Simplified and faithful rendering
of
the Adi Kavya-37
While Ayodhya Fell into Profound Grief
Rama, with Sita and Lakshmana,
Journeyed toward Exile, Never Looking
Back
Vanam Jwala
Narasimha Rao
The
preceding episode of the Ayodhya Kanda concluded with the departure of Rama,
Sita, and Lakshmana from Ayodhya for fourteen years of exile, as the entire
city ran behind Rama, weeping uncontrollably. Citizens collapsed upon seeing
the swift disappearance of his chariot. Dasharatha fell to the ground. Kausalya
pursued her son in anguish. Helpless cries rose from every quarter of the city.
Yet Rama did not turn back, not out of hardness of heart, but because
compassion itself demanded restraint. In Valmiki’s vision, moments where duty
clashes with emotion reveal a deeper truth that, moral responsibility sometimes
requires standing firm, even when the heart is torn.
As Rama
departed, piercing cries of agony, far more intense than what such occasions
usually evoke, arose from the women of the inner apartments. In voices
trembling with disbelief and sorrow, they cried out in anguished questioning:
where was Rama, the path itself, the protector of the people, now going being reduced
to helplessness, weakness, and sorrow? They spoke of Rama as one who never grew
angry even when provoked, who resolved every misunderstanding with patience,
and who pacified those consumed by anger by sharing in their suffering. For
them, Rama was not merely a prince, but a living assurance that justice could
be gentle and power could be compassionate.
They
recalled Rama as the illustrious, great-souled one who treated them with the
same reverence he offered his own mother. Repeatedly reinforcing their grief,
the women of the inner apartments remembered him as the protector of the people
and of the entire world, and openly blamed Kaikeyi for influencing King
Dasharatha and driving Rama into exile. They cried aloud that, in tragic folly,
the king had banished the virtuous, beloved, and unfailingly truthful Rama to
the forest. Hearing those dreadful cries from a distance, King Dasharatha was
overwhelmed with sorrow, his grief deepening into unbearable despair. When a
society loses its moral center, the anguish of its most vulnerable voices often
becomes the loudest testimony of injustice.
With
Rama’s departure to the forest, sacred fires were no longer kindled, food was
left unprepared in homes, and people abandoned their daily duties. The sun
appeared eclipsed, as though light itself recoiled in sorrow. Elephants spat
out the morsels they had taken into their mouths, and cows refused to let their
calves suckle. Mothers who had just given birth to sons found no joy in that
blessing, remembering the fate of Kausalya and wondering with quiet fear: if
such suffering could befall her, what assurance did any mother truly possess?
When righteousness is exiled, even life’s most sacred rhythms, the nourishment,
ritual, and the joy also lose their meaning.
Trisanku,
Lohitang, and Brihaspati, along with the other planets, assumed ominous forms
and clustered around the moon. The stars ceased to twinkle, and the planets
were stripped of their brilliance. The constellation of Visakha appeared in the
heavens, veiled in mist, while the great ocean rose as if stirred by a
long-sustained tempest. As Rama proceeded toward the forest, the city itself
seemed to tremble with all the cardinal directions were disturbed and shrouded
in darkness. Neither planets nor stars were visible, nor could anything in the
heavens be clearly perceived. Valmiki’s message is unmistakable: when a man of
dharma is driven away, the disturbance is not merely social or political, but it
reverberates through nature and the cosmos itself.
In this
context, Andhra Valmiki, Vavilikolanu Subbarau (Vasudasa Swamy), in his
faithful Telugu rendering of the Sanskrit Valmiki Ramayana, undertaken with the
same number of verses as the original shlokas, offered an interpretive
observation on this episode. His commentary, presented below, bridges rigorous
textual fidelity with ethical and astronomical reflection, enabling later
generations to grasp not only the letter of Valmiki’s narration but also its
deeper symbolic intent.
The
planets Guru (Jupiter), Budha (Mercury), and Angaraka (Mars) fiercely afflicted
Trisanku, the ancestral patriarch of the Ikshvaku dynasty, and also surrounded
the Moon. Though Guru and Budha are not inherently cruel planets, by their
association with the cruel planet Angaraka, or by occupying an inauspicious
position, they too assumed a cruel aspect. If one reflects more deeply, the
revelations were enthralling. After the completion of fourteen years of forest
exile, on the very first day of the fifteenth year, that is, on the day of
Panchami, Sri Rama reached the Bharadwaja Ashrama. Therefore, the day of Sri
Rama’s departure itself could have been Panchami.
