कुशीलवोपाख्यानम्

When Rāma had finished his exile and regained his kingdom, the venerable seer Vālmīki made his whole life into a poem, in words of many colours and deep meaning. The phrase “when he had regained his kingdom” is worth noticing: a story is written down only once it is complete. The poet then counts the size of his work himself: twenty-four thousand verses, five hundred sargas, six kāṇḍas, and the Uttara besides. This reckoning is the book’s own testimony about itself, and a book that states its own size knows its own bounds. The verb used is “made,” not “said”: a poem is a deed, not mere speech. And here, for the first time, the Uttara Kāṇḍa is plainly mentioned.

Having finished the poem, together with what was still to come and with the Uttara, the wise master pondered: “Who, now, is to perform this?” In other words, who would sing it and spread it through the world? The poem was ready, but no singer had been found. As the great sage of disciplined mind sat thinking, Kuśa and Lava, dressed as ascetics, came and clasped his feet. There is a beauty in this: the answer appears the very moment the question is asked, for the resolve of one whose spirit is disciplined bears fruit by itself. Clasping the feet is the first sign of discipleship. And note a subtle point: the poet does not ask “Who will listen to this?” but “Who will perform it?” Listeners are easy to find; a worthy performer is rare, and performance is the life of a poem.

Kuśa and Lava, who lived there in his hermitage, knew dharma; they were princes, illustrious brothers with fine voices. Seeing that they were intelligent and well grounded in the Vedas, the sage taught them the poem “for the amplification of the Veda.” That phrase matters: the poem does not stand against the Veda but unfolds it, spreading out at length what the Veda says in brief. The poem is given three names here: the Rāmāyaṇa, the Great History of Sītā, and the Slaying of Paulastya, Rāvaṇa, the descendant of Pulastya. The three names show three ways of looking at one story, named after its hero, its heroine and its adversary. And the words “true to his vows” tell us the poet composed it while keeping his vows; what was made through austerity is given first to ascetics.

The poem was sweet whether recited or sung. It was fitted to the three measures of tempo, fast, middle and slow, joined to the seven classes of melody, and set to the beat of the vīṇā’s strings. It was full of the moods of feeling, love, compassion, mirth, fury, terror, heroism and the rest. This was the poem the two brothers sang. The first poem, then, was meant not only to be read but to be sung: the verse that was born of grief reaches the world at last as song. The technical terms of music used here, measure, melodic class, rhythm and string, show that in the poet’s time the science of music was already well established.

The two brothers knew the principles of music and were skilled in the vocal registers and the runs of notes; they had fine voices and looked like gandharvas, the heavenly musicians, made visible. Handsome and bearing every auspicious mark, speaking in sweet voices, they seemed like two reflections risen from an original image, two more Rāmas sprung from Rāma’s own body. The comparison has a hidden meaning: the father is reflected in his sons, and the story in its singers. One who has never seen Rāma sees him by looking at them. So the singer is not just the carrier of the story but its very likeness. Their skill in registers and runs speaks of their learning, their likeness to gandharvas of their beauty: learning and beauty met in them.

The two blameless princes made that whole excellent and righteous narrative “obedient to their speech,” that is, they had the entire poem by heart. The phrase is a lovely one: the voice utters whatever it wishes, with no separate effort of memory needed. Then, knowing its true sense and perfectly composed, they sang it just as they had been taught, in gatherings of sages, of brāhmaṇas and of good people. “Just as they had been taught” keeps the tradition pure: exactly as the teacher instructed, not as they pleased. Note too that they did not call assemblies themselves; they sang when they were present at a gathering. Their modesty was the first ornament of these boys, and “perfectly composed” speaks of their concentration.

