Simplified and faithful rendering
of the Adi Kavya-42
When Rama’s Exile Turns Toward Destiny
The Ascent to Chitrakoota under
Bharadwaja’s Guidance
Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (October 6, 2026)
The previous Chapter marked the
decisive crossing of the sacred River Ganga, the visible boundary between ‘Royal
Life and Forest Exile’ and in continuity this Chapter unfolds the inner
crossing that follows. Having left behind the chariot, the city, and the
familiar rhythms of Ayodhya, Sri Rama now confronts not external hardship
alone, but the deeper currents of familial anguish, moral reflection, and
fraternal devotion. The forest, at first a place of separation, gradually
becomes a field of revelation.
Rama’s grief for his mother, his
analysis of desire and dharma, Lakshmana’s unwavering loyalty, and the serene
reception at Bharadwaja’s hermitage together shape a transition from sorrow to
spiritual orientation. What began as exile begins to assume the contours of
purposeful movement. Here the narrative subtly shifts from lament over what was
lost, to discernment of where one must now dwell, from emotional turbulence to
deliberate direction.
Sri Ramachandra, looking at Lakshmana,
observed that having crossed all the villages and come to dwell in a place
beyond human habitation, and with Sumantra also having departed from them, this
was indeed the very first day on which both these events had taken place. He
advised that what was past should not be dwelt upon, nor should grief be
entertained. From that very night onward, setting aside sleep, the brothers
were to remain fully vigilant and guard Sita through the nights, for her safety
and well-being depended entirely upon them.
Rama suggested that the leaves they
gathered were to be spread upon the ground, and a stone placed as a pillow,
upon which they would rest. Having thus spoken, he who was accustomed to
reclining upon a comfortable couch seated himself upon the bare earth, and
until dawn he did not allow the sense of hardship to enter his heart. Instead,
with affection, he narrated pleasant and noble stories to his younger brother.
In relinquishing comfort without complaint, leadership was redefined as quiet
responsibility. This moment suggests that resilience begins not with resources,
but with resolve.
In that same flow of thought, Rama’s
mind turned toward Ayodhya. It was reflected that King Dasaratha must surely be
lying upon the ground, grieving over the departure of his son to the forest,
which, he felt, was certain. Kaikeyi, on the other hand, might perhaps be
rejoicing that her desire was fulfilled. When her beloved son returned from his
maternal uncle’s house, why should he remain merely Crown Prince? So long as
the aged king lived, her son could not become sovereign.
If the king survived until Rama’s
return, he would undoubtedly install Rama as the great king. But if he were to
die now, her son would indeed ascend the throne. Entertaining such thoughts,
might she even contemplate bringing about the king’s death for the sake of the
kingdom? And yet, even if such a thing were to occur, what could the old
monarch do? And if it did not occur, what strength had he to resist? Being
aged, he was powerless. He lacked the courage to act.
Moreover, he was fascinated in deep
attachment toward Kaikeyi, caught in bonds from which he could neither free
himself nor be freed by another. Rama alone could have released him, yet he was
now far away. Having come thus into distant exile, what might the king now be
doing? In what sorrow might he be immersed? What, at this moment, was to be
done? The narrative reveals not anxiety for lost power, but anguish for a
vulnerable father. In an age where distance often weakens responsibility, this
reflection reminds that maturity includes concern for the moral and emotional
fragility of those who once protected us.
Rama then, reflected that, the
suffering endured by them, born of destructive attachment that erodes
greatness, and the delusion in the king that desire alone was to be served,
revealed something troubling. It appeared as though desire had proven stronger
than both righteousness and rightful purpose. The king, overpowered by passion,
unafraid of unrighteousness, had caused suffering to them and sorrow to
himself. By becoming spellbound in the very bonds he had tied with his own
hands, he had undermined his own sovereignty.
Even while enduring the consequences
of such actions, his continued indulgence in sensual attachment suggested that
desire had outweighed both dharma and Artha. If it were to be argued that
righteousness alone was supreme, how then could a father, even if momentarily
deluded, abandon a beloved son who understood his unspoken thoughts and acted
accordingly, merely upon hearing the words of an aged queen swayed by emotion?
Would any father forsake such a son as theirs had done? Thus, it seemed that
desire indeed was powerful.
When the mind is struck by the arrows
of ‘Manmatha,’ the personification of desire who agitates the mind and
intoxicates with love, how can discernment between right and wrong remain
clear? Bharata would now dwell in comfort with his wife, ruling alone the
entire kingdom once governed by the kings of Kosala. The aged father, incapable
of firm resolve, unable to say decisively yes or no, and powerless even if
unheard, had left matters thus.