On that
day, since it was the Pushya Nakshatra, the Moon would have been in the Cancer Sign.
As Budha is always in proximity to the Sun, there could be no direct
conjunction between Budha and the Moon on that day. Hence, some argue that
stating a Budha–Chandra conjunction was incorrect. However, ‘being before the
Moon’ does not necessarily mean occupying the same zodiacal sign, and instead, mere
visual alignment is sufficient. Therefore, the relationship with the Moon was
described based on planetary aspect (Drishti).
Further,
while the Ashwini and other stars had lost their brilliance, and while the Sun
and other planets were present, the star Visakha appeared veiled by a comet.
The Sun was born in the Visakha constellation. Sri Rama belonged to the Solar
dynasty, and Visakha is the dynastic star of the Ikshvakas. The covering of
Visakha by a comet signifies the impending death of King Dasharatha. When a
great soul suffers, the entire world partakes in that sorrow. This classical
integration of astronomy, symbolism, and ethical consequence reminds modern
readers that ancient narratives did not separate science, spirituality, and
moral order, but viewed them as deeply interconnected dimensions of human life.
All the
people of the city suddenly became numb with apathy. No one showed interest in
food or in any form of pastime. The citizens of Ayodhya, afflicted by wave
after wave of grief, heaved deep, burning sighs and bewailed the departure of
the Lord of the earth. Those who stood along the king’s path wore faces
drenched in tears, and none appeared joyful, for all were seized by sorrow. The
wind no longer felt cool, the moon seemed devoid of gentleness, and the sun
failed to impart warmth to the earth. When moral leadership is removed, even
nature appears to withdraw its reassurance, mirroring the inner coldness that
grief imposes upon society.
The entire
world seemed to descend into disorder. Sons no longer sought their mothers,
husbands did not turn toward their wives, and brothers failed to enquire after
their sisters. All attachments were abandoned as every thought converged upon
Rama alone. Even Rama’s closest friends were mentally bewildered, crushed under
the weight of their agony. They remained confined to their beds, unable to
rise. Afflicted by fear and grief, the earth itself, with its mountains, bereft
of that great-souled Rama, appeared to undergo a terrible convulsion. Valmiki
suggests here that, when dharma is displaced from the center of life,
relationships lose their anchors, and society itself begins to fracture from
within.
Once again, in
this context too, Andhra Valmiki, Vavilikolanu Subbarau (Vasudasa Swamy), in
his faithful Telugu rendering of the Sanskrit Valmiki Ramayana, offered a
profound interpretive remark on this episode. His observation, presented below,
moves beyond narration to social and ethical reflection, enabling later
generations to grasp not only the literal sequence of events but also their
deeper human and moral implications.
When her only son, Sri Rama, such an extraordinary
being, was departing for the forest, Mother Kausalya could only look on
helplessly, unable to offer any form of assistance. Observing this, sons
concluded that all mothers were like this, and thus abandoned reliance on their
mothers. Kausalya, who after long years of vows, austerities, and penance gave
birth to a single son with immense hope that he would be the cause of both
worldly and spiritual good, was left behind, as Sri Rama departed for the
forest. If even such a son could not protect his mother, then which son truly
could was the thinking of all. Thus, mothers too withdrew their trust from
their children, concluding that reliance on sons leads only to such an end.
Considering that wives always seek their own comfort
and, for its sake, can inflict suffering upon their husbands, as Kaikeyi did, husbands
abandoned reliance on their wives, reasoning that there was no benefit in
trusting them. Taking Dasharatha as an example, who disregarded his Chief Queen
Kausalya and sent her son to the forest, wives too concluded that husbands,
when the time comes, abandon even the most virtuous women, and thus they too
withdrew trust from their husbands.
Born together as brothers but becoming mere relatives
as they grow older, Bharata himself was the cause for Sri Rama’s exile to the
forest. Therefore, younger brothers concluded that elder brothers look only to
their own welfare, and elder brothers abandoned reliance on their younger
siblings. If even the eminent behaved thus, who then could be trusted for
protection? Thinking so, relatives abandoned one another.
