Observing the sudden change in her, and the sudden drooping and withering of her whole being, even the bangles on her wrist slipping down, her attendants took her away and spread a soft bed for her to lie on.
She lay tossing in her bed complaining, “You girls have forgotten how to make a soft bed. You are all out to tease me.” Her maids in attendance had never seen her in such a mood. They were bewildered and amused at first, but later became genuinely concerned, when they noticed tears streaming down her cheeks. They found her prattling involuntarily, “Shoulders of emerald, eyes like lotus petals, who is he? He invaded my heart and has deprived me of all shame! A robber who could ensnare my heart and snatch away my peace of mind! Broad-shouldered, but walked off so swiftly. Why could he not have halted his steps, so that I might have gained just one more glimpse and quelled this riotous heart of mine? He was here, he was there next second, and gone forever. He could not be a god—his eyelids flickered. . . . Or was he a sorcerer casting a spell on people?”
The sun set beyond the sea, so says the poet—and when a poet mentions a sea, we have to accept it. No harm in letting a poet describe his vision, no need to question his geography. The cry of birds settling down for the night and the sound of waves on the seashore became clearer as the evening advanced into dusk and night. A cool breeze blew from the sea, but none of it comforted Sita. This hour sharpened the agony of love, and agitated her heart with hopeless longings. A rare bird, known as “Anril,” somewhere called its mate. Normally at this hour, Sita would listen for its melodious warbling, but today its voice sounded harsh and odious. Sita implored, “Oh, bird, wherever you may be, please be quiet. You are bent upon mischief, annoying me with your cries and lamentations. The sins I committed in a previous birth have assumed your form and come to torture me now!” The full moon rose from the sea, flooding the earth with its soft light. At the sight of it, she covered her eyes with her palms. She felt that all the elements were alien to her mood and combining to aggravate her suffering. Her maids noticed her distress and feared that some deep-rooted ailment had suddenly seized her. They lit cool lamps whose wicks were fed with clarified butter, but found that even such a flame proved intolerable to her, and they extinguished the lamps and in their place kept luminous gems which emanated soft light. They made her a soft bed on a slab of moonstone with layers of soft petals, but the flowers wilted, Sita writhed and groaned and complained of everything—the night, stars, moonlight, and flowers: a whole universe of unsympathetic elements. The question went on drumming in her mind: “Who is he? Where is he gone? Flashing into view and gone again—or am I subject to a hallucination? It could not be so—a mere hallucination cannot weaken one so much.”
At the guest house, Rama retired for the night. In the seclusion of his bedroom, he began to brood over the girl he had noticed on the palace balcony. For him, too, the moon seemed to emphasize his sense of loneliness. Although he had exhibited no sign of it, deeply within he felt a disturbance. His innate sense of discipline and propriety had made him conceal his feelings before other people. Now he kept thinking of the girl on the balcony and longed for another sight of her. Who could she be? Nothing to indicate that she was a princess—could be any one among the hundreds of girls in a palace. She could not be married: Rama realized that if she were married he would instinctively have recoiled from her. Now he caught himself contemplating her in every detail. He fancied that she was standing before him and longed to enclose those breasts in his embrace. He said to himself, “Even if I cannot take her in my arms, shall I ever get another glimpse, however briefly, of that radiant face and those lips? Eyes, lips, those curly locks falling on the forehead—every item of those features seemingly poised to attack and quell me—me, on whose bow depended the destruction of demons, now at the mercy of one6 who wields only a bow of sugarcane and uses flowers for arrows . . .” He smiled at the irony of it.
The night spent itself. He had little sleep. The moon set and the dawn came. Rama found that it was time to arise and prepare himself to accompany his master to the ceremony at Janaka’s palace.
At the assembly hall King Janaka noticed Rama and Lakshmana, and asked Viswamithra, “Who are those attractive-looking young men?” Viswamithra explained. When he heard of Rama’s lineage and prowess, Janaka said with a sigh, “How I wish it were possible for me to propose my daughter for him.” Viswamithra understood the cause of his despair. A seemingly insurmountable condition existed in any proposal concerning Sita’s marriage.
