Is Sita following Ram because it is her duty or because she loves Ram and cares for him? Is the decision based on social norms or emotion? This is not clarified in the epic. But while Ram tilts more towards rules, Sita balances him by tilting more towards emotions. He aligns; she understands.
Unlike conventional narratives that portray Sita as a demure, obedient wife, the Sita of the Valmiki Ramayana has a mind of her own. In fact, she rebukes Ram for not being man enough and for being afraid of taking his wife along.
In the Adhyatma Ramayana what finally makes Ram agree to Sita accompanying him to the forest is her argument that she has always accompanied him to the forest in all the earlier Ramayana s. This alludes to the many retellings of the epic, or to a prior life, when he was Ram before. Thus the narrative implies knowledge of the belief that the Ramayana is an eternal cyclic story, taking place again and again, both simultaneously and sequentially, in different ages and told through different poets, and we have access to just one of its many repetitions.
In Vaishnava literature, when Vishnu descends on earth, he is accompanied by Adi Sesha, the many-hooded serpent on which Vishnu reclines, as well as his weapons which take human form. When he descends as Ram, Adi Sesha takes the form of Lakshman and his weapons, the disc and the mace, descend as his brothers, Bharata and Shatrughna.
Clothes of Bark
Everything was happening fast. At dusk, the palace was a place of celebration. By midnight, it had become a place of gloom. The servants went around the palace to tell musicians to stop playing music, the cooks to stop preparing food, the maids to stop stringing garlands, the attendants to stop lighting the lamps and the priests to stop chanting hymns. The chatter of excited entertainers preparing for the next day was replaced by worried whispers.
Soon the word spread from the palace to the city like the tentacles of an octopus. The unimaginable had happened: Ram who was to be crowned king at dawn had been banished from the palace and asked to live as a hermit in the forest for fourteen years. The people of Ayodhya, who had stayed awake preparing for the next day, left all their chores and walked towards the palace wondering if what they had heard was true or if it was a cruel prank played by a mischief-maker.
Meanwhile, Manthara organized clothes of bark for Ram, Lakshman and Sita. Ram replaced his rich royal robes very comfortably, for he had worn such clothes when he was a student at Vasishtha’s hermitage. Sita had seen these on the many ascetics who attended the Upanishad, but had never worn them herself. She looked unsure.
‘Let me help you,’ said Ram.
‘Stop,’ said Kaushalya looking at Sita. ‘Ram has been told to live like a hermit. Not you, my daughter-in-law. You embody the prosperity of the Raghu clan. Never ever should you be seen distressed or poor, stripped of jewels or colour. It will annoy the devas and bring misfortune to the household of your husband. Tell her, Kaikeyi. Or do you want your son’s kingdom to face the wrath of the Goddess?’
Kaikeyi, heady with the unexpected and wonderful turn of events, decided to be gracious. ‘Yes. Ram needs to be a hermit. Sita, you need to continue to be the bride. You will embody the reputation of the Raghu clan even in the forest. Guard her well, Ram. Do not forget to carry your weapons. Never let Bharata doubt your loyalty.’
Manthara chuckled, ‘Oh my, the girl will become a woman in the forest. Will the hermit stay a hermit then?’
‘I will cut your tongue out, vulgar witch,’ said Lakshman.
‘I am leaving now,’ said Ram curtly to Lakshman. ‘If you wish to follow, then follow me now. If you wish to stay and cut out tongues, then stay.’
Ram walked out of Kaikeyi’s courtyard, dressed in bark, carrying nothing but his weapons: a sword, a spear, an axe, a bow and a quiver full of arrows. Sita followed him, dressed in red, laden with jewels meant for a queen who sits on the throne beside her husband, the king. Lakshman followed her, barely hiding his rage. The attendants who carried parasols and fly whisks meant for the crown prince stood aside, numb, not knowing what to do.
Had they been going to war, no one would have cried. But this was unbearable, unacceptable even: children being sent to live in the forests while their parents continued to live in the palace. As they crossed the threshold, Dashratha could not contain himself. Royal composure gave way to a father’s wail. Kaushalya and Sumitra who tried to comfort him also began to cry. Watching them cry, the maids and servants began to cry as well, the warriors began to cry, the priests began to cry, the elders began to cry. It was like someone had died.
