त्रिजटास्वप्नः

Spoken to so fiercely by Sītā, the rākṣasīs were beside themselves with rage. Some went off to report it to the evil-minded Rāvaṇa; others, terrible to look at, came up to Sītā again and spoke harsh words, all to one purpose, and that a deadly one: "Ignoble Sītā, bent on evil, this very moment the rākṣasīs will eat this flesh of yours at their pleasure." Seeing Sītā threatened like this by those vile creatures, an old rākṣasī named Trijaṭā, who had just woken from sleep, spoke up: "Eat yourselves, you wretches! You will not eat Sītā, the beloved daughter of Janaka and the daughter-in-law of Daśaratha. For today I have seen a dream, terrible and hair-raising, that portends the destruction of the rākṣasas and the triumph of her husband." Since Trijaṭā had just woken, her words were the fresh memory of the dream. "Eat yourselves" turned the rākṣasīs' threat back on them. By naming Sītā's family, Janaka's daughter and Daśaratha's daughter-in-law, she hinted that the honour of a royal house was to be respected. Though a rākṣasī, Trijaṭā was wise, and her age suggests experience and knowledge. The meaning of her dream is given at the very start: the ruin of the rākṣasas and the rise of Rāma. The poet notes that the rākṣasīs' words were "all to one purpose": over and over they said only one thing, that Sītā would be eaten. Yet among them was one discerning woman who held the rest back by the power of her dream, and so even among the rākṣasīs there were differences; the poet suggests that not all rākṣasas are alike. Trijaṭā's entrance turns the story from fear towards hope. Sītā was still silent, only listening; she would speak later. "Today" marks the dream as fresh, and a dream seen at dawn, as people believe, comes true quickly.

At Trijaṭā's words all the rākṣasīs, who had been so furious, grew frightened and asked her: "Tell us, what kind of dream did you see in the night?" Hearing their question, Trijaṭā told them her dream: "Rāghava himself had mounted a divine ivory palanquin that travelled through the sky, yoked with a thousand horses; he was wearing white garlands and white clothes, and he had come with Lakṣmaṇa. And today in my dream I saw Sītā, clothed in white, seated on a white mountain ringed by the ocean, united with Rāma as radiance is with the sun. Again I saw Rāghava, shining out with Lakṣmaṇa, mounted on a great four-tusked elephant as big as a mountain. Then those two, like suns blazing with their own splendour, in white garlands and white clothes, came up to Jānakī. On the top of that mountain, on the elephant standing in the sky, held by her husband, Jānakī climbed onto its shoulder. Springing up from her husband's lap, the lotus-eyed lady stroked the moon and the sun with her hands; I saw it. Then that best of elephants, carrying the two princes and wide-eyed Sītā, stood above Laṅkā. And Kākutstha himself came here with his wife Sītā in a chariot drawn by eight white bulls, wearing white garlands and white clothes, together with Lakṣmaṇa." In the lore of dreams, white, riding an elephant, climbing a mountain and touching the moon and sun are well known to bring good fortune; stroking the moon and sun foretells the winning of a kingdom. White recurs everywhere, in the garlands, the clothes and the mountain, a symbol of purity and victory. That the rākṣasīs "grew frightened" matters: the mere mention of a dream alarmed them, for they too believed in what dreams foretell. The ivory palanquin, the thousand horses, the white mountain and the ocean make up a picture of glory and triumph, in which Rāma appears not only as a warrior but as a king. Sītā joined with Rāma like radiance with the sun is an image of their oneness. The four-tusked elephant recalls Airāvata, Indra's mount, and so places Rāma beside Indra. The elephant standing above Laṅkā is a clear sign of Laṅkā's conquest, and the chariot with eight white bulls is auspicious too. This part of the dream mounts step by step, from palanquin to mountain to elephant to sky and at last to the height above Laṅkā, showing the rise of Rāma and Sītā by degrees, just as victory too would come by degrees. Trijaṭā says of each scene "I saw it", which strengthens the weight of her testimony.

