Ram did not look at Sita. Sita did not look up at Ram. Both knew the implications of what was being said.
The people of Ayodhya had rushed to Valmiki’s hermitage on hearing what was happening there. The boys who had entertained them with song and dance, they now realized, were the sons of Ram.
When they arrived, they found Ram standing on his chariot and Sita on the ground below. In between were the twins. They heard Sita say, ‘The earth accepts all seeds with love. She bears the judgement of her children with love. If I have been as true as the earth in my love for Ram then may the earth split open and take me within.’
And that was what happened in a moment, without warning. The mountains rumbled, the rivers stopped, the earth split open and Sita descended below the earth.
Ram, taken by surprise at what was happening, rushed to stop his wife, hold her hand and pull her out, but the earth had closed before he could reach her. All that he could clutch were the ends of her hair that turned into blades of grass.
Would the pain have been less had she chastised him before she left? Would the pain have been less had they at least spoken before she left? Would the pain have been less had she at least looked at him before she left? But then she was under no obligation. He had liberated her long ago from the burden of being Ram’s wife. But he would always be Sita’s husband.
There was nothing more Ram could do but return home to Ayodhya with his sons, and live the rest of his life with the doll of gold that was his Sita.
By refusing to return to Ram, Sita turns away from sanskriti and the rules of society. She does not need social structures to give her status. She chooses the earth, where there are no boundaries and rules.
Many modern renditions of the Ramayana focus on Sita’s banishment by Ram, but do not even refer to Ram’s refusal to remarry and even his refusal to live after Sita’s descent. Such incomplete narratives, often qualified as a woman’s perspective, strategically reveal a very different Ram. These have won many admirers in the West, perhaps because they reinforce a particular image of India and Indians.
In the Gobind Ramayana, after the defeat of Ram by Luv and Kush, Ram returns to Ayodhya with Sita and rules for ten thousand years, but then the women of the palace get Sita to draw Ravana’s image and a jealous and insecure Ram once again demands that Sita prove her chastity. It is then that she enters the earth.
In another folk version, Sita refuses to return to Ayodhya even when called and so is told that Ram is dead. She rushes to the city but, on finding that he is alive, and that she has been tricked, asks the earth to open up to claim her.
In one Assamese Ramayana, Hanuman goes to the netherworld in search of Sita and convinces her to come back to Ram.
The Sitamai temple at Karnal in Haryana marks the spot where the ground split so that Sita could enter the earth.
Solitude for Ram
‘I wish to be alone,’ said Ram, after he had put Luv and Kush to bed.
That night, their first night in the palace, the twins had chosen to sleep on the floor on a mat of reeds. Ram had let them. It would be some time before they got used to beds and cushions.
All the palace women sat around all night watching the two boys sleep. In the lamplight, one looked like Ram and the other like Sita. In the moonlight, he who looked like Ram looked like Sita and he who looked like Sita looked like Ram.
The old mothers, who had never spoken to Ram since the departure of Sita, kept sobbing. These were their grandsons, gaunt like ascetics, hardly the next kings of the Raghu clan.
‘I will guard the door. No one will disturb you. I will put to death anyone who dares open the door to your chamber,’ said Lakshman, theatrical as ever. This time, however, Ram did not smile.
Sword in hand, Lakshman sat in front of the closed door and kept watch all night.
Then, just before dawn broke, he saw the sage Durvasa rush towards him. ‘Let me pass. I wish to see Ram this very instant,’ grunted the sage.
‘He seeks solitude. Please wait for some time,’ said Lakshman, bowing to the rishi known for his short temper.
‘No. Now. I want to see him now. This very instant.’
‘He needs some time. Just a little time. You know what happened yesterday, don’t you?’ Lakshman tried to reason with the sage.
‘Now. Now. Now,’ insisted the sage, ‘I want to see Ram now. And if you don’t open that door, I will curse the city of Ayodhya, set it aflame with my rage.’