While Rama endured hardship in the
dreadful forests, and the two elders had chosen divergent paths, Bharata alone
would rule unopposed. What was one to call such a turn of events? Whoever
abandons Dharma and Artha, the means to welfare in this world and the next, and
serves desire alone, meets ruin as King Dasaratha had done. Here the reflection
was not rebellion against destiny, but a moral diagnosis of weakness. It
becomes a warning: when personal craving overrides principle, even the powerful
unravel their own foundations.
He further considered that Kaikeyi,
intent upon securing the kingdom for her son, had forced to send him to the
forest and thereby diminish him, even to the extent of risking the king’s life.
Being a stepson, he had stood as an obstacle in the path of her son’s
sovereignty, and angered by this, she conceived sinful designs. Though Kausalya
and Sumitra, were virtuous and capable of enduring hardship, they were
nevertheless subjected to injustice and sorrow.
Why, he wondered, should Sumitra
suffer on his account? At dawn, Lakshmana ought to return swiftly to Ayodhya, for
it was implied that these words were spoken with that intention. The reason was
clear that, Lakshmana could stand as support to the helpless Kausalya and
protect her. As for himself, he would proceed alone into the forest with Sita.
Kaikeyi, accustomed to ignoble conduct, might inflict harsh indignities upon
his mother without mercy. Therefore, Bharata should be instructed to guard
Kausalya with care. Perhaps, in some former birth, his mother might have caused
a young son to be separated from his mother.
Rama thought that, as the fruit of
that unknown act, she suffered the grief of separation from her own son,
despite her purity of conduct. She had borne, and raised him, sustaining him
through countless hardships. At the very time when she ought to have enjoyed
happiness through him, he had consciously left her behind. What kind of son, he
questioned within himself, was he to have done so? This was the anguish of a
son who measures himself not by entitlement, but by the debt he owes his
mother. This quietly asks: success or independence loses its meaning if
gratitude toward those who nurtured fades from the conscience.
Rama lamented deeply, asking Lakshmana
whether he saw the immeasurable sorrow he caused to the mother who had borne
him in her womb. What kind of son, he wondered, was he? May no mother upon this
earth ever give birth to a son like himself. His birth, he felt, had become
futile. For what had he truly given in return? His mother had raised him with
the same tender care with which she had reared even a parrot and a myna. When a
cat, their natural enemy, approached, the myna would urge the parrot to smack
at it until it retreated. Yet he, a human being endowed with discernment, had
not spoken with such courage in defense of his own mother.
What joy had she ever received by
giving birth to him? Even if joy had been absent, was it fitting that she
should endure such unbearable grief? Of what use was a son like him? Kausalya,
though blessed with the auspicious state of a married woman, had become truly
unfortunate: possessed of a son, yet deprived of his presence. What good had he
done her? By bearing him in her womb, she had become destined to suffer this
unendurable sorrow. This was not self-pity but moral introspection of a son
measuring himself against the debt of motherhood. For present-day readers, it
quietly reminds that, the true worth of one’s life is tested by whether it
brings comfort or anguish to those who nurtured it.
It might be suggested that he could
simply have accepted coronation, and that assistance would have been available
if required from Lakshmana. Yet he reflected that if he had truly desired the
throne, would he have needed anyone’s help? Could he not, by his own strength,
have conquered Ayodhya and indeed the entire earth? Then why had he come to the
forest? Could valor be displayed without just cause? And even if power could be
seized, would it not incur the sin of slaying the innocent?
There was the fear that by coveting
the kingdom he might transgress righteousness and earn lasting reproach. It was
the awareness of these moral consequences that restrained him, but certainly not
any incapacity to claim the throne. Was self-coronation, then, such a difficult
act for him? Here power was shown as secondary to principle. In an era where
ambition is often celebrated without restraint, this reflection teaches that
strength guided by conscience is the only strength that endures.
Thus, recalling in many ways, the
sorrow his exile had caused to his mother and to the people, Sri Rama shed
tears repeatedly. In that lonely forest, where no one was present to console
him, the innocent Rama passed the entire night in grief, like one who had taken
a vow of silence. He resembled an ocean whose waves had stilled, or a sacred
fire whose flames subsided. Having gradually restrained his weeping, he
remained composed. The noblest too are touched by grief. What distinguishes
them is not the absence of tears, but the discipline with which they rise from
them. For those burdened with silent struggles, this offers quiet assurance
that sorrow, when governed by restraint, refines rather than diminishes
strength.
