.
Yet those
who beheld them could not restrain their murmurs. Many openly declared that
King Dasaratha, overcome by passion and misplaced attachment, had consented to
Rama’s exile. History often judges rulers not merely by their intentions, but
by the consequences of their decisions. In times of moral crisis, public trust
becomes fragile, and even private weakness can reshape the destiny of a
kingdom.
Voices
rose in grief and indignation. Kaikeyi was denounced as cruel and sinful,
accused of sending the noble prince into exile. In contrast, Rama was praised
as virtuous, intellectually radiant, compassionate, and master of his senses.
The people wondered aloud how Sita, so delicate, so esteemed, would endure the
hardships of forest life. Some condemned Kaikeyi as hot-tempered and devoid of
propriety, unable to recognize the treasure she had cast away.
Yet Rama
listened without interruption or resentment. Absorbed in his vow, he quietly
crossed the boundaries of Kosala, the very kingdom for which he had once been
the destined sovereign. In moments of injustice, the temptation to respond to
anger with anger is powerful. Rama’s silence here is not weakness but strength,
a reminder that dignity often speaks louder than protest.
Observing
the lively harmony of birds dwelling freely in the forest, Rama gently
encouraged Sita to remain cheerful, to be as content and untroubled as those
forest birds, moving lightly amidst nature’s rhythms. In times of transition,
Rama does not allow hardship to define the journey. Instead, he draws attention
to beauty still present, teaching that even when circumstances change, inner
joy need not vanish.
.jpeg)
Rama then
pointed out to Sita the historic land of Kosala. He explained that its southern
boundary was marked by the River Shyandika, and that long ago this vast
territory had been granted by the primordial king Manu to Ikshvaku, the first
sovereign of their illustrious dynasty. Over generations, the Ikshvaku kings
had ruled this domain with authority and dignity. Other monarchs within the
broader imperial framework, though independent in governance, had acknowledged
the sovereignty of the Ikshvakus and paid tribute accordingly.
Rama
clarified that while the Ikshvaku rulers did not exercise direct control over
every territory, their overlordship was respected and honored. The structure
was one of order, mutual recognition, and dharmic balance rather than coercive
domination. Here, Rama subtly reflects upon responsible governance: the
authority rooted not merely in force, but in legitimacy and moral credibility.
Even in exile, his thoughts remain aligned with principles of just rule,
reminding modern readers that true leadership transcends temporary positions of
power.
With
tender warmth, Rama then shared with the faithful charioteer and minister
Sumantra a personal thought that arose in his heart. He said that upon
completing the fourteen years of exile and reuniting with his father and
mothers in Ayodhya, he would delight in roaming once more through the
blossoming forests along the banks of the River Sarayu. He spoke of hunting
there occasionally, as was customary for royal sages and warriors of that age.
Yet he
added thoughtfully that he had no deep craving for such pursuits. It was not
indulgence that stirred him, but a quiet recollection of familiar landscapes
once shared in peace. Even while moving away from the kingdom, Rama’s words
reveal hope, that was not of reclaiming pleasure, but of restoring harmony. His
dreams are modest, rooted in reunion rather than revenge. In this lies a
profound lesson, that the future should be shaped by restoration, not
resentment.
Rama then wondered softly whether destiny would indeed
grant him such a return, whether he would once again behold those familiar
groves along the Sarayu after completing the long years of exile. The place he
had described was cherished in the world by many royal sages, who found both
discipline and recreation in forest life. In that age, hunting was not mere
sport but a regulated practice adopted occasionally by warrior-kings to
maintain skill and alertness.
Yet Rama clarified that he was never excessively
attached to it. His heart did not linger in indulgence, but in remembrance of
harmony. Speaking gently to Sumantra on themes dear to him, of homeland, duty,
parents, and the rhythms of righteous kingship, Rama continued along the forest
path with composure. Even when recalling pleasures of the past, Rama revealed
restraint. Memory does not become craving. In a world often driven by excess
desire, this quiet self-mastery stands as an enduring example of balance.
.jpeg)
Having traversed the vast territory of Kosala, Rama at
last paused. Turning his face toward distant Ayodhya, he folded his palms in
reverence. With deep emotion, he bade farewell to the beloved city. He declared
that after completing his forest exile, he would once again behold Ayodhya, guarded
by King Dasaratha and protected by the presiding deities who dwelt within her
sacred precincts. He expressed hope of reuniting with his father and mothers in
due time.
Raising his right arm in solemn gesture, tears
glistening upon his reddish eyes, Rama offered gratitude to the rural folk who
had shown him compassion along his journey. Though outwardly firm, his heart
was tender. He acknowledged their love without allowing it to weaken his
resolve. True strength does not suppress emotion, but it sanctifies it. Rama’s
farewell teaches that one may grieve, yet remain steadfast, a lesson especially
meaningful in times when personal pain tempts us to abandon responsibility.
In this context, Vavilikolanu Subbarau (Vasudasa
Swamy), the revered Andhra Valmiki, in his faithful Telugu rendering of the
Sanskrit Ramayana, offers a profound interpretive reflection on Rama’s act of
turning toward Ayodhya and bowing in reverence. He explains that from ancient
times it has been customary, when leaving one’s village, to offer salutations
to the presiding village deity. Owing to the great commotion caused by the
citizens who had followed him earlier, Rama had not been able to perform this
observance at the proper moment. Therefore, he turned northward toward Ayodhya
and humbly offered prayers to the guardian deity of the city.