King Janaka had in his possession an enormous bow which at one time belonged to Shiva, who had abandoned it and left it in the custody of an early ancestor of Janaka’s, and it had remained an heirloom. Sita, as a baby girl, was a gift of Mother Earth to Janaka, being found in a furrow when a field was ploughed. Janaka adopted the child, tended her, and she grew up into a beauty, so much so that several princes who considered themselves eligible thronged Janaka’s palace and contended for Sita’s hand. Unable to favour anyone in particular, and in order to ward them off, King Janaka made it a condition that whoever could lift, bend, and string Shiva’s bow would be considered fit to become Sita’s husband. When her suitors took a look at the bow, they realized that it was a hopeless and unacceptable condition. They left in a rage, and later returned with their armies, prepared to win Sita by force. But Janaka resisted their aggression, and ultimately the suitors withdrew. As time passed Janaka became anxious whether he would ever see his daughter married and settled—since the condition once made could not be withdrawn. No one on earth seemed worthy of approaching Shiva’s bow. Janaka sighed. “I tremble when I think of Sita’s future, and question my own judgement in linking her fate with this mighty, divine heirloom in our house.”
“Do not despair,” said Viswamithra soothingly. “How do you know it was not a divine inspiration that gave you the thought?”
“In all the worlds, is there anyone who can tackle this bow, the very sight of which in Shiva’s hand made erring gods and godlings tremble and collapse—until Shiva put it away and renounced its use?”
“With your permission, may we see it?”
Janaka said, “I’ll have it brought here. It has lain in its shed too long. . . . Who knows, moving it out may change all our fates.” He called on his attendants to fetch the bow. . . . The attendants hesitated and he ordered, “Let the army be engaged for the task if necessary. After all, this spot is sanctified by the sacred rites recently performed . . . and the bow is fit to be brought in here.”
The bow was placed in a carriage on eight pairs of wheels and arrived drawn by a vast number of men. During its passage from its shed through the streets, a crowd followed it. It was so huge that no one could comprehend it at one glance. “Is this a bow or that mountain called Meru, which churned the Ocean of Milk in ancient times?” people marvelled. “What target is there to receive the arrow shot out of this bow, even if someone lifts and strings it?” wondered some. “If Janaka meant seriously to find a son-in-law, he should have waived this condition. How unwise of him!”
Rama looked at his master. Viswamithra nodded as if to say, “Try it.” As Rama approached the bow with slow dignity, the onlookers held their breath and watched. Some prayed silently for him. Some commented, “How cruel! This supposed sage is not ashamed to put the delicate, marvellous youth to this harsh trial!” “The King is perverse and cruel to place this godlike youth in this predicament. . . . If he was serious about it, he should have just placed Sita’s hand in his instead of demanding this acrobatic feat. . . .” “The King’s aim is to keep Sita with him for ever—this is one way of never facing separation!” “If this man fails, we will all jump into fire,” commented some young women who were love-stricken at the sight of Rama. “If he fails, Sita is sure to immolate herself and we will all follow her example.”
While they were speculating thus, Rama approached the bow. Some of the onlookers, unable to bear the suspense, closed their eyes and prayed for his success, saying, “If he fails to bring t
he ends of this bow together, what is to happen to the maiden?” What they missed, because they had shut their eyes, was to note how swiftly Rama picked up the bow, tugged the string taut, and brought the tips together. They were startled when they heard a deafening report, caused by the cracking of the bow at its arch, which could not stand the pressure of Rama’s grip.