Sodden strips of the fibrous inner bark of trees and plants such as the banyan and the banana are beaten into sheets to make cloth of bark.
Ram mats his hair using the juice of the banyan tree.
In miniature art, Ram is often shown wearing clothes made of leaves and he also wraps animal hide around his body. These were the clothes of mendicants.
Not all versions agree on whether Sita followed Ram in royal robes or in clothes of bark. In Kamban’s Ramayana she wears bark.
Departure
When the people of Ayodhya heard the wailing from the inner chambers of the palace, they blocked the palace gates. They would not let Ram go. Whatever the palace politics, this was about their future too. They would not be silent witnesses.
To avoid the commotion at the gates, it was decided that Ram, Lakshman and Sita would be taken out on the royal chariot, which would make it easier for them to cut through the crowd. Sumantra, the king’s charioteer, ordered the warriors to use whips and sticks to push the people away and make a path.
But as the chariot rolled out, the crowds rushed forward, refusing to be intimidated. They threatened to throw themselves under the wheels and kill themselves. ‘We will kill Kaikeyi. We will kill Bharata. Revolt, Ram, we are with you. Do not submit to this injustice,’ they said.
Ram finally stood up and said in a voice that was clear and soothing, ‘Know this, Ayodhya is not mine to give or Bharata’s to take; Ayodhya is the responsibility of the Raghu clan, not our property. It will be injustice if the kings of the Raghu clan do not keep their word, it will be injustice if the wishes of Kaikeyi are not fulfilled. My father promised to fulfil her wishes and he is obliged to fulfil them, as am I. Do not blame her for asking what is due to her. Yes, the event is unfortunate but it is but one event in our lives; we can call it a tragedy if we wish. Blaming helps no one; let us take responsibility for it. For nothing in life happens spontaneously: it is the result of past actions. This moment is as it is supposed to be. I am repaying the debt of the past and so are you. We cannot choose the circumstances of our life, but we can make our choices. I have chosen to be true to my clan. My wife has chosen to be true to her role as my wife. My brother has chosen to be true to his feelings. Allow us our choices. Come to terms with our decisions. You are angry not with the queen or her son, or the king, you are angry that life has not turned out the way you thought it would. In a moment, the world you so took for granted has collapsed. Expand your mind and understand that the pain comes from your assumptions and expectations. Choose love over hate, by accepting the fears and fragilities of humanity that lead to situations such as these. This moment is the outcome of some curse, or maybe it is a boon in waiting. Who knows? Varuna has a thousand eyes, Indra a hundred, you and I, only two.’
After this there was no more agitation. The chariot rolled without resistance and the people stood quietly by.
When the chariot crossed the city gates, the people felt emptiness in their hearts, and spontaneously began following the chariot. They would not stop the chariot but they could not stop their feet either. Before long the city was deserted, and a long stream of people made their way behind the chariot, with its fluttering royal flags, which made its way towards the frontiers of Kosala.
Dashratha dragged himself out of Kaikeyi’s courtyard assisted by his wives. From the palace gate he watched the chariot carrying his sons roll out. He stood on his toes and strained his neck, watching the chariot until it disappeared o
ver the horizon. ‘Ram is gone. Bharata is not here. Neither is Lakshman or Shatrughna. What will happen to Ayodhya if I die now?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ said Kaushalya wistfully. ‘The sun will rise. The birds will chirp and the city will go about its business. The world does not need us, my husband. We need the world. Come, let us go inside and prepare for Bharata’s coronation. Fortunes and misfortunes come and go but life continues.’
The motif of the beloved leaving on a chariot is a recurring one in the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. Ram leaves Ayodhya on his chariot and the people of Ayodhya try to stop him. Krishna leaves Vrindavan on his chariot and the milkmaids of Vrindavan try to stop him by hurling themselves before the chariot. Krishna does not keep his promise to return but Ram does.
Unlike the departure of the Buddha that takes place in secret, Ram’s departure is public, with everyone weeping as the beloved is bound by duty to leave.
