संक्षेपरामायणम्

Long ago there lived an ascetic sage named Vālmīki, always absorbed in austerity and in svādhyāya, the private recitation of the Veda. One day he put a question to Nārada, the foremost of sages and the finest master of speech among all who know how words are used. Who in this world, he asked, is at present a man of true excellence, who is valorous, who knows dharma, who is grateful, who speaks the truth and who holds firm to his vows? Who is endowed with good conduct, who seeks the welfare of every living being, who is learned, who is capable, and who alone is a delight to look upon? Who is self-possessed, who has conquered his anger, who is radiant and free of malice, and whom do even the gods fear in battle when his anger is roused? “I long to hear this,” Vālmīki said, “for my curiosity is very great, and you, great sage, are the one who can know such a man.” Sixteen qualities are asked about here, and they fall into four fields: character, courage, knowledge and a man’s bearing toward the world. The sage does not ask merely for a hero, nor merely for a scholar; what he wants to know is how all these qualities could ever meet in a single person. It is from these very questions that the whole Rāmāyaṇa flows, and because a pure question draws a pure answer, the poet sets the question at the very beginning. Both parties are fit for the conversation: only an ascetic goes looking for a man of virtue, and only a master of speech could describe him. This dialogue is the seed from which the first poem grew.

Nārada, who knows all that happens in the three worlds, was delighted to hear this question. “The qualities you have named are many,” he replied, “and they are hard to find; one hardly ever sees them all together in one man. Yet there is a man who has every one of them. I have thought it over, and I will tell you of him. Listen.” And he went on: there is a man born in the line of Ikṣvāku, known among men and famous by the name of Rāma. With this answer Nārada gives not only a name but a lineage, since the training of one’s family is among the roots of good qualities. The Ikṣvāku line is a line devoted to truth, and it is fitting that Rāma, whose vow was truth, should have been born into it. With this exchange of question and answer the brief Rāmāyaṇa, the story in summary, begins. Nārada invents nothing; he knows past, present and future and sees these things as if before his eyes, so his word carries full authority.

Nārada then described Rāma’s qualities. He is self-controlled, of great valour, radiant, steadfast and master of his senses; he is intelligent, versed in statecraft, eloquent, glorious and a destroyer of his enemies. His body bears the finest marks: broad shoulders, arms reaching to his knees, a neck curved like a conch, a strong jaw, a broad chest, a great bow, collarbones hidden under muscle, a fine head and brow; he is well proportioned, glossy of complexion, large-eyed and marked with every auspicious sign. He knows dharma, is true to his word and always intent on his subjects’ good; he is renowned, learned, pure, restrained and collected. Like Prajāpati, the lord of creatures, he sustains, slays his foes, protects the world of living beings and guards dharma. He knows the Vedas and their ancillary sciences, is a master of archery, grasps every authoritative treatise, and has a sure memory and a ready wit. Dear to all the world, good, undaunted in spirit and discerning, he looks on all alike, and good people always come to him as rivers come to the ocean. He brings joy to his mother Kausalyā; he is as deep as the ocean and as firm as the Himālaya, Viṣṇu’s equal in valour, as pleasing as the moon, as terrible in anger as the fire that ends an age, and as patient as the earth. Notice the order of Nārada’s description: first virtues, then appearance, then virtues again. It tells us that beauty of form is only the setting in which the virtues rest; the virtues are what matter. So Nārada has given a single answer to all of Vālmīki’s sixteen questions: Rāma. Three phrases deserve special thought: “true to his word,” “guardian of dharma” and “protector of the world of living beings.” Truth is his nature, dharma is his path, and the protection of the world is his purpose; in these three the whole story of Rāma is gathered up. And the comparison with the ocean shows that, as the sea is deep and unmoving, so Rāma is possessed of depth and steadiness.