Great-souled and greatly blessed, marked with every auspicious sign, the two once stood near the sages of disciplined mind who had gathered in an assembly and sang this poem among them. When they heard it, all the sages’ eyes filled with tears, and in the greatest wonder they cried, “Well sung! Well sung!” Glad at heart and devoted to dharma, the sages praised Kuśa and Lava, who so deserved praise: “Ah, the sweetness of the singing, and above all of the verses!” This was the poem’s first test, and the proof of it was the listeners’ tears, not their words of praise. The phrase “marked with every auspicious sign” hints at the signs of royalty: these two in ascetics’ dress are really princes, a secret the poet reveals little by little.

The sages said: “Though all this happened long ago, these two have shown it to us as if it were before our eyes. Both of them entered into the feeling of the story and sang it well, just as it was, together, sweetly, warmly and with a wealth of tone.” Praised like this by great seers renowned for their austerity, the two sang again with still more feeling and sweetness. Then one sage, pleased, rose and gave them a water pot. “Entered into” is the key phrase: one who does not enter into the feeling of a story does not truly sing it at all. “Long ago” marks the distance of time and “as if before our eyes” its overcoming, and that is the power of poetry, to make the past present.

Then came a shower of gifts. One famous sage, delighted, gave them a bark garment, another a black antelope skin, another a sacred thread. One gave an ascetic’s water gourd, another a girdle of muñja grass, another a seat of woven grass, another a loincloth. One, happy, gave an axe, another an ochre robe, another a garment of bark strips. One, full of joy, gave a band for tying up matted hair and a cord of wood fibre, one a sacrificial vessel, another a load of firewood, another a seat of udumbara wood. Some said, “May all be well with you,” and others joyfully said, “Long life!” What ascetics own is all they have to give; they have no wealth, so they give the tools of their life. The list paints the whole stock of a forest hermitage like a picture. And the gifts descend in order, from water pot and bark garment down to the mere words “May all be well” and “Long life”: for one who has nothing, a blessing is the gift.

So all those truthful sages gave them gifts of every kind, and said: “This narrative is a marvel. The sage has told it rightly; it is the highest foundation for poets and it is brought to completion in due order. You two, masters of every kind of song, have sung it beautifully; it gives long life and strength and delights every ear.” The words “foundation for poets” proclaim this as the first poem: every poet to come will lean on it. “Delights every ear” was heard in the third sarga too; there the poet said it, here the listeners say it. And “gives long life and strength” points to the reward of the poem: merely hearing it lengthens life and brings strength. Because this praise came from sages who speak only the truth, it carries authority.

Praised everywhere, the two singers were once singing in the lanes and on the royal roads of Ayodhyā when Rāma, Bharata’s elder brother, saw them. Rāma, destroyer of his enemies, brought the two brothers to his own palace and honoured them as they deserved. The lord sat on a divine golden throne, with his counsellors and brothers seated close beside him. Looking at the two, handsome and modest, he said to Lakṣmaṇa, Śatrughna and Bharata: “Let us hear this story from these two, who shine like gods.” Here the poet sets his poem before its own hero, a daring stroke of craft. Notice too that Rāma first sees them on the royal road, not in the court: the poem reaches the people first and the royal assembly afterwards. And by calling them “worthy of honour” Rāma himself acknowledges their dignity.

He urged the singers to perform that poem of varied words and meanings properly. And they sang it sweetly and warmly, their voices ringing out as their own hearts moved them, keeping to the beat of the strings, a work of renowned meaning, with all their strength. The song gladdened every limb, every mind and every heart, and shone in the assembly as a pleasure dwelling in the ear. Then Rāma said to his brothers: “These two are ascetics, yet they bear the marks of kings, Kuśa and Lava, and are great in austerity. The elders say this story brings prosperity even to me. Listen, then, to this story of great power.” Urged on by Rāma’s words, the two sang with all the resources of the classical manner of performance, and Rāma, seated in the assembly, gradually became absorbed in it, eager to hear. So the story makes its own hero its listener: the one who lived the story becomes its audience, a thing unheard of before the Rāmāyaṇa. The sarga ends here, but the story has only just begun; next, in the poet’s own voice, the account of the Ikṣvāku line begins.