Ram’s stoic calm while leaving the city is what makes him divine in the eyes of most people. He does what no ordinary human can do; he represents the acme of human potential.
According to the Kashmiri Ramayana, Dashratha weeps so much that he becomes blind.
Guha, the Boatman
The chariot stopped when it reached the banks of the river Ganga. ‘Let us rest,’ said Ram. So everyone sat on the ground around the chariot.
Slowly, the night’s events began to take their toll. People began to yawn and stretch. No sooner did their heads touch the ground than they fell asleep. Sita saw Ram watching over the people with a mother’s loving gaze. ‘Why don’t you sleep for some time?’ asked Sita.
‘No, the forest awaits.’ As the soft sounds of sleep filled the air, Ram alighted from the chariot and told Sumantra, ‘We will take our leave as they sleep. When they awaken tell the men and women of Ayodhya that if they truly love me, they must return home. I will see you, and them, again in fourteen years. No eclipse lasts forever.’
Ram walked upriver. Sita and Lakshman followed him. Sumantra watched them disappear into the bushes. The sky was red by the time they reached a village of fisherfolk; the sun would soon be up. ‘Guha,’ Ram called out in hushed tones.
‘Who is it?’ The voice was gruff. From under an overturned boat emerged Guha, the king of fisherfolk. He recognized Ram immediately and beamed. ‘What are you doing here so early?’ He then noticed Sita and Lakshman behind him, and the clothes Ram and Lakshman were wearing. ‘Is this some royal game, or ritual? Are you going on an excursion to the forest?’
‘Yes,’ replied Ram, ‘for fourteen years.’ Ram told Guha what had transpired at the palace. He then asked Guha for a favour: ‘Take us across. And do not ferry anyone else across these waters for the rest of the day. I do not want anyone to follow us.’
‘Why don’t you stay here, with us? My hut is not a palace, and it is as bad as any forest, but I will make your stay comfortable.’
‘I cannot,’ said Ram. ‘A forest is defined as a place from where we cannot even see the light of the lamps of human settlement.’
‘Humans are not meant to live like that. Certainly not princes, or princesses,’ Guha said looking at Sita. She was so young and dainty. How would she survive in the forest? This was madness.
‘Guha, the boat,’ said Ram, his firm voice a command.
‘Eat some rice before you go,’ pleaded Guha. ‘I will cook it myself and flavour it with pepper.’
‘No cooked food for a hermit. Just what we pluck from trees or pull out from the ground.’
‘Let me come with you, serve you.’
‘No servants for hermits.’
As the harshness of the exile kept unfolding before Sita, she was confident that she would find the strength to bear and ease the suffering of her husband and his brother. Never ever would she make Ram regret her companionship. She would help realize Janaka’s blessings before she left, ‘May you bring happiness wherever you go.’
As Guha dragged the boat into the waters, he tried to make light of the situation. ‘The touch of your feet turned a stone into a woman, I heard. Hope you don’t turn this boat of mine into something else; it is my only source of livelihood.’
Ram smiled and hugged Guha, the kind boatman, who then ferried the three to the other side from where began the Dandaka forest, realm of the rakshasas.
The sun rose and in the first light Ram turned to have a last glimpse of Kosala. On the other side, he saw the people of Ayodhya. They had noticed his absence and followed him silently to the village of the fisherfolk, but had let him go without a word of protest. Ram bowed to them, in appreciation of their wisdom, and they bowed back, in appreciation of his nobility.
In the Valmiki Ramayana, Ram leaves while the people are sleeping and the chariot turns around and returns to Ayodhya; everyone presumes that Ram has probably changed his mind and returned home. Instead, Ram crosses the river and goes into the forest.
To go into exile, Ram crosses two rivers, the Ganga and the Yamuna, which water the plains commonly associated with Aryavarta. The river divides culture from nature, the realm of humans from the realm of animals.
Guha is an important character in devotional songs and literature. Ram treats him as a friend, not a servant, and Guha reveals his naivety when he fears Ram’s foot will turn his boat into a woman.