In generosity Rāma was like Kubera, the giver of wealth, and in truth a second Dharma. Out of a wish to do good to his people, King Daśaratha resolved one day to consecrate this son as heir apparent, his eldest son, dear to him and possessed of the highest qualities. But his wife Kaikeyī, seeing the preparations for the consecration, reminded him of the two boons he had once granted her and asked him for two things: that Rāma be banished to the forest for fourteen years, and that Bharata be consecrated king. Bound by his truthful word and held fast by the noose of dharma, King Daśaratha, much against his will, sent his beloved son away into the forest. Rāma, hearing his father’s command, felt no grief and no anger, and raised no quarrel out of desire for the kingdom. At his father’s word, and to do Kaikeyī the kindness she wanted, he took the promise upon himself and went to the forest with a calm mind. Obedience to his father’s word is shown here as the highest dharma, and the qualities Vālmīki asked about, knowledge of dharma, truthfulness and firmness in vows, are displayed in action: in this poem what is said in words is proved in deeds. Nor was the fault Kaikeyī’s alone: her mind had been twisted by the words of Mantharā. So the very beginning of the story shows how fleeting both joy and sorrow are: on one and the same day the consecration was fixed and the exile began.

As Rāma set out for the forest, his dear brother Lakṣmaṇa followed him out of love. Modest and affectionate, the joy of his mother Sumitrā, Lakṣmaṇa could not bear to stay a moment without his brother, and so he showed the world what brotherhood is. Rāma’s wife Sītā followed him too. Born in the family of Janaka, so beautiful she seemed to have been fashioned by the magic of the gods, endowed with every auspicious mark, the best among women and wholly devoted to her husband, she went after Rāma as the star Rohiṇī follows the moon. The townspeople and his father Daśaratha followed Rāma a long way, and at Śṛṅgaverapura, on the bank of the Gaṅgā, he met Guha, the lord of the Niṣādas, and sent his charioteer Sumantra back. Then the three of them went on from one forest to another, crossed great rivers, and at the sage Bharadvāja’s direction came to Mount Citrakūṭa. There they built a pleasant dwelling and lived happily, like gods or gandharvas. So the exile became a home for dharma and joy, not merely a sorrow. Guha was a Niṣāda, a man of the forest tribes, yet Rāma took him as a friend, looking not at birth but at devotion. The same way of seeing will appear later, when he welcomes Śabarī, Hanumān and Vibhīṣaṇa.

After Rāma had gone to Citrakūṭa, King Daśaratha, stricken with grief for his son, gave up his life lamenting and calling him to mind, and went to heaven. When he was dead, the brāhmaṇas led by Vasiṣṭha urged Bharata to take the throne, but mighty as he was, Bharata did not want the kingdom. He went to the forest with an army to win the favour of great-souled Rāma, and entreated him with reverence: “Noble brother, you alone know dharma; you must be king.” But Rāma, wishing to keep his father’s word true, would not accept the kingdom. He gave Bharata his own sandals as the emblem of the kingship and, though Bharata begged him again and again, sent him back. His wish unfulfilled, Bharata took Rāma’s sandals upon his head and returned. He did not enter Ayodhyā; he lived at Nandigrāma and ruled the kingdom in Rāma’s name, waiting for his return. So the love and self-denial between the two brothers became an ideal for the world: one gives up the kingdom, and the other will not take it either. Bharata’s decision that the sandals themselves should stand for the kingship set a new ideal of rule: the throne is not the master; the master’s command is what counts.

After Bharata had left, Rāma saw that the townspeople kept coming to him, and to be free of their company he left Citrakūṭa and entered the Daṇḍaka forest with a single purpose. There the lotus-eyed prince killed a powerful rākṣasa named Virādha and then saw the great sages Śarabhaṅga, Sutīkṣṇa, Agastya and Agastya’s brother. At Agastya’s word he received Indra’s great bow, two quivers of inexhaustible arrows and a sharp sword. The sages of the Daṇḍaka, like blazing fires, came and asked him to destroy the rākṣasas, and he promised them safety, vowing to kill the rākṣasas who wrecked their sacrifices. So the exile became a means of protecting the ascetics, and sorrow an occasion to help others. Agastya’s weapons were a token of the sages’ trust; in Rāma power and austerity met.

Then Rāma lived at Pañcavaṭī, on the bank of the Godāvarī. While he lived there, a rākṣasī named Śūrpaṇakhā, who lived in Janasthāna and could take any form she wished, was disfigured by him; the Araṇya Kāṇḍa tells the episode in full. Roused by her words, Khara, Triśiras and Dūṣaṇa came to fight, with all their followers. Rāma alone killed Khara, Triśiras and Dūṣaṇa, and fourteen thousand of the rākṣasas of Janasthāna, all of them doers of dreadful deeds. This battle made Rāma’s wonderful valour known through the world, and the promise of safety he had given the sages bore fruit. One man defeating fourteen thousand is no mere exaggeration: it signals the victory of dharma’s strength over its opposite. And here too lies the seed of the enmity with Rāvaṇa.