Lakshmana then spoke few words of
encouragement to Sri Rama, seeking to console him, agreeing that all the words
spoken by him were indeed true. There was no doubt that Ayodhya, deprived of
Rama’s presence, must have become directionless and dim. Yet, he reasoned, the
deliberation that ought to have preceded the decision to enter exile could not then
be revisited after the vow was already embraced. To reflect with regret upon an
act already undertaken was not the mark of wisdom, and hence, excessive
retrospection was folly.
It was only when Rama remained
steadfast that King Dasaratha too had retained some measure of courage. All had
drawn strength from Rama’s composure, believing that, if he stood firm, the
king would endure. If Rama were now to grieve, how much greater would be the
sorrow of those who depended upon him? Lakshmana further observed that while
Rama had asked him to return to Ayodhya, he had not considered the state of his
mind. Neither he nor Sita had followed Rama in pursuit of personal comfort, and
had comfort been their aim, they would have remained in Ayodhya itself.
Lakshmana was very clear in his
thought process and while speaking to Rama. He said: They had accompanied him
solely for the sake of service. That service would continue whether he dwelt in
a palace or in a forest. For them, considerations of place and circumstance
were secondary, but devotion was primary. Here loyalty was defined not by
convenience but by constancy. For modern generations who are used to navigating
shifting geographies and careers, this passage speaks of relationships rooted
not in comfort, but in commitment.
Lakshmana affirmed that their uppermost
purpose lay in enduring with Rama and serving him. That alone was their joy,
their gain, and their very nature. Given such a conviction, neither he nor Sita
could remain apart from him even for a single moment. Even if it were imagined
that Sita, being a woman, might tolerate separation for a time, he himself
could not and, that was the truth he declared. Bereft of Rama, what meaning
would father, mother, brother, or even heaven itself hold for him?
In this connection, Andhra Valmiki
Vavilikolanu Subbarao, in his Mandaram rendering of the Ayodhya Kanda of
the Valmiki Ramayana, observes that such devotion is termed as ‘Supreme Devotion
(Bhakti). When necessary, even all conditioned worldly relationships may have
to be set aside for the sake of divine service. The very fear of separation
from the Lord constitutes the highest devotion, and this alone becomes the
cause of liberation. This interpretation elevates companionship into spiritual
commitment. For contemporary seekers, it suggests that true devotion is not
ritual alone, but an inner inability to imagine life separated from one’s
highest ideal.
Having thus spoken, the brothers
spread their ‘Forest Bedding’ beneath the tree that stood before them and sat
upon it with contentment. Sri Ramachandra was gladdened by the words of his
younger brother. Like two lions seen amidst mountain caves, fearless and free
from hesitation, Sri Rama, and Lakshmana, both supreme in valor, passed that
night in the uninhabited forest. In the wilderness of uncertainty, courage
returned not through argument, but through shared conviction. Even today,
strength deepens when hearts aligned in purpose stand together without fear.
Safely traversing the region of the
confluence of the Ganga and Yamuna, passing through formidable forests and
delightful lands never before seen, and observing the many varieties of trees
along the way, Sri Rama proceeded toward the hermitage of Sage Bharadwaja. He
pointed out the rising column of smoke, ascending joyfully like the banner of
an Agnihotri, and spoke to Lakshmana as the day moved toward late afternoon. He
inferred that Bharadwaja might be dwelling there.
On distinctly hearing the sound of
waves striking and mingling with one another, Rama indicated reaching the
sacred confluence of Rivers Ganga and Yamuna. He drew attention to the split
firewood, the various forest produce, and the dwellings of those who sustained
themselves on what the woods provided, which were all signs that the hermitage
of Bharadwaja was near. Even in exile, observation replaced anxiety. This
passage reminds that attentiveness to one’s surroundings transforms uncertainty
into awareness and fear into orientation.
As the sun, tinged red, inclined
toward the western hills, the two bow-bearing brothers, Sri Rama and Lakshmana,
arrived at the hermitage of Bharadwaja, situated at the confluence of the
sacred rivers. At the sight of the mighty warriors clad with bows and arrows,
the animals and birds near the hermitage grew startled and fled in fear.
Beholding the distinct features of the ashram with joy and reverence, Rama and
Lakshmana entered within. Strength and serenity met at this threshold: warriors
entering a world of austerity. It suggests that true power knows how to bow
before wisdom.
Accompanied by Sita, they reached the
sacred precincts of the hermitage and expressed their desire to behold the
great sage. As it was the hour of the evening Agnihotra (an ancient fire ritual
in India), they waited at a respectful distance until the sacred rite was
completed. Thereafter, through the disciples, they announced their arrival.