All these were deemed unworthy of trust. Everyone
concluded in their hearts that Sri Rama alone was mother, father, elder
brother, younger brother, husband, and kinsman. Upon him alone they placed the
entire burden of their lives. From this emerges the understanding that all
conditional relationships fail to offer support in times of true need, whereas
the unconditional relative, Sri Rama alone, was worthy of trust wherever he may
be.
One might still ask: even if relatives are
untrustworthy, could not intimate friends have stopped Sri Rama? To this, an
explanation exists. All of Rama’s friends were overwhelmed by immeasurable
grief, utterly directionless, lying at home and weeping. While relatives at
least retained bodily awareness, these friends did not even have that. Unable
to stand or sit, they collapsed on the ground.
Among them were friends to whom Sri Rama had entrusted
even secrets he had not shared with his parents, and friends who would stake
their very lives to protect him. There was not even one among them who would
act against him, and all were united in spirit. A fully sovereign father, an
emperor, commanded his son to go to the forest. Mother Kausalya blessed him and
sent him forth. Friends were not like that. The moment they learned that Sri
Rama was going to the forest, they fainted and did not regain consciousness.
Therefore, it must be understood that they loved Sri
Rama even more than Kausalya and Dasharatha did. One may ask why, if their love
was so intense, they did not at least cling to his feet and plead with him to
stop. Their grief had reached such an extreme that, like being struck by
lightning, they lay collapsed in their homes. Not even the thought of stopping
Sri Rama arose in their minds. This reflection speaks powerfully even today:
when trust placed in roles and relationships collapses, people instinctively
seek refuge in moral character, and the Ramayana presents Rama as that rare,
unconditional anchor beyond all social contracts.
As long as
the dust raised by the wheels of Rama’s chariot remained visible, King
Dasharatha did not withdraw his gaze from it. As long as he could see his
beloved son, the dust on the road seemed to continue rising. When the dust
finally disappeared from sight, Dasharatha, overcome by dejection, fell
senseless to the ground. As he collapsed, Queen Kausalya took her place on his
right side, while Kaikeyi stood on his left to lift him up. Seeing Kaikeyi
beside him, the king was seized by violent agitation and burst into reproach.
Here, Valmiki shows how suppressed guilt, when confronted by consequence,
erupts not as silence but as unbearable self-awareness.
Dasharatha
addressed Kaikeyi as ‘wicked’ and commanded her not to touch him, declaring
that he did not wish to see her. He told her that she was no longer his wife
and made it clear that he neither depended upon her nor regarded her as
anything to him. ‘I repudiate you,’ he said, ‘by whom righteousness was
abandoned and greed alone was embraced. The sacred bond I entered into by
taking your hand and circumambulating the consecrated fire, I now renounce, both
in this world and in the next. If Bharata feels joy in possessing this
imperishable kingdom, let the obsequies rites performed for me after my death shall
not be by him.
Meanwhile,
Kausalya lifted the dust-covered king and led him back to her dwelling. There,
afflicted with grief and absorbed in thoughts of his son, Dasharatha lamented
unceasingly. Knowing that Rama had by then reached the outskirts of the city,
he cried out in anguish: ‘Rama, who once slept in comfort upon beds sprinkled
with sandalwood essence and was refreshed by fans waved by the most devoted
attendants, will now be forced to seek shelter at the foot of some tree, lying
upon its roots or resting upon a bare stone. The dwellers of the forest will
behold Rama rising from the ground and wandering about like an orphan.’ The
tragedy here was not merely the loss of royal comfort, but the sight of dignity
voluntarily embracing hardship for the sake of truth.
We are now
moving into the deep interior sorrow of Dasharatha, which was a crucial
emotional hinge in Ayodhya Kanda. Dasharatha continued his lament, saying: ‘Sita,
long accustomed to comfort, will wander exhausted through the forest’s thorny
undergrowth. Unfamiliar with the wilderness, she will live in constant fear,
startled by the roaring cries of wild beasts.’ Turning then toward Kaikeyi, he
spoke with bitter severity: ‘May your desire be fulfilled! Rule this kingdom as
a widow. I have no wish to survive without Rama.’ In his anguish, the king’s
words reveal how unchecked desire can strip power of compassion and leave only
ruin in its wake.
