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)}}

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