"Then elsewhere I saw Rāma, whose valour is true, mighty, with his brother Lakṣmaṇa and with Sītā, in white garlands and white clothes. That best of men mounted the divine aerial car Puṣpaka, bright as the sun, and set out towards the north. So in my dream I saw Rāma, whose valour is Viṣṇu's, with his brother Lakṣmaṇa and his wife Sītā." Then Trijaṭā drew her conclusion: "Rāma of great splendour cannot be conquered by gods or asuras, nor by rākṣasas or anyone else, any more than heaven can be won by sinners." Puṣpaka was Rāvaṇa's aerial car, and Rāma riding it signals that Rāvaṇa's glory would pass to Rāma. The north is the direction of Ayodhyā, pointing to his return and his triumph. The epithet "whose valour is Viṣṇu's" hints at Rāma's divinity, and the image of heaven not won by sinners shows that dharma cannot be conquered. Having described her dream, Trijaṭā explained its meaning herself, which shows her intelligence. She inferred Rāma's invincibility not only from the dream but from his dharma: as sinners do not win heaven, so the unrighteous do not overcome the righteous, and the dream turns into a moral truth. Puṣpaka had once been Kubera's and was seized by Rāvaṇa; later Rāma would ride it back to Ayodhyā and then return it to Kubera. So Rāma's mounting of Puṣpaka in the dream clearly foreshadows the last events of the Yuddha Kāṇḍa, and Rāma, Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa are seen as a whole family reunited.

"And I saw Rāvaṇa, his head shaved, smeared with oil, dressed in red, drunk and still drinking, wearing a garland of oleander flowers; today Rāvaṇa fell from the aerial car Puṣpaka to the ground. Again I saw him, head shaved and dressed in black, being dragged along by a woman. In a chariot yoked with donkeys, with red garlands and red unguents, drinking oil, laughing and dancing, his mind reeling and his senses confused, he went swiftly on a donkey towards the south. Again I saw Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, witless with fear, fall headlong from the donkey to the ground. He sprang up at once, bewildered, stricken with fear, reeling with drink, like a madman, naked, babbling foul talk, and plunged into a filthy mire, stinking, unbearable, terrible, dark and like hell, and there he sank. Setting out for the south, he entered a lake that had no mud, and a black woman dressed in red, her limbs smeared with mud, put a noose around Daśagrīva's neck and dragged him towards the quarter of Yama." In the lore of dreams a shaven head, oil smeared on the body, red clothes, riding a donkey and going south are all signs of death. The south is Yama's quarter, and the black woman is Death herself, dragging him by a noose round his neck. Against Rāma's white the poet has deliberately set Rāvaṇa's red and black. Rāvaṇa's fall begins from Puṣpaka: from the very car Rāma will later mount, Rāvaṇa falls, and the two opposite destinies meet in a single symbol. The drink, the nakedness, the foul talk and the mire point to his moral fall as well, not only his bodily death. The donkey is an inauspicious mount, the very opposite of a king's dignity. And he is dragged by a woman: the man who carried off a woman by force is himself dragged by a woman, a poetic justice. Scene after scene of Rāvaṇa's fall follows, each more shameful than the last, a fourfold fall: from Puṣpaka, from the donkey, into the mire, and into the grip of the black woman. A lake with no mud is a strange sight, but incoherence is the very nature of dreams.

"There too I saw mighty Kumbhakarṇa in the same state. All Rāvaṇa's sons were shaven-headed and smeared with oil. Daśagrīva went south on a boar, Indrajit on a porpoise and Kumbhakarṇa on a camel. Only one did I see there with a white parasol, Vibhīṣaṇa, in white garlands and white clothes, anointed with white unguents, attended by the sound of conches and drums, with dancing and singing. Mounted on a divine four-tusked elephant like a mountain, trumpeting like a thundercloud, Vibhīṣaṇa stood in the sky with his four ministers. And a great gathering took place, loud with singing and music, of rākṣasas drinking, in red garlands and red clothes." Vibhīṣaṇa is painted in white, like Rāma, which foretells his consecration as king; the white parasol is an emblem of royalty. That his four ministers will go with him to take refuge with Rāma is an event of the Yuddha Kāṇḍa glimpsed here in advance. The rākṣasas' drinking party and their red clothes are also a foreshadowing of ruin. Each rākṣasa goes south on a different ill-omened mount, boar, porpoise and camel, all in dreams the vehicles of death; only Vibhīṣaṇa stands in the sky on an elephant, the sign of his rise, and the conches, drums, dancing and singing suggest the festival of a coronation. So of Rāvaṇa's family only the one devoted to dharma would live and win the kingdom. The great drinking party seen in the dream is like the rākṣasas' last festival before their ruin, and because they wear Rāvaṇa's red they will share his fate.

