रामायणकथासङ्ग्रहः

Having heard the whole story of Rāma from Nārada and received Brahmā’s command, Vālmīki now wished to see those events for himself. What he had heard was joined with dharma and artha, righteousness and worldly good, and it was wholesome, yet hearing alone did not satisfy the poet: he sought to know clearly, once again, what that wise man had done. So he touched water and sipped it in the proper way, sat on darbha grass laid with its tips to the east, and, palms joined and perfectly still, sought out the course of Rāma’s life by the power of dharma, that is, by the discipline of yoga. Notice that the poet does not first take up a pen; he takes up a seat. Sipping water, a seat of darbha grass and joined palms are all parts of a sacrifice, so the making of the poem begins like a sacrifice. Concentration first and composition afterwards: that is the sarga’s first lesson. The word “further” shows that this is a second test; even what he has heard, the poet insists on seeing for himself.

As he sat in deep concentration, everything appeared before the sage as if before his eyes. Whatever had truly befallen Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā, and King Daśaratha with his wives and his kingdom, he saw all of it. Not only the great deeds: their laughter, their talk, the way they moved and everything they did, he saw exactly as it had been, by the power his dharma had won. Then he beheld all that befell Rāma, true to his word, as he wandered in the forest with Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā, one of three, the third of them a woman. That phrase is a lovely touch: three people walk the forest, and the third is Sītā. It shows the poet saw not just the story but the very expressions on people’s faces, and a vision in which even laughter is seen is complete. “By the power of dharma” tells us that this sight was won by austerity, not by imagination, and “truly” tells us that what he saw was no mere appearance but the real thing. So the poem is given the authority of an eyewitness.

Established in yoga, the righteous sage saw all that had happened there long ago as plainly as an āmalaka fruit held in the palm of his hand. The comparison became proverbial: to know something “like an āmalaka in the hand.” A fruit in the palm is seen from every side, with no room for doubt and no need to guess, and such was the sage’s sight. Having seen it all as it truly was, that man of great mind set about composing, as a poem, the whole story of Rāma, who delights all by his dharma. A great truth lies here: the Rāmāyaṇa is not an invented poem but a description of what was seen. The poet is a seer, and that is the very meaning of the word ṛṣi. So the poem’s authority rests on vision, not fancy, and this raises it to the rank of history. The words “what had happened there long ago” make it plain that for a yogī even the past stands present; time does not veil his sight. Because only what was seen is written down, there are no contradictions in the Rāmāyaṇa.

That poem is joined with the goods of pleasure and wealth and sets out at length the goods of dharma and wealth. Like the ocean full of jewels, it is a treasury of the jewels of virtue, and because it carries the essence of all the Vedas it delights every listener. Following the very order in which the great Nārada had told the story in brief, the holy sage composed the history of the line of Raghu. Two things are signalled here: the poem’s reward is all four aims of life, and its order is the one Nārada gave. What was said in brief in the first sarga becomes the foundation for the full telling here; the brief Rāmāyaṇa is the seed and the full Rāmāyaṇa the tree. The phrase “the story of the Raghu line” shows that the poem tells not of one man alone but of the dharma handed down through a whole dynasty. And the phrase “a delight to every ear” carries a double meaning, since the word for ear also means the Veda: a poem that carries the Veda’s meaning is also sweet to the ear.

From here the poet lists, in order, the subjects of his poem. First come those of the Bāla Kāṇḍa: Rāma’s birth, his immense valour, his kindness to all, his dearness to the people, his patience, his gentleness and his truthfulness; then the many wonderful episodes of the journey in Viśvāmitra’s company, the marriage of Jānakī and the breaking of Śiva’s bow, the dispute between Rāma and Rāma, that is, the clash with Paraśurāma, the virtues of Daśaratha’s son, the decision to consecrate Rāma, and Kaikeyī’s wickedness. The whole list hangs on the single verb “composed” in the ninth verse: one verb carries a long string of objects, and this catalogue style runs to the end of the sarga, so that the reader feels the whole Rāmāyaṇa as one act of poetic resolve. There is beauty in the order too: the poet names Rāma’s virtues first and his deeds afterwards, for only a man whose character is known deserves to have his story heard. And “the various wonderful episodes” gathers up all the side stories, the killing of Tāṭakā, the release of Ahalyā, the guarding of the sacrifice and the rest.

Next come the subjects of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa: the thwarting of the consecration, Rāma’s banishment, King Daśaratha’s grief, his lament and his passing to the other world; then the despair of the townspeople and their dismissal on the road, the conversation with Guha, lord of the Niṣādas, the sending back of the charioteer Sumantra, the crossing of the Gaṅgā, the meeting with Bharadvāja and, with his leave, the sight of Citrakūṭa; the building of a leaf hut there, Bharata’s arrival, his attempt to win Rāma back, the water rites for their father, the consecration of the two noble sandals, and the dwelling at Nandigrāma. The seventeenth verse deserves attention: its first half tells of the dwelling at Nandigrāma, its second half of the journey into the Daṇḍaka forest and the killing of Virādha, so that the Ayodhyā and Araṇya Kāṇḍas meet in a single verse. To the poet the division into books is no barrier; the story is one unbroken whole. The repeated phrase “the despair of the people, the dismissal of the people” is poignant: those who grieved were the very ones left behind.