A frightened Lakshman opened the door to Ram’s chamber and fell at Ram’s feet. ‘I had to open the door. I had to disturb your solitude. I had to disobey you. For Ayodhya.’ As he spoke, he turned around and found to his surprise no Durvasa, just an empty corridor. There never was a Durvasa. It was just an apparition. What was going on?
Ram pulled Lakshman up and said, ‘You finally understand, little brother.’ Lakshman was not sure he did. ‘Ayodhya matters more than Ram. All my actions are for Ayodhya, not for my wife, not for my sons, not for my brother, not for my father, not for my mother, only for my people. But all your actions were out of love for me. You were loyal to me. You demanded loyalty for me. But I only demanded love for the people of Ayodhya, all their faults notwithstanding. That, my brother, is kingship.’
‘So much sacrifice.’
‘Is it sacrifice to give up sleep for your crying child, Lakshman?’ asked Ram. He then added, ‘I will miss you so much, Lakshman, when you are gone.’
‘But I am going nowhere,’ said Lakshman, puzzled at Ram’s remark.
Ram then reminded him, ‘Did you not say that you would behead anyone who opened the door to my chambers and disturbed my solitude? Keep your word, Lakshman, as scion of the Raghu clan.’
‘Will that make you happy, brother?’
‘Not for me, Lakshman. For family reputation. Let no one question the integrity of the Raghu clan.’
‘But I am your brother.’
‘And Sita was my wife, Shambuka was my subject. Rules are rules, Lakshman. I will always uphold the rules, however distasteful they may be. I expect you to do the same.’
Lakshman looked up at Ram and saw the same expression as when Sita was presented to him in Lanka. Lakshman did not like this expression, but finally he understood it. With understanding came peace. In peace, he turned around and walked into the forest, unafraid like Sita, ready to behead himself and walk into the arms of Yama.
As Ram sank into his throne, aware of his aloneness, he heard, from beyond the gates of Ayodhya, Yama shout, ‘She is gone. He is gone. Now it is time for you to go. But that will not happen as long as Hanuman guards the gates of Ayodhya.’
He who breaks no rules would not break the law of nature. All things have to come to an end: exile in the forest, joy with Sita, as well as the reign of Ram. Yes, it was time to enter the river Sarayu and return to Vaikuntha.
So Ram dropped his ring into a crack in the palace floor, and called out, ‘Hanuman!’
Is loyalty a virtue? This story in the Valmiki Ramayana questions this popular notion. Lakshman’s actions are based on his love for his brother. He does not care for the rules or for Ayodhya. For Ram, the latter is more important than the former. Through his rather cruel approach, Ram compels Lakshman to appreciate dharma and not be simply blinded by Ram.
The dog is a loyal, lovable animal but Hindu scriptures do not treat it as an auspicious creature perhaps because loyalty feeds on fear and the purpose of Vedic scriptures is to outgrow fear by expanding the mind.
Ram is dependable and Lakshman is dependent on Ram. Through this story, Ram seeks to make Lakshman outgrow his dependence and become more dependable. That his ‘head is cut off’ is, like always, a metaphor for expanding the mind.
In Jain narratives, Ram weeps when Lakshman dies, until a Jain monk starts watering a rock to tell him that his tears will not awaken a corpse just as the water will not get the rock to bear fruit.
In a way the Ramayana warns us about the dangers of excessive reliance on rules. It reveals
the personality of a man who values rules above all else: he is predictable, dependable, but not very pleasant. This is balanced by Krishna who looks beyond rules at intent and, more importantly, affection. Ram seems cold and distant when compared to the lovable Krishna. Together they create Vishnu, the preserver of the world.
Both the Ramayana and the Mahabharata end with death and the wisdom that follows death. That wisdom is sukhant, a true happy ending.
Author’s Note
What Shiva Told Shakti
Shakti, who is Goddess, asks Shiva, who is God, to narrate a tale that will comfort all in turbulent times. Shiva narrates the Ramayana, the story of Sita and Ram.