"And I saw this lovely city of Laṅkā, with its horses, chariots and elephants, fallen into the ocean, its gate-towers and archways shattered. In my dream I saw Laṅkā, guarded by Rāvaṇa, burnt by Rāma's messenger, a swift and powerful monkey. In Laṅkā, rough with ashes, all the rākṣasa women had drunk oil and were reeling and laughing with loud cries. And all these chief rākṣasas, Kumbhakarṇa and the rest, took red clothing and went into a pool of cow-dung." Here Trijaṭā foretold, without knowing it, a future whose meaning escaped her: the "monkey who is Rāma's messenger" was Hanumān himself, hidden in that very tree and listening, who would soon burn Laṅkā. Drinking oil, laughter and entering a pool of dung are all ill-omened signs in dreams. The irony within the story is that the listener is himself the hero of the dream. Laṅkā fallen into the ocean pictures the city's utter destruction: what the sea protected sinks into the sea. The rākṣasa women drinking oil and laughing mingle madness with mourning, and going into the dung-pool in red clothes also foretells death. "Guarded by Rāvaṇa" sharpens the irony: a city guarded by one so mighty would be burnt by a single monkey. So Trijaṭā's dream foretells the next great event of the Sundara Kāṇḍa itself.

"Go away, see for yourselves: Rāghava is winning Sītā back. In his towering rage he would have you killed along with the rākṣasas. Rāghava will never forgive the threats and abuse heaped on his beloved and honoured wife, who followed him into exile in the forest. So enough of cruel words; speak only gentle ones. Let us beg Vaidehī's favour; that is what I think best. A woman in sorrow for whom such a dream has been seen is freed from her many sorrows and gains the highest joy. Though you have threatened her, beg her favour, rākṣasīs; what is the use of more talk? A terrible danger has come upon the rākṣasas from Rāghava. Pleased by a bow of submission, Maithilī, Janaka's daughter, is well able to save you from this great peril." Here Trijaṭā's practical sense showed itself: knowing the future from her dream, she changed sides at once. That Sītā is won over by a bow of submission praises her kindness, and it foreshadows how, after the war, Sītā herself will protect the rākṣasīs from Hanumān. "What is the use of more talk?" cuts short a pointless argument. "That is what I think best" shows Trijaṭā deciding for herself: she followed not Rāvaṇa's command but the truth of the dream. "Beg the favour of the one you threatened" is a reversal that shows how deep the rākṣasīs' fear had become: Rāma would not forgive insults to his wife, so for their own safety they needed Sītā's goodwill. Trijaṭā named her twice by her family, Maithilī and Janaka's daughter, recalling at once her royal birth and her compassion.

"What is more, I cannot see on the limbs of this wide-eyed lady any mark of ill fortune, however slight. I think the sorrow that has come upon her is no more than a passing dimming of her lustre; I see this lady, who does not deserve sorrow, standing in the sky. I see Vaidehī's purpose about to be fulfilled, the lord of the rākṣasas destroyed and Rāghava victorious. And here is a sign that she is about to hear something very dear to her: her eye, long as a lotus petal, is throbbing. Suddenly one arm of this gracious lady, her left, thrills a little and trembles. And her left thigh, peerless, shaped like an elephant's trunk, trembles as though telling her that Rāghava stands before her. And a bird that has come to its nest in the branches keeps uttering the most comforting sounds, calling out a warm welcome, as if joyfully urging her on again and again." Then the modest young Sītā, delighted at the thought of her husband's victory, said: "If that proves true, I will be your refuge." In the lore of omens, the throbbing of a woman's left side is auspicious, and here the left eye, arm and thigh throb in turn; the sweet call of a bird is a good omen too. The closing verse shows Sītā's generosity: she was ready to become the refuge even of those who had threatened her. Trijaṭā saw in Sītā's body no cause of sorrow, only a dimming of lustre, that is, a passing pallor and not a flaw of fortune; her knowledge of such marks shows familiarity with the science of bodily signs. Sītā's last words mingle modesty and joy, and "modest" heightens her grace. "I will be your refuge" proclaims her forgiving nature, which will be seen plainly at the end of the Yuddha Kāṇḍa. The bird that has come to its nest seems to say "welcome", and a word of welcome signals her reunion with her husband. In this sarga the dream and the omens together turn Sītā's despair into hope, though in the next sarga she will fall into despair again.