When summoned, they entered within and beheld at close quarters the illustrious
Maharshi Bharadwaja, who was sanctified by austerities, surrounded by
disciplined disciples, steadfast in well-observed vows, renowned among all
people for noble conduct, single-minded in purpose, endowed with yogic vision
acquired through great penance, and possessed of magnanimity.
In this connection, Andhra Valmiki
Vavilikolanu Subbarao, in his Mandaram rendering of the Ayodhya Kanda of
the Valmiki Ramayana, observes that one should not offer salutations to those
who are holding a water pot, engaged in alms-seeking, carrying flowers or ghee
for worship, in an impure state, performing rites for gods or ancestors, or
lying down in repose. For this reason, Sri Rama did not approach the sage until
none of these conditions prevailed.
Had he entered earlier, he could
neither have refrained from offering salutations nor offered them at an
improper time. Therefore, he waited outside until the sacred fire ritual was
concluded. This detail reveals a subtle discipline of devotion governed by
propriety. For contemporary readers, it suggests that respect is not merely
intention, but the wisdom to act at the right moment in the right manner.
Only when the Agnihotra was concluded
did Sri Rama, accompanied by Janaki and Lakshmana, gently announce his name and
offer prostrations. Sita and Lakshmana followed likewise. Reverence here was
not formality but alignment, the power pausing before sanctity. In a hurried
age, this scene teaches the discipline of waiting until the sacred moment is
complete before presenting oneself. After the salutations were completed, Sri
Rama addressed the revered sage, and spoke, acknowledging him as foremost among
those who had mastered their senses.
He stated that he and Lakshmana were
the sons of King Dasaratha, his name was Sri Rama, and the one beside him was
Lakshmana. The lady accompanying them was his wife Sita, the daughter of King
Janaka, endowed with auspicious virtues, who had followed him in adherence to
the sacred duty of chastity and devotion. Lakshmana, unwavering in adversity
and firm of mind, was his younger brother who had accompanied him out of love
and loyalty. In obedience to their father’s command to dwell in the forest,
they came to live like sages, sustaining themselves according to the discipline
of forest life, and vanaprastha dharma.
Bharadwaja offered him, with
affection, the customary Arghya and Padya, along with gifts appropriate to the
occasion, including a bull, sacred oblations, and fruits. Padya refers to
giving water for washing feet. Arghya is an offering consisting of water,
flowers, raw rice grains given in the hands of a guest in ancient times as a
sign of reception and respect. Here humility precedes honor. Even one worthy of
reverence introduces himself not by power, but by duty. It suggests that,
identity rooted in responsibility commands deeper respect than status
proclaimed by pride.
The illustrious Bharadwaja, radiant
with the splendor of penance, worshipped Sri Ramachandra along with the sages,
animals, and birds of the hermitage. He inquired with concern about the welfare
of their father and mothers, asking whether they were in good health. Sri Rama
felt gladdened by such affectionate inquiry. Having accepted the offerings
presented by Bharadwaja and the others, Rama seated himself comfortably. Looking
upon him with deep love, Bharadwaja spoke words imbued with righteousness. He
expressed that for long he had cherished the desire to behold Rama directly.
He told Rama that, the surroundings
where he lived were sacred land, free from worldly disturbance, enriched by
mighty rivers and sanctified by austerity. During his yogic meditations, he
would perceive within his heart the form of the Supreme Abode, and he had often
wondered when would he be blessed to see that very form with his physical eyes.
Then Bharadwaja questioned Rama: why should he wander elsewhere to dwell in
forests? He urged him to remain there itself. The sage’s longing transforms
vision into fulfillment. What was seen inwardly through meditation manifests
outwardly through grace, a reminder that deep desire aligned with purity often
draws its object nearer.
In this connection, Andhra Valmiki
Vavilikolanu Subbarao, in his Mandaram rendering of the Ayodhya Kanda of
the Valmiki Ramayana, observes that, this yearning is the very aspiration of
all devotees. It reflects the principle declared in the protection of the
righteous, that, the Lord safeguards the virtuous by manifesting Himself among
them. The sage’s statement does not imply a distant vision in Vaikuntha after
death, rather, it conveys the longing that, as the fruit of his penance, the
Lord Himself should come there and grant direct Darshana.
Such protection of devotees can occur
only through divine resolve, and it cannot be achieved otherwise. This is the
inner meaning of divine incarnation. Bharadwaja, however, did not openly reveal
the secret of Rama’s incarnation. Observing the decorum of the world, he spoke
in measured terms. The interruption of Rama’s coronation, the humiliation that
followed, and the seemingly causeless exile ordered by Dasaratha, all these
events had reached the sage’s knowledge even before Rama’s arrival.