The story pours out in different ways, in different tongues, different words, different nuances and different emotions. Sometimes it is poetry, sometimes prose and sometimes just a gesture. Characters emerge, transform and then disappear in a blink. It tells of plants that talk and animals that think; gods who fail and demons who triumph; heroic villains and villainous heroes; sages and hunters; victims and seducers. Time twists and space unfolds as the narration proceeds.
A curious crow called Kakabhusandi overhears this narration and shares what he can remember with Narada, the travelling sage who loves to gossip and exchange ideas between heaven and earth. Narada narrates what he recollects to Valmiki, who turns the story into a song and teaches it to the twins Luv and Kush.
Luv and Kush sing it before the king of Ayodhya, not realizing that he is the protagonist of the tale, and their father. Ram does not recognize his sons either, and finds it hard to believe that the song they sing so beautifully is all about him. The Ram they describe is so perfect. The Sita he remembers is even better. But the song is incomplete. There is more to the story.
The song of Luv and Kush is Purva-Ramayana, the early section. It describes Ram as eka-bani (he whose arrows always strike the target), eka-vachani (he who always keeps his word) and eka-patni (he who is devoted to a single wife). He is maryada purushottam, supreme upholder of rules. It ends happily after six chapters with the triumph of Ram over the rakshasa-king Ravana, and his eventual coronation as king of Ayodhya with his wife, Sita, by his side.
But the tale continues into Uttara-Ramayana, the latter section, with the seventh chapter describing the separation of Sita and Ram, the fight between father and sons, the reconciliation ending with her disappearing into the earth and with him walking into the river Sarayu, never to rise again.
So where does the Ramayana actually end, with the happy sixth or the unhappy seventh chapter?
Neither, says the sage Vyasa, he who collected and classified the hymns of the Vedas. He informs us that after shedding his body that was Ram, Vishnu ascends to Vaikuntha, his celestial abode on the ocean of milk, and then returns with a new body, that of Krishna, who is very different from Ram.
Neither king nor faithful to a single wife, Krishna is a cowherd and charioteer lovingly reviled as makkhan-chor (one who steals butter), chitta-chor (one who steals hearts) and rana-chhor (one who runs away from battle and lives to fight another day). He is leela purushottam, the supreme game changer. His story is told in the Mahabharata. That makes the Mahabharata an extension of the Ramayana.
Does the Mahabharata then mark the end of the story that begins as the Ramayana?
Not quite. In the chronicles known as Puranas, we are informed that after Krishna, Vishnu takes many more forms before descending as Kalki, who rides a horse, brandishes a sword, very much like an invading plunderer, and heralds pralaya, the end of society as we know it.
Is pralaya then the end of the Ramayana?
No, for just when the sea is about to rise and submerge all the lands, Vishnu takes the form of a small fish and begs humanity to save him from bigger fish. The man who responds to his cries becomes Manu, the founder of a new social order, for he demonstrates the uniquely human potential to help the helpless, defying nature’s law that favours the strong.
Vishnu then turns into a turtle and helps churn Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, out of the ocean of milk. He then turns into a boar and raises the earth from under the sea upon which humans can establish society.
This is when Brahma conducts the ritual of yagna. With fire, he domesticates nature and establishes culture. He declares himself creator and master. But Brahma is creator only of culture, not nature. Culture may be his daughter, but nature is his mother. Culture is the domesticated Gauri; but nature is the sovereign Kali. Both are forms of Shakti, the Goddess. Brahma ignores Kali and exerts his authority over Gauri: a father does what a father is not supposed to do! The Goddess resists. But when Brahma persists, an annoyed Shiva wrenches off the creator’s head. Shiva mocks Brahma for seeking value through culture. He proposes the path of tapasya, meditation and contemplation that ignites inner fire, tapa, to burn all fears, and hence the desire for domination and dominion. Brahma does not understand. He declares Shiva, the hermit, to be the destroyer.
