Reading section 23

As wailed the aged Bráhmans, bent To turn him back, with wild lament, Seemed Tamasá herself to aid, Checking his progress, as they prayed. Sumantra from the chariot freed With ready hand each weary steed; He groomed them with the utmost heed,

Their limbs he bathed and dried, Then led them forth to drink and feed At pleasure in the grassy mead That fringed the river side.

Canto XLVI. The Halt.

When Ráma, chief of Raghu’s race, Arrived at that delightful place, He looked on Sítá first, and then To Lakshmaṇ spake the lord of men: “Now first the shades of night descend Since to the wilds our steps we bend. Joy to thee, brother! do not grieve For our dear home and all we leave. The woods unpeopled seem to weep Around us, as their tenants creep Or fly to lair and den and nest, Both bird and beast, to seek their rest. Methinks Ayodhyá’s royal town Where dwells my sire of high renown, With all her men and dames to-night Will mourn us vanished from their sight. For, by his virtues won, they cling In fond affection to their king, And thee and me, O brave and true, And Bharat and Śatrughna too. I for my sire and mother feel Deep sorrow o’er my bosom steal, Lest mourning us, oppressed with fears, They blind their eyes with endless tears. Yet Bharat’s duteous love will show Sweet comfort in their hours of woe, And with kind words their hearts sustain, Suggesting duty, bliss, and gain. I mourn my parents now no more: I count dear Bharat’s virtues o’er, And his kind love and care dispel The doubts I had, and all is well. And thou thy duty wouldst not shun, And, following me, hast nobly done; Else, bravest, I should need a band Around my wife as guard to stand. On this first night, my thirst to slake, Some water only will I take: Thus, brother, thus my will decides, Though varied store the wood provides.”

Thus having said to Lakshmaṇ, he Addressed in turn Sumantra: “Be Most diligent to-night, my friend, And with due care thy horses tend.” The sun had set: Sumantra tied His noble horses side by side, Gave store of grass with liberal hand, And rested near them on the strand. Each paid the holy evening rite, And when around them fell the night, The charioteer, with Lakshmaṇ’s aid, A lowly bed for Ráma laid. To Lakshmaṇ Ráma bade adieu, And then by Sítá’s side he threw His limbs upon the leafy bed Their care upon the bank had spread. When Lakshmaṇ saw the couple slept, Still on the strand his watch he kept, Still with Sumantra there conversed, And Ráma’s varied gifts rehearsed. All night he watched, nor sought repose, Till on the earth the sun arose: With him Sumantra stayed awake, And still of Ráma’s virtues spake. Thus, near the river’s grassy shore Which herds unnumbered wandered o’er, Repose, untroubled, Ráma found, And all the people lay around. The glorious hero left his bed, Looked on the sleeping crowd, and said To Lakshmaṇ, whom each lucky line Marked out for bliss with surest sign:

“O brother Lakshmaṇ, look on these Reclining at the roots of trees; All care of house and home resigned, Caring for us with heart and mind, These people of the city yearn To see us to our home return: To quit their lives will they consent, But never leave their firm intent. Come, while they all unconscious sleep, Let us upon the chariot leap, And swiftly on our journey speed Where naught our progress may impede, That these fond citizens who roam Far from Ikshváku’s ancient home, No more may sleep ’neath bush and tree, Following still for love of me. A prince with tender care should heal The self-brought woes his people feel, And never let his subjects share The burthen he is forced to bear.”

Then Lakshmaṇ to the chief replied, Who stood like Justice by his side: “Thy rede, O sage, I well commend: Without delay the car ascend.” Then Ráma to Sumantra spoke: “Thy rapid steeds, I pray thee, yoke. Hence to the forest will I go: Away, my lord, and be not slow.”

Sumantra, urged to utmost speed, Yoked to the car each generous steed, And then, with hand to hand applied, He came before the chief and cried: “Hail, Prince, whom mighty arms adorn, Hail, bravest of the chariot-borne! With Sítá and thy brother thou Mayst mount: the car is ready now.”

The hero clomb the car with haste: His bow and gear within were placed, And quick the eddying flood he passed Of Tamasá whose waves run fast. Soon as he touched the farther side, That strong-armed hero, glorified, He found a road both wide and clear, Where e’en the timid naught could fear. Then, that the crowd might be misled, Thus Ráma to Sumantra said: “Speed north a while, then hasten back, Returning in thy former track, That so the people may not learn The course I follow: drive and turn.”