Rāma’s life in the forest is summed up like this: the meeting with Śarabhaṅga and with Sutīkṣṇa, the conversation with Anasūyā and her gift of fragrant ointment to Sītā, the meeting with Agastya and the receiving of the divine bow from him, the talk with Śūrpaṇakhā and her disfigurement, the killing of Khara and Triśiras, the rousing of Rāvaṇa, the killing of Mārīca and the carrying off of Vaidehī, Rāghava’s lament, the slaying of Jaṭāyus the king of the vultures, the meeting with Kabandha, the sight of the Pampā, the meeting with Śabarī and the meal of fruits and roots, the lament beside the Pampā, and the meeting with Hanumān. The single word “carrying off” is the pivot of the whole story: before it all is calm, after it all is conflict. The twenty-second verse is another seam: its first half closes the Araṇya Kāṇḍa with Śabarī, its second opens the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa with Hanumān. The meetings with ascetics are also counted in order, Śarabhaṅga, Sutīkṣṇa, Anasūyā and Agastya, for the exile was not only sorrow but also the company of holy men and women.

Then come the journey to Mount Ṛṣyamūka and the meeting with Sugrīva, the winning of each other’s trust and the sealing of their friendship, the fight between Vālin and Sugrīva, the destruction of Vālin and the installing of Sugrīva as king, Tārā’s lament, the pact to search for Sītā, the stay through the nights of the rains, the anger of Rāghava, that lion among men, the mustering of the armies, the sending of the monkeys in every direction, the description of the earth, the giving of the ring to Hanumān, the sight of the bear’s cave, the fast unto death and the meeting with Sampāti. Friendship leads this kāṇḍa: even one who could conquer the rākṣasas alone seeks allies, as the world’s way requires. “The anger of Rāghava, that lion” shows that Rāma is not always calm; when a promise is broken he can be angry. And “the description of the earth” tells us this book contains geography too, for Sugrīva describes the whole earth to the monkeys.

Next comes Hanumān’s story: the climbing of Mount Mahendra and the leap across the ocean, the appearance of Maināka at the ocean’s word, the threatening by a rākṣasī, the death of Siṃhikā who seizes shadows, the sight of Laṅkā and of Mount Malaya, the entry into Laṅkā by night and his deliberating, all alone, over what to do; the visit to the drinking hall and the sight of the women’s quarters, the sight of Rāvaṇa and of the Puṣpaka, the going to the aśoka grove and the finding of Sītā, the giving of the token and his talk with her, the threats of the rākṣasīs and Trijaṭā’s dream, Sītā’s gift of her jewel, the breaking of the trees, the flight of the rākṣasīs, the slaughter of Rāvaṇa’s servants, the capture of the Wind-god’s son, the burning of Laṅkā, his roar, the leap back and the plundering of the honey. The deeds of one monkey fill seven verses, a space given to no one else in this sarga, which itself hints at why this kāṇḍa is called Sundara, “the beautiful.” “His deliberating, alone as he was” honours his solitude, and “the capture of the son of the Wind” recalls that he who burned Laṅkā unharmed had first been bound. And there are two gifts of tokens, one from Rāma to Sītā and one from Sītā to Rāma, and with them a bridge is built between the parted pair.

Then come the reassuring of Rāghava and the handing over of the jewel, the meeting with the Ocean, the building of the causeway by Nala, the crossing of the sea, the siege of Laṅkā by night, the alliance with Vibhīṣaṇa and his disclosure of how Rāvaṇa might be killed, the death of Kumbhakarṇa, the slaying of Meghanāda, the destruction of Rāvaṇa, the recovery of Sītā in the enemy’s city, the consecration of Vibhīṣaṇa, the sight of the Puṣpaka, the journey to Ayodhyā and the meeting with Bharadvāja. Remember the phrase “the recovery of Sītā in the enemy’s city”: the fruit of the war is not a kingdom but Sītā regained. Fewer verses are given to the Yuddha Kāṇḍa than to the Sundara; however great the battle, in the poet’s heart the search comes first. And “Nala’s bridge” keeps the craftsman’s name alive: the causeway is his glory, not merely a means of crossing.

Last come the sending of the Wind-god’s son as messenger, the meeting with Bharata, the festive consecration of Rāma, the disbanding of the whole army, the contentment of his own kingdom and the sending away of Vaidehī. This verse has six quarter-lines, more than usual, and gathers the final part of the story into it. Then the poet says that whatever was still to come for Rāma on the face of the earth, the holy seer Vālmīki set forth in the later poem, and so points to the Uttara Kāṇḍa. The word “still to come” deserves thought: he who saw the past sees the future too, for the vision of yoga is not bound by time. So the third sarga becomes a table of contents for the whole poem. In the first sarga Nārada told the story briefly; in this one Vālmīki has seen it for himself; in the sargas ahead it will be sung at length. Heard, seen, sung: by these three steps the first poem comes into being. Not one episode is told in full in this sarga, yet the whole Rāmāyaṇa is mirrored in the reader’s mind, and that art of cataloguing is itself the poet’s power. As the tree lies in the seed, so the six kāṇḍas and the Uttara Kāṇḍa lie in this sarga.