Dasharatha
re-entered Ayodhya, which now appeared like a deserted city, and reached his
palace while his mind dwelt incessantly on Rama alone. Deprived of Rama, Sita,
and Lakshmana, the palace seemed to him like a vast pool rendered calm only
because Garuda, the enemy of serpents, had removed all the snakes from it. In a
slow, feeble, trembling voice, with words barely intelligible, Dasharatha
expressed his wish to be taken at once to Kausalya’s palace, for nowhere else
could his heart find even the slightest comfort. Here, Valmiki equates absence
with devastation, showing that true vitality flows not from structures, but
from the presence of virtue.
The
attendants supported the king and brought him to Kausalya’s residence, where he
was gently laid upon a couch, yet his heart remained restless. With his two
sons and his daughter-in-law absent, the house appeared entirely devoid of
charm. When midnight arrived, Dasharatha told Kausalya that his eyesight had
vanished along with Rama and had not returned. Unable to see her clearly, he
asked her to touch him with her hand. The physical dimming of the king’s vision
mirrors his moral awakening, but significantly too late to avert tragedy, yet
painfully clear in its realization.
Seated
beside Dasharatha, Kausalya, herself stricken with grief for her son and seeing
the king lying prostrate in sorrow, spoke to him with firm resolve. She
portrayed Kaikeyi as a female serpent who had poured her venom upon Rama,
exposing her crooked ways, and who, having fulfilled her desire of driving Rama
into exile, now stood ready to strike again. Kausalya further declared that
Kaikeyi, by willfully casting Rama out of his rightful position, acted like one
who tends the sacred fire yet deliberately offers a portion of the sacrifice to
wicked spirits on a new-moon or full-moon day. Valmiki uses ritual imagery here
to show how actions that outwardly follow form can inwardly violate dharma.
Kausalya
continued, saying that by then Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana might already have
entered the forest in obedience to Kaikeyi’s wishes, and she wondered with
dread what fate awaited them there. She lamented that youthful beings, deprived
of wealth and comfort, were condemned to exile at an age meant for joy and
refinement, forced to endure misery and subsist only on roots and fruits. Yet,
amid this anguish, Kausalya also clung to hope, longing for the auspicious hour
that would bring an end to her suffering, when she would behold Rama once again
with his wife and brother, and when Ayodhya would regain its pristine glory
upon Rama’s return. Even in despair, the human heart instinctively searches for
a future where justice is restored.
Kausalya
then turned her anguish inward, cursing herself for all that had befallen Rama.
Speaking to Dasharatha, she said: ‘Undoubtedly, in some former life, through
cruelty of mind, I must have cut off the teats of cows while their calves
longed to suckle. Therefore, I have now been forcibly deprived of my child by
Kaikeyi, just as a cow with a tender calf is robbed of it by a lion. I cannot
wish to survive without my only son, adorned with every virtue and well-versed
in all the scriptures. There is not the slightest strength within me to sustain
life so long as I am unable to behold my beloved son.’ Here, Valmiki captures
the ancient belief that grief seeks moral explanation, even when suffering
arises not from fault, but from fate.
We are now
very close to Sumitra’s intervention, which will bring a crucial philosophical
and emotional counterbalance to Kausalya’s despair. Sumitra, devoted to
righteousness, addressed Kausalya and reminded her that her son was endowed
with the highest virtues and stood foremost among men. She asked her gently yet
firmly what purpose lamentation or bitter weeping could serve. Kausalya’s son,
she said, possessed immense strength, had upheld his high-souled father’s
truthfulness by renouncing the throne, and stood unwavering in righteousness,
and hence, such a man was not worthy of mourning.
Before
Sumitra’s address to Kausalya, Andhra Valmiki Vasudasa Swamy, in his commentary
accompanying his faithful Telugu rendering of the Sanskrit Valmiki Ramayana,
observes as follows: ‘Valmiki reveals through the words of Sumitra that, Sri
Rama was the Supreme Being. It was said that, just as Tara and Mandodari did,
Sumitra too, by virtue of merit accumulated in previous births, clearly
understood the true nature of Sri Rama. The Ramayana as a whole is a Dhvani-Kavya,
a poem of suggestion.’
