Simplified and faithful rendering of the Adi Kavya-39 >>>>> Across the Boundaries of Kosala: Dharma Set in Motion >>>>> The Journey Beyond Attachment: Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

 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.

 As Rama journeyed onward, he crossed the sacred River Veda Shruti, flowing through regions sanctified by the presence of sages, including the vicinity associated with Agastya. Soon thereafter, he reached the auspicious River Gomati, whose clear and gentle waters moved steadily toward the distant sea. Its banks were adorned with grazing cows, symbolizing abundance and rural serenity. Crossing Gomati, Rama advanced further and passed over the River Shyandika, whose surroundings echoed with the melodious cries of peacocks and the graceful calls of swans.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)}}

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