.jpeg)
An objection may arise, the commentator notes: ‘Was
not Rama himself the Supreme Lord? Being the Divine Incarnation, why did he bow
to minor deities?’ The answer lies in the very purpose of his incarnation. Rama
descended not merely to display divinity, but to establish righteous conduct (Shishtachara)
in the world through his own example. Thus, whether here or elsewhere, when
Rama and Sita bow to rivers, trees, or local deities, it does not imply that
those entities are superior to them. A wise being performs even actions that
bring no personal gain, if such acts uphold social order and instruct the
world.
When one offers salutation to another, it is not to
the physical body that one bows, but to the indwelling Lord within. Since the
Supreme dwells as the inner controller (Antar Yami) in all beings and in all
elements of nature, any act of reverence ultimately reaches Him alone. This
teaching carries deep relevance today. Respecting nature, honoring tradition,
and practicing humility are not signs of superstition but acknowledgments of
the divine presence permeating all existence. When reverence is rooted in
understanding, it elevates both the worshipper and the world.
In
response to Rama’s reverent farewell, the people respectfully saluted him and
circumambulated him clockwise as a mark of deep devotion. While they continued
thus, unwilling to part from his presence, Rama quietly moved beyond their
sight, like the sun gently sinking beneath the horizon at dusk. He passed
through the prosperous territory of Kosala, a land rich in grain and treasure,
inhabited by charitable and benevolent people, free from fear and flourishing
in contentment.
.jpeg)
The
countryside was adorned with temples and sacrificial altars, mango groves and
gardens, ponds brimming with water, and herds of well-nourished cows. It was a
realm vibrant with material abundance and spiritual vitality alike. And there,
as he journeyed onward, Rama beheld the sacred River Ganga. Even as he left
behind political authority, Rama walked through a land shaped by generations of
righteous rule, reminding that dharma, once established, continues to bless a
nation long after the ruler has stepped aside.
The sacred
River Ganga stretched before him in majestic splendor. Along its banks stood
hermitages at gracious intervals, pools overflowing with clear waters, and
sanctified groves frequented by ascetics and seekers. At auspicious hours,
celestial maidens were believed to visit its waters in delight. The blessed River
was revered alike by Gods and Asuras, by Gandharvas and Kinnaras, and by the Consorts
of Nagas who dwelt in subtle realms.
Encircled
by hills that served as playgrounds of celestial beings and adorned with
heavenly gardens, it was said to flow not only upon earth but through the
heavens themselves, where it was known as the ‘Stream of Golden Lotuses.’ Its
descent was not merely geographical but cosmic, linking heaven, earth, and the
nether regions in one sacred continuum. River Ganga symbolizes more than a
river. It is a bridge between realms. In an age increasingly fragmented, the
River’s imagery reminds of the interconnectedness of the visible and the
invisible, the earthly and the divine.
Once
again, Vavilikolanu Subbarau, in his Telugu Mandaram, offers a poetic
comparison of the River Ganga to a resplendent woman in the bloom of youth. He
describes the trees growing along its banks as resembling garlands of creepers
adorning its neck. In some places, it appeared covered with freshly blossomed
lotuses, compared metaphorically to the graceful dimples upon a woman’s form.
Elsewhere, clusters of white kumuda flowers shimmered upon its surface. In
certain stretches, the pollen, a fine powdery substance, typically of
multicolored blossoms tinged it waters from white to rosy hues, as though it (she)
flushed in youthful exuberance.
At times the
River gleamed like a spotless mirror, smooth and radiant. Mighty elephants,
wild forest tuskers, and even celestial elephants wandered near its sounding
woods. It seemed adorned with precious ornaments and jewels, like a noble
maiden richly decorated. Bright flowers, fruits, and tender shoots covered the
banks, while birds filled the groves with lively music. Crocodiles, aquatic
creatures, and serpents moved within her depths. It was hailed as the River
that sprang from the feet of Lord Vishnu, the sinless purifier who washes away
the sins of others, the stream that descended from the matted locks of Lord
Shiva.
Waters of
River Ganga, echoed with the cries of Krauncha birds suited to dwell upon its
lakes. Beholding such a Ganga, delightful to the eyes and sanctifying to the
spirit, Rama prepared eagerly to proceed toward Shrungiberipuram situated upon its
banks. Through this poetic imagery, the River becomes living presence, as nurturing,
radiant, and purifying. It taught earlier and now teaches modern readers to
view nature not as a resource to exploit, but as a sacred embodiment of grace
deserving reverence and protection.
Beholding
the sacred River Ganga, whose waves shimmered as they circled deep whirlpools,
Rama gently told Sumantra that they should halt there for the day. Pointing
toward a magnificent sacred fig (GARA) tree nearby, vast in trunk, rich with
blossoms and tender shoots, he suggested it would provide them fitting shelter.
He further spoke of the auspiciousness of the Ganga itself, whose waters were
revered alike by Gods, Humans, Gandharvas, Beasts, Reptiles, and Birds.
To pause
beside such a river was not mere convenience, but it was to rest within
sanctity. Rama’s decision to halt there revealed an important truth, that, even
during exile, he chooses places of spiritual nourishment. When life’s path
grows uncertain, seeking spaces that elevate the mind becomes essential for
inner steadiness. Accepting Rama’s suggestion, Lakshmana and Sumantra led the
horses toward the shade of that great tree.
Thus
concludes this phase of Rama’s departure from Ayodhya: a movement marked not by
haste or rebellion, but by reverent resolve. Having crossed the outer
boundaries of Kosala, Rama had already crossed subtler inner thresholds: from
heir-apparent to exile, from sovereign-to-be to servant of dharma. His turning
toward Ayodhya in farewell revealed that even separation can be sanctified by
gratitude. Power was relinquished, yet moral authority deepened. In this quiet
passage, Rama teaches that when righteousness guides one’s steps, no boundary
truly confines, and no loss diminishes the dignity of purpose.
>>>>>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)