Sumantra, at the chief’s behest, Quick to the task himself addressed; Then near to Ráma came, and showed The chariot ready for the road. With Sítá, then, the princely two, Who o’er the line of Raghu threw A glory ever bright and new, Upon the chariot stood. Sumantra fast and faster drove His horses, who in fleetness strove Still onward to the distant grove, The hermit-haunted wood.

Canto XLVII. The Citizens’ Return.

The people, when the morn shone fair, Arose to find no Ráma there. Then fear and numbing grief subdued The senses of the multitude. The woe-born tears were running fast As all around their eyes they cast, And sadly looked, but found no trace Of Ráma, searching every place. Bereft of Ráma good and wise, With drooping cheer and weeping eyes, Each woe-distracted sage gave vent To sorrow in his wild lament: “Woe worth the sleep that stole our sense With its beguiling influence, That now we look in vain for him Of the broad chest and stalwart limb! How could the strong-armed hero, thus Deceiving all, abandon us? His people so devoted see, Yet to the woods, a hermit, flee? How can he, wont our hearts to cheer, As a fond sire his children dear,— How can the pride of Raghu’s race Fly from us to some desert place! Here let us all for death prepare, Or on the last great journey fare;(320) Of Ráma our dear lord bereft, What profit in our lives is left? Huge trunks of trees around us lie, With roots and branches sere and dry, Come let us set these logs on fire And throw our bodies on the pyre. What shall we speak? How can we say We followed Ráma on his way, The mighty chief whose arm is strong, Who sweetly speaks, who thinks no wrong? Ayodhyá’s town with sorrow dumb, Without our lord will see us come, And hopeless misery will strike Elder, and child, and dame alike. Forth with that peerless chief we came, Whose mighty heart is aye the same: How, reft of him we love, shall we Returning dare that town to see?”

Complaining thus with varied cry They tossed their aged arms on high, And their sad hearts with grief were wrung, Like cows who sorrow for their young. A while they followed on the road Which traces of his chariot showed, But when at length those traces failed, A deep despair their hearts assailed. The chariot marks no more discerned, The hopeless sages backward turned: “Ah, what is this? What can we more? Fate stops the way, and all is o’er.” With wearied hearts, in grief and shame They took the road by which they came, And reached Ayodhyá’s city, where From side to side was naught but care. With troubled spirits quite cast down They looked upon the royal town, And from their eyes, oppressed with woe, Their tears again began to flow. Of Ráma reft, the city wore No look of beauty as before, Like a dull river or a lake By Garuḍ robbed of every snake. Dark, dismal as the moonless sky, Or as a sea whose bed is dry, So sad, to every pleasure dead, They saw the town, disquieted. On to their houses, high and vast, Where stores of precious wealth were massed, The melancholy Bráhmans passed, Their hearts with anguish cleft: Aloof from all, they came not near To stranger or to kinsman dear, Showing in faces blank and drear That not one joy was left.

Canto XLVIII. The Women’s Lament.

When those who forth with Ráma went Back to the town their steps had bent, It seemed that death had touched and chilled Those hearts which piercing sorrow filled. Each to his several mansion came, And girt by children and his dame, From his sad eyes the water shed That o’er his cheek in torrents spread. All joy was fled: oppressed with cares No bustling trader showed his wares. Each shop had lost its brilliant look, Each householder forbore to cook. No hand with joy its earnings told, None cared to win a wealth of gold, And scarce the youthful mother smiled To see her first, her new-born child. In every house a woman wailed, And her returning lord assailed With keen taunt piercing like the steel That bids the tusked monster kneel: “What now to them is wedded dame, What house and home and dearest aim, Or son, or bliss, or gathered store, Whose eyes on Ráma look no more! There is but one in all the earth, One man alone of real worth, Lakshmaṇ, who follows, true and good, Ráma, with Sítá, through the wood. Made holy for all time we deem Each pool and fountain, lake and stream, If great Kakutstha’s son shall choose Their water for his bath to use. Each forest, dark with lovely trees, Shall yearn Kakutstha’s son to please; Each mountain peak and woody hill, Each mighty flood and mazy rill, Each rocky height, each shady grove Where the blest feet of Ráma rove, Shall gladly welcome with the best Of all they have their honoured guest. The trees that clustering blossoms bear, And bright-hued buds to gem their hair, The heart of Ráma shall delight, And cheer him on the breezy height. For him the upland slopes will show The fairest roots and fruit that grow, And all their wealth before him fling Ere the due hour of ripening. For him each earth-upholding hill Its crystal water shall distil, And all its floods shall be displayed In many a thousand-hued cascade. Where Ráma stands is naught to fear, No danger comes if he be near; For all who live on him depend, The world’s support, and lord, and friend. Ere in too distant wilds he stray, Let us to Ráma speed away, For rich reward on those will wait Who serve a prince of soul so great. We will attend on Sítá there; Be Raghu’s son your special care.”