Vasudasa
Swamy continued: ‘The name rather the word Dasharatha signifies Maha
Vishnu, the Lord who rides Garuda. Such Maha Vishnu was associated with Prakriti
as his embodied consort. That Prakriti possesses three qualities: Sattva
(purity and harmony), Rajas (activity and passion), and Tamas (inertia and
darkness). Sattva was Sumitra, Rajas was Kausalya, and Tamas was Kaikeyi.
The indirect Maha Vishnu himself became manifest as Sri Rama. Therefore, the
Ramayana states on many occasions that Sri Rama resembled his father).
Sumitra
further pointed out that Lakshmana, flawless in character and compassionate
toward all beings, was rendering devoted service to Rama, and that Sita, though
accustomed to comfort, had chosen to accompany Rama despite full knowledge of
the hardships ahead. Sumitra reframes grief not as denial of pain, but as
misjudgment of virtue. Sumitra continued, reminding Kausalya of Rama,
Lakshmana, and Sita, particularly in the context of their exile, to calm her
troubled heart.
‘Rama, the
capable one, she said, ‘Is rich in virtue and firmly devoted to the vow of
truth. He is known for purity and magnanimity. Gentle, auspicious breezes, neither
too warm nor too cold will serve him. The moon, touching him softly with its
cool rays will refresh him at night. Relying on the strength of his own arms
and the celestial weapons bestowed by Lord Brahma, Rama will dwell fearlessly
in the forest.’ In Sumitra’s vision, nature itself becomes an ally to those who
live in harmony with dharma.
Sumitra
went on to say that the earth itself would remain under Rama’s command, and
that his enemies would fall easily before him. His splendor, valor, and
beneficent strength would enable him to reclaim his kingdom upon the completion
of his exile. Rama, she declared, was the illuminator of even the sun, the fire
of fire, the ruler of rules, the splendor of splendor, the foremost glory of
glory, the forbearance of forbearance, the god of gods, and the supreme being
among all beings. This exalted imagery does not exaggerate Rama’s power, but
emphasizes the moral force that outshines mere authority.
Sumitra
further affirmed that Rama would soon be installed upon the throne, together
with Mother Earth, the consort of Lord Vishnu; Sita, the princess of Videha;
and Lakshmi, the goddess of fortune and another consort of Vishnu. When Sita
herself followed Rama, she said, nothing would remain unattainable for him. And
with Lakshmana accompanying him, his strength would only be multiplied. Thus,
Sumitra assured Kausalya that she would surely see Rama return after his forest
exile and urged her to abandon grief and emotional delusion. Here, hope was
offered not as escape from sorrow, but as confidence grounded in cosmic order.
Sumitra
concluded by telling Kausalya that Rama bore no mark of ill fortune and that
she would soon behold him again, accompanied by Sita and Lakshmana. She added
that, at such a moment, when others looked to Kausalya for consolation, it was
not right for her to nurture grief within her own heart. Thus, Sumitra, skilled
in the wise and measured use of words, comforted Kausalya in many ways and then
fell silent. Upon hearing Sumitra’s words, the agony that weighed upon Kausalya
nearly vanished. The Ramayana suggests that wisdom spoken with compassion can
steady even the most shattered hearts.
Thus ends
the Ayodhya chapter of sorrow, marked not by rebellion, but by restraint. Not
by defiance, but by obedience that costs dearly. The city mourned, the king broke,
and the queens grieved, yet Rama moved forward without hesitation, carrying the
burden of countless hearts while asking nothing in return. Ayodhya, once
radiant with anticipation of coronation, stood emptied of joy, learning for the
first time that righteousness may demand separation rather than reward.
From this
point onward, the Ramayana shifts its contemplation, from royal chambers to
forest paths, from inherited authority to earned greatness. The forest will no
longer be a place of mere exile, but it will become the crucible in which
Rama’s character is tested, expanded, and universalized. What follows is not
simply the story of a prince in banishment, but the unfolding of dharma in its
most demanding form.
>>>>> 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)}}
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