So fourteen thousand rākṣasas were slain. Hearing of the slaughter of his kinsmen, Rāvaṇa was senseless with rage, and chose a rākṣasa named Mārīca to help him. Mārīca tried to stop him, warning him again and again: “Rāvaṇa, enmity with Rāma, so mighty a man, will bring you no good.” But Rāvaṇa, driven on by his fate, would not listen to this sound advice. He went with Mārīca to Rāma’s hermitage, and when that master of illusion had drawn the two princes far away, Rāvaṇa killed the vulture Jaṭāyus and carried off Rāma’s wife. The Araṇya Kāṇḍa tells at length how Mārīca took the form of a phantom deer and how Jaṭāyus fought Rāvaṇa to save Sītā. When Rāma returned he found the hermitage empty and the vulture fallen, learned that the princess of Mithilā had been carried off, and, burning with grief and distraught, he wept and lamented. He performed the funeral rites for the king of the vultures and then set out to search for Sītā. One who gives his life for another, the poet shows, deserves a son’s last rites. Rāvaṇa stole Sītā by trickery rather than winning her in battle, exposing his weakness, for only one who cannot win by dharma resorts to deceit; Jaṭāyus, old as he was, fought for another’s sake, and Rāma honoured him like a father.

As he searched the forest for Sītā, Rāma came upon a misshapen rākṣasa named Kabandha, dreadful to look at. He cut off his arms and burned him, and Kabandha, gaining a heavenly form as he rose to heaven, said to Rāma: “Rāghava, make friends with Sugrīva on Mount Ṛṣyamūka; he will help you find Sītā.” He also told him of Śabarī, “Go to that ascetic woman, who is accomplished in dharma,” and so Rāma went to Śabarī, a woman who lived by dharma, and was honoured and welcomed by her. On the bank of the Pampā lake he met Hanumān, and at Hanumān’s word he made friends with Sugrīva on Mount Ṛṣyamūka, with fire as their witness. Rāma told Sugrīva all that had happened, and Sugrīva, grieving, told him of the wrongs Vālin had done him in taking his kingdom and his wife. Rāma vowed to kill Vālin. Still the monkey doubted Rāma’s power, so he showed him the mountainous carcass of the asura Dundubhi and seven sāla trees. Rāma smiled, flung the skeleton ten yojanas with his big toe, and with a single arrow pierced the seven sāla trees, a mountain and the earth down to Rasātala, the nether world, and so won Sugrīva’s trust. Then, with Sugrīva glad and confident at his side, he went to Kiṣkindhā, the city in the cave. Sugrīva roared, and Vālin came out, first calming his wife Tārā, and closed with him; Rāma struck Vālin down with a single arrow in that fight and established Sugrīva in the monkey kingdom. By accepting Śabarī’s hospitality Rāma showed the greatness of devotion. By making friends with the monkeys he shows that a great undertaking cannot succeed without allies. And the killing of Vālin was a just punishment: a man who took his brother’s wife and did not protect one who came to him for refuge deserved to be punished.

Once he had his kingdom, Sugrīva gathered all the monkeys and sent them out in every direction to find Janaka’s daughter. To the monkeys who had gone south, a vulture named Sampāti told where Sītā was, in Laṅkā. Then mighty Hanumān leapt across the salt ocean, a hundred yojanas wide, and reached Laṅkā, the city ruled by Rāvaṇa. There, in the aśoka grove, he saw Sītā, sunk in grief and thinking only of Rāma. He gave her Rāma’s token of recognition, told her all that had happened and comforted her, and then broke down the gateway of the grove. He killed five commanders of the army, seven sons of ministers and Rāvaṇa’s son Akṣa, and then let himself be captured: he knew that by Brahmā’s boon the weapon could not hold him, and so he deliberately put up with being bound by the rākṣasas. Then he burned Laṅkā, sparing only Sītā, leapt back across the ocean, and, circling Rāma respectfully and bowing to him, told him the plain truth: “I have seen Sītā.” With that one sentence Rāma took heart again: a devoted servant’s skill is the cure for his master’s sorrow. Hanumān’s work shows strength, to cross the ocean, intelligence, to win Sītā’s trust, and devotion, to hurry back with the token; through these three he became the model messenger.