The city dames, with grief distressed, Thus once again their lords addressed: “Ráma shall be your guard and guide, And Sítá will for us provide. For who would care to linger here, Where all is sad and dark and drear? Who, mid the mourners, hope for bliss In a poor soulless town like this? If Queen Kaikeyí’s treacherous sin, Our lord expelled, the kingdom win, We heed not sons or golden store, Our life itself we prize no more. If she, seduced by lust of sway, Her lord and son could cast away, Whom would she leave unharmed, the base Defiler of her royal race? We swear it by our children dear, We will not dwell as servants here; If Queen Kaikeyí live to reign, We will not in her realm remain. Bowed down by her oppressive hand, The helpless, lordless, godless land, Cursed for Kaikeyí’s guilt will fall, And swift destruction seize it all. For, Ráma forced from home to fly, The king his sire will surely die, And when the king has breathed his last Ruin will doubtless follow fast. Sad, robbed of merits, drug the cup And drink the poisoned mixture up, Or share the exiled Ráma’s lot, Or seek some land that knows her not. No reason, but a false pretence Drove Ráma, Sítá, Lakshmaṇ hence, And we to Bharat have been given Like cattle to the shambles driven.”

While in each house the women, pained At loss of Ráma, still complained, Sank to his rest the Lord of Day, And night through all the sky held sway. The fires of worship all were cold, No text was hummed, no tale was told, And shades of midnight gloom came down Enveloping the mournful town. Still, sick at heart, the women shed, As for a son or husband fled, For Ráma tears, disquieted: No child was loved as he. And all Ayodhyá, where the feast, Music, and song, and dance had ceased, And merriment and glee, Where every merchant’s store was closed That erst its glittering wares exposed, Was like a dried up sea.

Canto XLIX. The Crossing Of The Rivers.

Now Ráma, ere the night was fled, O’er many a league of road had sped, Till, as his course he onward held, The morn the shades of night dispelled. The rites of holy dawn he paid, And all the country round surveyed. He saw, as still he hurried through With steeds which swift as arrows flew, Hamlets and groves with blossoms fair, And fields which showed the tillers’ care, While from the clustered dwellings near The words of peasants reached his ear: “Fie on our lord the king, whose soul Is yielded up to love’s control! Fie on the vile Kaikeyí! Shame On that malicious sinful dame, Who, keenly bent on cruel deeds, No bounds of right and virtue heeds, But with her wicked art has sent So good a prince to banishment, Wise, tender-hearted, ruling well His senses, in the woods to dwell. Ah cruel king! his heart of steel For his own son no love could feel, Who with the sinless Ráma parts, The darling of the people’s hearts.”

These words he heard the peasants say, Who dwelt in hamlets by the way, And, lord of all the realm by right, Through Kośala pursued his flight. Through the auspicious flood, at last, Of Vedaśrutí’s stream he passed, And onward to the place he sped By Saint Agastya tenanted. Still on for many an hour he hied, And crossed the stream whose cooling tide Rolls onward till she meets the sea, The herd-frequented Gomatí.(321) Borne by his rapid horses o’er, He reached that river’s further shore. And Syandiká’s, whose swan-loved stream Resounded with the peacock’s scream. Then as he journeyed on his road To his Videhan bride he showed The populous land which Manu old To King Ikshváku gave to hold. The glorious prince, the lord of men Looked on the charioteer, and then Voiced like a wild swan, loud and clear, He spake these words and bade him hear: “When shall I, with returning feet My father and my mother meet? When shall I lead the hunt once more In bloomy woods on Sarjú’s shore? Most eagerly I long to ride Urging the chase on Sarjú’s side. For royal saints have seen no blame In this, the monarch’s matchless game.”

Thus speeding on,—no rest or stay,— Ikshváku’s son pursued his way. Oft his sweet voice the silence broke, And thus on varied themes he spoke.

Canto L. The Halt Under The Ingudí.(322)

So through the wide and fair extent Of Kośala the hero went. Then toward Ayodhyá back he gazed, And cried, with suppliant hands upraised: “Farewell, dear city, first in place, Protected by Kakutstha’s race! And Gods, who in thy temples dwell, And keep thine ancient citadel! I from his debt my sire will free, Thy well-loved towers again will see, And, coming from my wild retreat, My mother and my father meet.”