Vishnu intervenes. He realizes the value of both Brahma’s yagna and Shiva’s tapasya. He recognizes the fear in Brahma that makes him shun Kali and control Gauri. He recognizes the wisdom of Shiva that enables him to outgrow all fear. It is to bring the two together that he descends from his heavenly abode, Vaikuntha, taking various forms, the avatars.
As Vamana and Parashurama he supports the yagna, as Ram and Krishna he questions the yagna, as Buddha and Kalki he withdraws from the yagna. He also coaxes Shiva to open his eyes that are always shut in tapasya: to engage with culture, marry Brahma’s daughter, father children, transform into a householder and see the world from the other’s point of view. This Vishnu does again and again, in era after era, from pralaya to pralaya, in a cycle of life that knows neither beginning nor end.
In the eternal turbulence of his ho usehold, only the Ramayana gives Shiva reprieve. For in every cosmic cycle, Sita and Ram are always at peace in the palace and in the forest; neither is overawed by culture or intimidated by nature. Tapasya makes them wise; yagna enables them to convey love. Together, they establish dharma, the best a human can do, in continuously changing contexts, despite being judged differently by different people whose view of the same situation is very different.
Thus the Ramayana is a segment of a vast cyclical tale, one piece of a complex jigsaw puzzle. Events in the tale are a consequence of the past and the cause of the future. It cannot be seen in isolation, at least not in a Hindu context. To do so is to see the stars and miss the sky.
Further, the Ramayana is not a single text, or even multiple texts. It is a belief, a tradition, a subjective truth, a thought materialized, ritualized and celebrated through narrations, songs, dances, sculptures, plays, paintings and puppets across hundreds of locations, over hundreds of years. Each retelling has many tributaries and many branches. Each has its own tilt, focusing on different plots, on different characters, on different aspects of the human condition, each one innovatively recreating as well as contributing to the plots and the themes. What makes a Ram-katha, Ram-leela, Ram-akhyan, Ram-charita, Ramkirti or Ram-kavya venerable is its ability to uplift the spirits, despite, or even because of, the disturbing aspects of the tale.
There are other Ramayanas, of course. There are the ancient Sanskrit plays where Ram is a mighty yet lovelorn hero, not quite God. There is Bhatti’s Ramayana that has more to do with the rules of Sanskrit grammar than the telling of Ram’s story. There is the Ramayana of the Jains where Ram subscribes to the Jain doctrine of non-violence and leaves the killing of Ravana to Lakshman. There is the Ramayana of the Buddhists where Ram is the Bodhisattva who keeps his word by staying in the forest for the stipulated period of time, even though he can return home early. There are the Ramayanas of South-East Asia such as the Thai Ramakien and the Khmer Reamker where Ram is a popular cultural icon, even a model for kings, but not divine. Then there are the modern retellings that are more political and less reverent, more judgemental and less enquiring. In spirit, they are very different from the Ramayanas that nourish the Indian soul. They sha
re the same literary narrative (shabda-artha) but not the same emotional narrative (bhaava-artha).
Valmiki identifies Shiva’s Ramayana as Ananda Ramayana; Vyasa calls it Adhyatma Ramayana. Here Ram is not a hero, he is God. Sita is not a victim, she is the Goddess. And Ravana is not a villain, he is a brahmin (offspring of Brahma) who despite his vast knowledge is unable to expand (brah, in Sanskrit) his mind (manas) to appreciate the Goddess, hence is unable to find God (brahman).
The Goddess in Hindu scriptures is not the female version of God favoured by feminists, nor is God the all-powerful, judgemental external agency described in the Bible, who sets down codes of conduct and determines what is right and wrong. God is not even the deified hero of Greek mythology, which greatly informs the modern rational and atheist discourse. Goddess and God have very particular meanings in the Hindu understanding of the universe.
Indic thought, particularly Hindu thought, starts with an observation: the human ability to imagine that enables us to position ourselves outside nature. We alone, of all living creatures, can refuse to submit to nature’s laws. This human mind (manas/purusha) is potentially God while nature (prakriti/maya/shakti) is always the Goddess.