Then Rāma went with Sugrīva to the shore of the great ocean and, shining like the sun, lashed the sea with his arrows. The Ocean, lord of rivers, showed himself, and at his word Rāma had Nala build a causeway. Crossing by it, Rāma reached the city of Laṅkā and killed Rāvaṇa in battle; and when he had won Sītā back, he was overcome with deep shame. The verse does not say why; the commentators explain it as fear of the world’s reproach at taking back a wife who had lived in another man’s house. Vibhīṣaṇa’s coming for refuge, the killing of Kumbhakarṇa, Indrajit, Prahasta and the rest, and the gods’ shower of flowers are not told in this summary; the Yuddha Kāṇḍa tells them in full. So in a single deed the wicked were punished and the good protected. Protecting those who seek refuge is Rāma’s highest vow, famous in the Yuddha Kāṇḍa.

Then Rāma spoke harshly to Sītā before the assembled people. She could not bear it, and, faithful wife that she was, she entered a blazing fire. Agni, the god of fire, himself declared that she was wholly without fault and gave her back to Rāma. The gods and ancestors appeared and praised Rāma’s deed, the three worlds were gratified, and even Daśaratha in heaven rejoiced to see his son. Then he consecrated Vibhīṣaṇa as king of the rākṣasas in Laṅkā and rejoiced, his task accomplished and his fever gone. Happy at heart, he used a boon granted by the gods to bring the monkeys who had died in battle back to life, and set out for Ayodhyā with all his friends in the aerial chariot Puṣpaka. On the way he stopped at Bharadvāja’s hermitage and sent Hanumān ahead with a message for Bharata. Meeting Bharata at Nandigrāma, he cast off his matted hair and entered Ayodhyā with his brothers and with Sītā restored to him. Consecrated king by Vasiṣṭha and the other brāhmaṇas and by the people, he began to rule the earth by dharma. The commentators say that the ordeal by fire was not held because Rāma distrusted Sītā; it was held to make the truth plain before the world.

Under Rāma’s rule, Nārada foretells, the people will be joyful and glad, contented, well fed and righteous, free of illness and without fear of famine. Nowhere will a man see his son die; women will never be widowed and will be devoted to their husbands. There will be no danger from fire, no creature will drown, and there will be no fear of wind, fever, hunger or thieves. Cities and countryside alike will be rich in wealth and grain, and all will be forever joyful, as in the Kṛtayuga, the first and best of ages. Rāma will perform a hundred horse sacrifices with lavish gifts of gold, give cows in their millions to the learned and boundless wealth to the brāhmaṇas, establish royal houses a hundredfold, and set the four classes each to its own duty. Ruling for ten thousand years and ten hundred more, he will at last go to Brahmaloka, the world of Brahmā. The verbs are in the future because, the commentators say, Nārada is speaking to Vālmīki while Rāma still reigns. This is the kingdom the world knows as Rāma-rājya, the rule of Rāma, and to this day it is the byword for good government. The point of the description is that the virtues of the king are mirrored in his people. When the king stands in dharma, nature too is favourable to the land: that principle of Indian statecraft is here put into poetry.

At the end Nārada declares the reward of hearing this story. It is holy, it destroys sin, it brings merit, and it is the measure of the Vedas. Whoever recites this Rāmāyaṇa is freed from all his sins. It is blessed, it brings fame and long life; whoever hears or recites it with faith enjoys happiness here with his sons, grandsons, servants and kin, and after death rejoices in heaven. A brāhmaṇa who recites it gains pre-eminence in speech, a kṣatriya gains lordship of the earth, a merchant gains the profit of his trade, and even a śūdra attains greatness. This brief Rāmāyaṇa of a hundred verses is thus the seed of the whole poem of twenty-four thousand verses. As a whole tree lies hidden in its seed, so the entire Rāmāyaṇa of seven kāṇḍas lies hidden in this one sarga, and tradition says that reading this sarga alone gives the fruit of reading the whole. Students first learn this sarga and then go on to the full poem. So the sarga that began with a question ends with the promise of its reward, and in between it gathers up the whole life of Rāma.