Then burning grief inflamed his eye, As his right arm he raised on high, And, while hot tears his cheek bedewed, Addressed the mournful multitude: “By love and tender pity moved, Your love for me you well have proved; Now turn again with joy, and win Success in all your hands begin.”

Before the high souled chief they bent, With circling steps around him went, And then with bitter wailing, they Departed each his several way. Like the great sun engulfed by night, The hero sped beyond their sight, While still the people mourned his fate And wept aloud disconsolate. The car-borne chieftain passed the bound Of Kośala’s delightful ground, Where grain and riches bless the land, And people give with liberal hand: A lovely realm unvexed by fear, Where countless shrines and stakes(323) appear: Where mango-groves and gardens grow, And streams of pleasant water flow: Where dwells content a well-fed race, And countless kine the meadows grace: Filled with the voice of praise and prayer: Each hamlet worth a monarch’s care. Before him three-pathed Gangá rolled Her heavenly waters bright and cold; O’er her pure breast no weeds were spread, Her banks were hermit-visited. The car-borne hero saw the tide That ran with eddies multiplied, And thus the charioteer addressed: “Here on the bank to-day we rest. Not distant from the river, see! There grows a lofty Ingudí With blossoms thick on every spray: There rest we, charioteer, to-day. I on the queen of floods will gaze, Whose holy stream has highest praise, Where deer, and bird, and glittering snake, God, Daitya, bard their pastime take.”

Sumantra, Lakshmaṇ gave assent, And with the steeds they thither went. When Ráma reached the lovely tree, With Sítá and with Lakshmaṇ, he Alighted from the car: with speed Sumantra loosed each weary steed. And, hand to hand in reverence laid, Stood near to Ráma in the shade. Ráma’s dear friend, renowned by fame, Who of Nisháda lineage came, Guha, the mighty chief, adored Through all the land as sovereign lord, Soon as he heard that prince renowned Was resting on Nisháda ground, Begirt by counsellor and peer And many an honoured friend drew near. Soon as the monarch came in view, Ráma and Lakshmaṇ toward him flew. Then Guha, at the sight distressed, His arms around the hero pressed, Laid both his hands upon his head Bowed to those lotus feet, and said: “O Ráma, make thy wishes known, And be this kingdom as thine own. Who, mighty-armed, will ever see A guest so dear as thou to me?”

He placed before him dainty fare Of every flavour, rich and rare, Brought forth the gift for honoured guest, And thus again the chief addressed: “Welcome, dear Prince, whose arms are strong; These lands and all to thee belong. Thy servants we, our lord art thou; Begin, good king, thine empire now. See, various food before thee placed, And cups to drink and sweets to taste For thee soft beds are hither borne, And for thy horses grass and corn.”

To Guha as he pressed and prayed, Thus Raghu’s son his answer made: “’Twas aye thy care my heart to please With honour, love, and courtesies, And friendship brings thee now to greet Thy guest thus humbly on thy feet.”

Again the hero spake, as round The king his shapely arms he wound: “Guha, I see that all is well With thee and those who with thee dwell; That health and bliss and wealth attend Thy realm, thyself, and every friend. But all these friendly gifts of thine, Bound to refuse, I must decline. Grass, bark, and hide my only wear, And woodland roots and fruit my fare, On duty all my heart is set; I seek the woods, an anchoret. A little grass and corn to feed The horses—this is all I need. So by this favour, King, alone Shall honour due to me be shown. For these good steeds who brought me here Are to my sire supremely dear; And kind attention paid to these Will honour me and highly please.”

Then Guha quickly bade his train Give water to the steeds, and grain. And Ráma, ere the night grew dark, Paid evening rites in dress of bark, And tasted water, on the strand, Drawn from the stream by Lakshmaṇ’s hand. And Lakshmaṇ with observance meet Bathed his beloved brother’s feet, Who rested with his Maithil spouse: Then sat him down ’neath distant boughs. And Guha with his bow sat near To Lakshmaṇ and the charioteer, And with the prince conversing kept His faithful watch while Ráma slept. As Daśaratha’s glorious heir, Of lofty soul and wisdom rare, Reclining with his Sítá there Beside the river lay— He who no troubles e’er had seen, Whose life a life of bliss had been— That night beneath the branches green Passed pleasantly away.

Canto LI. Lakshman’s Lament.