The atmosphere was suddenly relaxed. The gods showered down flowers and blessings, clouds parted and precipitated rains, the oceans tossed up in the air all the rare treasures from their depths. The sages cried, “Janaka’s tribulations and trials are ended.” Music filled the air. The citizens garlanded, embraced, and anointed each other with perfumes and sprinkled sandalwood powder in the air. People donned their best clothes, gathered at the palace gates and public squares, and danced and sang without any restraint; flutes and pipes and drums created a din over the loud chants and songs from many throats. Gods and goddesses watching the happy scenes below assumed human form, mixed with the crowds, and shared their joy. “The beauty of our royal bridegroom can never be fully grasped unless one is blessed with a thousand eyes,” commented the women. “See his brother! How very handsome! Blessed parents to have begotten such sons!”
Sita had secluded herself and was unaware of the latest development. She moved from bed to bed for lack of comfort, and lay beside a fountain on a slab of moonstone—the coolest bed they could find her. Even there she had no peace since the lotus blooms in the pool of the fountain teased her mind by reminding her of the shape of his eyes or his complexion. She grumbled, “No peace anywhere . . . I am deserted. My mind tortures me with reminders. What use are they if I can’t even know where to look for him? What sort of a man can he be to cause all this torment and just pass on doing nothing to alleviate it? A regal appearance, but actually practising sorcery!”
Her tortuous reflections were interrupted by the arrival of a maid. Instead of bowing and saluting her mistress, as was normal, she pirouetted around singing snatches of a love song. Sita sat up and commanded, “Be quiet! Are you intoxicated?” The maid answered, “The whole country is intoxicated. How would you know, my good mistress, if you lock yourself in and mope and moan?” She went on to explain in a rush of incoherence. “The king of Ayodhya . . . son, broad-shouldered and a god on earth. No one saw it happen, he was so quick and swift, but he pressed, so they say, one end with his feet, and seized the other end with his hand, and drew the string and oh! . . .”
“Oh, intoxicated beauty, what are you saying?” When Sita understood what had happened, she stood up, her breasts heaving. She held herself erect as she said, “Do you know if this is the same man who struck me down with a look as he passed along the street? If it is someone else, I will end my life.”
When the initial excitement subsided, King Janaka sought Viswamithra’s advice. “What shall I do next? I suddenly find myself in an unexpected situation. Is it your desire that I should send for the priests and astrologer and fix the earliest date for the wedding, or send a message to Dasaratha and wait for his convenience?”
Viswamithra replied, “Dispatch a messenger with the auspicious news immediately and invite Dasaratha formally.” Janaka at once retired in order to compose a proper invitation to Dasaratha, with the help of his court poets and epistle-writers, and dispatched it.
In due course, Janaka’s emissaries presented the epistle at Dasaratha’s court. Dasaratha ordered his reader to receive the epistle and read it out: The message gave an account of all that had happened from the time Rama had left Ayodhya up to the snapping of Shiva’s bow. Dasaratha heaped presents on the messengers, and commented light-heartedly, “Tell them in Mithila that we heard the sound of the bow snapping. . . .” He then passed orders: “Let the announcement in appropriate language be made widely that King Janaka has invited for Rama’s wedding every man, woman, and child in our capital. Let those able to travel to Mithila start at once in advance of us.” Professional announcers on elephants, accompanied with drums, carried the King’s proclamation to every nook and corner of the capital.
The road to Mithila was crowded with men, women, and children. When the huge mass began to assemble and move down the road, the world looked suddenly shrunken in size. Elephants bearing pennants and flags, their foreheads covered with gold plates, horses prancing and trotting, and a variety of ox-drawn carriages and chariots were on the move, in addition to a vast throng on foot. The sun’s rays were caught and reflected by the thousands of white satin umbrellas and the brilliant decorations of the army men. Heavy-breasted women clad in gossamer-like draperies sat on dark elephants, their necklaces swaying with the movement of the elephants, flanked by warriors bearing swords and bows on horseback.