The Sleep Goddess
They walked all day, moving away from Kosala, not looking back. Ram kept turning only to see if Sita was comfortable, while Sita was busy collecting berries and fruits she found on the way. No word was exchanged, but each one had taken up a responsibility: Ram would find the path they would all follow, Sita would collect food and water, and Lakshman would keep an eye out for predators.
They found a huge rock next to a lake. ‘We will spend the night here,’ Ram said. They were all very tired after the events of the previous night and having walked all day. Ram and Sita could hardly keep their eyes open.
But Lakshman refused to sleep. ‘You must,’ said Nidra, the goddess of sleep, appearing before him, ‘it is the law of nature.’
‘If I sleep, who will protect my brother and his wife? No, I wish to stay awake.’ He begged Nidra to go to his wife Urmila in the city of Ayodhya and tell her to sleep on his behalf. ‘Let her sleep all night for herself and all day for me.’
When Nidra appeared before Urmila and told her of Lakshman’s wish, she was more than happy to help. ‘Let his exhaustion come to me so that he stays always fresh and alert as he serves his brother and his wife.’
And so it came to pass that for the next fourteen years Urmila slept all day and all night, while Lakshman remained without sleep in the service of Ram.
The episode of Urmila sleeping and Lakshman staying awake for fourteen years comes from Buddha Reddy’s Ranganatha Ramayana.
Many poets have wondered about Urmila, the wife abandoned by the husband who considers duty to his elder brother more important. Through her, they have expressed the status of the Indian woman, as being servile to the larger institution, the husband’s family. Even the husband is servile to his family. In the Indian social order, the individual is inferior to the family. Individualism is expressed only as a hermit; else one has to submit to the ways of the householder. The household is thus bondage, from which one yearns for liberation. In the Ramayana, this bondage is visualized as yagna, conducted out of sensitivity for the other. The hermit, on the other hand, is seen as one who is indifferent to the hunger of the other.
Rabindranath Tagore in his writings criticized Valmiki for overlooking the contribution of Urmila, inspiring the poet Maithili Sharan Gupt to give prominence to Urmila in his Ramayana titled Saket.
Meeting Bharata
The forest was no sylvan retreat, the princes realized. It was different travelling through forests in the company of Vasishtha and Vishwamitra, or hunting there with Dashratha, or exploring it with servants in tow. Now it meant walking on uneven ground strewn with sharp stones and thick, prickly bushes, avoiding snakes and scorpions, finding th
eir own food and water, sleeping on the ground, under trees or the open sky, and being constantly wary of predators, for the animals of the forest did not care that they were Dashratha’s children.
Occasionally they met tapasvis, like the rishi Bharadwaja, at Prayag, the confluence of the Ganga and the Yamuna, who sympathized with their situation and gave them advice on how to spend their time in the forest fruitfully.
Two moons into the exile, Ram and Sita were resting under a banyan tree while Lakshman kept a lookout from atop one of the branches. He heard the sound of conch shells and drums. Then he saw fluttering flags coming towards them, following the path they had taken from Ayodhya. He recognized the flags: they were his father’s.
‘I think it is Father, coming to fetch us back,’ said Lakshman.
‘No, we have to keep his word. Stay for fourteen years as is desired by the queen.’
When the flags came nearer, Lakshman saw no sign of their father. Instead, on the chariot he saw Bharata and Shatrughna. ‘They have come to kill us,’ shouted Lakshman.
‘No,’ said Ram, who had also climbed the tree. ‘Look carefully. They bear no weapons. And look, their heads have been shaved.’
Lakshman turned to look at Ram, his face ashen. ‘Do you think …?’
Ram alighted from the tree, his shoulders drooping. ‘I think my father is dead.’ Sita rushed to comfort him. Could things get worse? They could, considering Bharata was coming with an entourage of warriors. So Lakshman picked up his bow, just in case. ‘No, Lakshman. Have faith in Bharata. He too is Dashratha’s son,’ said Ram.
‘And Kaikeyi’s,’ said Lakshman, his grip tightening over his sword.
The chariot stopped at the sight of Ram. Bharata alighted from the chariot and ran towards his elder brother, no weapons in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘Brother,’ he cried, as he hugged Ram.