As Lakshmaṇ still his vigil held By unaffected love impelled, Guha, whose heart the sight distressed, With words like these the prince addressed: “Beloved youth, this pleasant bed Was brought for thee, for thee is spread; On this, my Prince, thine eyelids close, And heal fatigue with sweet repose. My men are all to labour trained, But hardship thou hast ne’er sustained. All we this night our watch will keep And guard Kakutstha’s son asleep. In all the world there breathes not one More dear to me than Raghu’s son. The words I speak, heroic youth, Are true: I swear it by my truth. Through his dear grace supreme renown Will, so I trust, my wishes crown. So shall my life rich store obtain Of merit, blest with joy and gain. While Raghu’s son and Sítá lie Entranced in happy slumber, I Will, with my trusty bow in hand, Guard my dear friend with all my band. To me, who oft these forests range, Is naught therein or new or strange. We could with equal might oppose A four-fold army led by foes.”

Then royal Lakshmaṇ made reply: “With thee to stand as guardian nigh, Whose faithful soul regards the right, Fearless we well might rest to-night. But how, when Ráma lays his head With Sítá on his lowly bed,— How can I sleep? how can I care For life, or aught that’s bright and fair? Behold the conquering chief, whose might Is match for Gods and fiends in fight; With Sítá now he rests his head Asleep on grass beneath him spread. Won by devotion, text, and prayer, And many a rite performed with care, Chief of our father’s sons he shines Well marked, like him, with favouring signs. Brief, brief the monarch’s life will be Now his dear son is forced to flee; And quickly will the widowed state Mourn for her lord disconsolate. Each mourner there has wept her fill; The cries of anguish now are still: In the king’s hall each dame, o’ercome With weariness of woe is dumb. This first sad night of grief, I ween, Will do to death each sorrowing queen: Scarce is Kauśalyá left alive; My mother, too, can scarce survive. If when her heart is fain to break, She lingers for Śatrughna’s sake, Kauśalyá, mother of the chief, Must sink beneath the chilling grief. That town which countless thousands fill, Whose hearts with love of Ráma thrill,— The world’s delight, so rich and fair,— Grieved for the king, his death will share. The hopes he fondly cherished, crossed Ayodhyá’s throne to Ráma lost,— With mournful cries, Too late, too late! The king my sire will meet his fate. And when my sire has passed away, Most happy in their lot are they, Allowed, with every pious care, Part in his funeral rites to bear. And O, may we with joy at last,— These years of forest exile past,— Turn to Ayodhyá’s town to dwell With him who keeps his promise well!”

While thus the hero mighty-souled, In wild lament his sorrow told, Faint with the load that on him lay, The hours of darkness passed away. As thus the prince, impelled by zeal For his loved brother, prompt to feel Strong yearnings for the people’s weal, His words of truth outspake, King Guha grieved to see his woe, Heart-stricken, gave his tears to flow, Tormented by the common blow, Sad, as a wounded snake.

Canto LII. The Crossing Of Gangá.

Soon as the shades of night had fled, Uprising from his lowly bed, Ráma the famous, broad of chest, His brother Lakshmaṇ thus addressed: “Now swift upsprings the Lord of Light, And fled is venerable night. That dark-winged bird the Koïl now Is calling from the topmost bough, And sounding from the thicket nigh Is heard the peacock’s early cry. Come, cross the flood that seeks the sea, The swiftly flowing Jáhnaví.”(324)

King Guha heard his speech, agreed, And called his minister with speed: “A boat,” he cried, “swift, strong, and fair, With rudder, oars, and men, prepare, And place it ready by the shore To bear the pilgrims quickly o’er.” Thus Guha spake: his followers all Bestirred them at their master’s call; Then told the king that ready manned A gay boat waited near the strand. Then Guha, hand to hand applied, With reverence thus to Ráma cried: “The boat is ready by the shore: How, tell me, can I aid thee more? O lord of men, it waits for thee To cross the flood that seeks the sea. O godlike keeper of thy vow, Embark: the boat is ready now.”

Then Ráma, lord of glory high, Thus to King Guha made reply: “Thanks for thy gracious care, my lord: Now let the gear be placed on board.” Each bow-armed chief, in mail encased, Bound sword and quiver to his waist, And then with Sítá near them hied Down the broad river’s shelving side. Then with raised palms the charioteer, In lowly reverence drawing near, Cried thus to Ráma good and true: “Now what remains for me to do?” With his right hand, while answering The hero touched his friend: “Go back,” he said, “and on the king With watchful care attend. Thus far, Sumantra, thou wast guide; Now to Ayodhyá turn,” he cried: “Hence seek we leaving steeds and car, On foot the wood that stretches far.”