According to sacred tradition, among
those devotees to whom the Supreme Lord, the very embodiment of the Highest
Abode, granted personal Darshana by coming to them, Bharadwaja Maharshi stands
foremost. Incarnation here is not spectacle but response, the Divine moving
toward the devotee’s yearning. For thoughtful readers today, it suggests that
grace does not remain distant, but it answers sincerity with presence.
Sri Rama, looking upon Bharadwaja,
replied with humility. He stated that, if it became known that he was easily
accessible and pleasant to behold, people who once thought his presence as rare,
would begin to come frequently from nearby villages and towns to see him and
Sita. For that reason, his mind did not incline toward remaining there. He
requested the sage to indicate a place suitable for the comfort of the delicate
Janaki, where they might reside in seclusion. Thereupon Bharadwaja informed
Rama, destined in time to vanquish the hosts of Rakshasas, suggested the
suitable place.
He said that, at a short distance from
there, lay the region of Mount Chitrakoota, fit for residence. The sage
described it as adorned with fragrant trees comparable to those of
Gandhamadana. Bears and monkeys roamed there, and the landscape was exceedingly
beautiful to behold. Even in exile, consideration for Sita’s comfort guided the
choice of dwelling. This suggests that strength is refined by tenderness, and
that responsibility includes ensuring dignity for those who share one’s trials.
Bharadwaja further described that
within the range of Chitrakoota’s peaks, wherever their sight extended, no
sinful thought would enter the hearts of living beings. They were inclined
naturally toward merit. For hundreds of years, eminent sages devoted to sacred
conduct performed intense austerities there, standing with heads bowed to the
earth until their hair and skin seemed to merge with it, and had thereby
ascended to heaven. No dishonorable persons dwelt upon that mountain; thus, it
would surely bring them happiness.
Yet, he added graciously, Rama might
remain there, or here, or with him, according to his own wish. With due
hospitality, Bharadwaja, along with his wife and disciples, honored the Sri
Ramachandra, who was accompanied by his consort and brother. Thereafter, Sri
Rama narrated the events concerning Ayodhya. The sage offered guidance without
compulsion. His counsel rooted in freedom. For modern minds, this reflects a
rare leadership: advising firmly, yet allowing choice with dignity.
As the evening twilight spread its
crimson hues across the western sky, Sri Rama passed the time in contentment
within that hermitage, accompanied by Sita and Lakshmana. On the fifth morning
after leaving the city, he arose with his companions and approached the ascetic
Bharadwaja. He expressed that they had spent the night comfortably in that
sacred place and sought permission to depart. In reply, Bharadwaja addressed
him as one shaped by righteousness and extolled once more the virtues of Mount Chitrakoota.
It was a holy and delightful region,
abundant with roots, fruits, and honey, filled with diverse trees, inhabited by
Kinnaras, serpents, elephants, and peacocks. Herds of elephants and groups of
deer wandered there freely. The sacred River Mandakini flowed upon that
mountain, whose waters, when used in rites for the ancestors, were said to
grant the merit of an Ashvamedha sacrifice. Cascading streams, mountain
valleys, caves hidden within divided rocks, resonant groves, parrots, and
temple-like forest shrines would bring joy to Sita’s heart. Therefore, he urged
Rama to proceed there, for it was a dwelling worthy of him.
Thus, exile began to transform into
pilgrimage. The forest was no longer merely refuge from loss, but preparation
for purpose. It suggests that the places one is led to, even by adversity, may
be shaping grounds for greater destiny. By the close of this chapter, the
turbulence of the first days in exile has found quiet anchorage in the
hermitage of Bharadwaja. Tears have been shed, doubts examined, devotion
affirmed, and discipline restored. The sons of Dasaratha no longer stand merely
as displaced royals, but they stand as seekers guided by sages, ready to root
themselves in sacred geography.
Mount Chitrakoota now rises before the
narrative, not simply as a mountain, but as the next stage in Rama’s unfolding
destiny. The sage indicated the place and hence, the journey must continue. In
relinquishing Ayodhya, Rama did not abandon kingship, but he refined it. In
entering the forest, he did not retreat from purpose, instead, he approached it
through austerity. The guidance of Bharadwaja prepared the way for the next
movement, where residence at Chitrakoota will deepen the transformation of
exile into sacred mission. Thus, from sorrow to stillness, from stillness to
direction, the journey advances, quietly, deliberately, and under the unseen
architecture of dharma.
>>>>> Photographs Courtesy Rama Bhakta Vijaya Raghava Dasu
{{From my Published Book ‘Simplified
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Valmiki Ramayana: The Greatest Epic
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