The poet is especially happy and detailed when describing the mood and the activity of the young in this festive crowd. A youth followed a carriage at a trot, his eyes fixed on the window at which a face had appeared a little while ago, hoping for another glimpse of that face. Another young man could not take his eye off the lightly covered breast of a girl in a chariot; he tried to keep ahead of it, constantly looking back over his shoulder, unaware of what was in front, and bumping the hindquarters of the elephants on the march. When a girl inadvertently slipped down the back of a horse, another young man picked her up; but instead of setting her down after the rescue, he journeyed on with her in his arms. Another went along brooding and reflecting as he gazed on his beloved. Couples who had had a quarrel over some detail of the arrangements for this journey walked side by side without speaking, the woman not caring to wear a flower in her hair, but only a frown on her face, yet close enough to each other to avoid separation. One youth who was not spoken to but was agitated by the messages conveyed by the eloquent eyes of a damsel said, “You won’t speak? But surely, when you cross the river, you’ll want my strong arms to carry you, and how shall I know if you don’t speak to me? I know that you object only to speech, not to my touch, inevitable you’ll need that when we come to the river’s edge.”
Camels bearing enormous loads went along with parched throats until they could find the bitter margosa leaves—since they avoid tender greenery—and were thirsty again after chewing them, like men who look only for wine to quench their thirst, which again produces more thirst. Sturdy menfolk bore on their shoulders gifts and supplies for the journey.
Brahmins who practised austerities followed, remaining aloof, afraid alike to walk amongst the elephants, for fear of being jostled, and in the areas where there were women, who might distract their inner vision. Some hopped along lightly on their toes, in order not to trample on any live creature on the ground; others held their fingers over their nostrils, both to perform breath control and to keep the fingers from touching their nether portions while their minds were fixed on God.
The noise of the rolling chariot wheels, trumpets, and drums, and the general din, made it impossible for anyone to hear what anyone else was saying. After a while people moved along dumbly, communicating with each other only by signs, their feet raising an enormous trail of dust. Bullocks drawing wagons loaded with baggage, excited by the noise of drums, suddenly snapped off their yokes and ran helter-skelter, adding to the melee, leaving the baggage scattered on the road. Elephants, when they noticed a tank or a pond, charged away for a plunge, and remained submerged in the water up to their white tusks. Musicians sat on horseback playing their instruments and singing.
Behind this army, the king’s favourites in the women’s apartments followed. Surrounded by a thousand attendants, Queen Kaikeyi came in her palanquin. Next came Sumithra, accompanied by two thousand attendants. Surrounded by her own musicians came Kausalya, mother of Rama. She had also in her company several dwarfs and hunchbacks and other freaks. But her main companions were sixty thousand women of great beauty and accomplishment who followed her in a variety of vehicles. In a white palanquin studded with pearls, sage Vasishtha, chief mentor at the court, followed, surrounded by two thousand brahmins and priests. Bharatha and Sathrugna, also younger brother
s of Rama, came next. Dasaratha, after performing his daily duties and religious rites and presentation of gifts to brahmins, started to leave his palace at an auspicious conjunction of the planets, ushered by a number of priests, men bearing in their arms golden pots filled with holy waters which they sprinkled on his path, while several women recited hymns.
When the King emerged from his palace, many rulers from the neighbouring states were waiting to greet him. Conch and trumpets were sounded, and loud cheering and the recital of honours, when his carriage began to move.
After journeying for a distance of two yojanas, the King with his army and followers camped in the shadow of Mount Saila. Next day the camp moved on to a grove beside a river.
The forward portions of the advance party, which had already reached Mithila, were received and absorbed into homes, palaces, and camps in the capital. As further contingents kept coming in, they too were received. The line of movement was continuous from Ayodhya to Mithila. King Dasaratha’s party was the last to arrive. When the scouts who watched for their arrival flew back on horses to report that Dasaratha’s party had been sighted, Janaka went forth with his ministers and officials and guards of honour to receive him. The two kings met, greeted each other, exchanged polite formalities; then Janaka invited Dasaratha to get into his own chariot and proceeded towards the capital. While they were entering the gates of the city, Rama, accompanied by Lakshmana, met them, greeted his father, and welcomed him. Dasaratha swelled with pride at the sight of his son, whose stature seemed so much grander now.