Cradle Tales of Hinduism/The Cycle of the Ramayana/The City of Ayodhya
The City of Ayodhya
To the north of Benares, between the Himalayas and the Ganges, stretches the country now known as Oudh, whose name long ago was Kosala. In the whole world, perhaps, can be few other lands so beautiful as was this, for it abounded in corn and in cattle and in forests, and all its people were prosperous and in peace. Kosala had great rivers, and fair places of pilgrimage, and noble cities, many and great. And she was surrounded on every hand by strong kings and powerful kingdoms. Yet was she the jewel amongst those kingdoms, and the centre of the circle. And, like a queen amongst cities, walled and moated, adorned with towers and stately buildings, and with numberless banners and flags and standards, stood Ayodhya, the capital of Kosala. And she was wonderful to behold. Thronged by the kings ot neighbouring kingdoms was she, coming to her to pay their tribute; frequented by the merchants and craftsmen of many lands; full of palaces and parks, and gardens and orchards. And Ayodhya was famous, both for her wealth and for her learning. She abounded in rice and in jewels. and the waters of her wells and streams were sweet as the juice of sugar-cane. And her streets were thronged with heroes, and her cloisters with scholars and with saints. Her roads, moreover, were broad, and kept constantly watered, and strewn with flowers. Verily, like unto the sovereign city of Indra's heaven, was the city of Ayodhya, in the land of Kosala.
Beautiful and beloved as she was, however, of her citizens and children, Ayodhya had yet one thing which they prized above all others. This was the memory of how once upon a time she had been ruled by a divine king. For the story went that long ages ago there had sat on her throne one Rama, who was the Lord Himself. It was said that Vishnu, being desirous of showing unto men what an ideal king should be, bodied Himself in this form, and Lakshmi, the divine spouse, dwelling from all eternity in the heart of God, took shape as Sita, the consort of Rama, and for one short generation of mortals, perfect manhood and womanhood were seen on earth, in these two royal lives.
The ways of fate are mysterious, and the lives of men and gods how strangely different! Surely for this it was that these sovereign careers were so full of sorrow. Yet never for one moment did Sita or Rama fail to remember that the well-being of their people is the highest good of monarchs And the peasants of Oudh remember to this day "the kingdom of Rama," and pray, with longing in their hearts, for its return.
Rama the Prince was the eldest son of the King Dasaratha and his wife Kausalya. He was highly trained and proficient in all the sports and accomplishments of knighthood; and along with his half-brother Lakshmana he had won his spurs, by making an expedition,—under the guidance of one of the greatest scholars of the age,—in which he had been able to survey the whole of his dominions, and had also rooted out and exterminated in their own strongholds certain notorious demons and outlaws, who had long troubled the peace of cities and ashramas in Kosala. It was at the end of this victorious journey that Rama and Lakshmana had been received with great honour by Janneka, King of Mithila, and given his daughters, Sita and Urmila, in marriage. The princes had been joined at Mithila on this occasion by their father Dasaratha, who was present at their twofold wedding, and took them back with him in his train to Ayodhya.
What a dream of happiness had been the years that followed! Bending their will in all things to that of their father, the princes had discharged with brilliance the duties of their high station. Rama especially, having truth and justice for his prowess, became the joy of the whole people. Making their pleasure and welfare his sole object, he administered the affairs of the city heedfully. And bending his wise mind to his young wife, Sita, and dedicating to her his whole heart also, Rama passed long hours of delight in her sweet company. She charmed him, say the old records, as much by her loveliness as by her dignity and nobleness, and still more by her goodness than by her loveliness. And she in her turn, by her perfect sympathy and graciousness, was able to enter into every thought and feeling of Rama, so that the bond of her wifehood was one of joy as well as duty. And those who saw Sita and Rama together, felt them to be in truth one soul, and inseparable, even as Vishnu, the Divine Lord, cannot be separated in the thoughts of men from Sree, the divine grace.
Now seeing his son Rama so full of virtues and accomplishments, there arose a desire in the heart of the old King Dasaratha to have him made king before he himself should die. And being much troubled by certain inauspicious omens observed by the royal astrologers—omens which were apt to portend trouble, and even to bring about the deaths of kings—he felt that the coronation would be well made without delay. Therefore he called to his presence a royal council, and when the nobles and ministers were all assembled, he told them his whole mind, and asked advice. "It may be," said he gently, ending his statement and appeal, "that my longing desire, and also my weariness, obscure my judgment. Well do I know that from the voices of many in conference is truth brought forth." As the King ceased speaking, there arose the sound of a restrained resonance, as of many talking softly together. The nobles and the Brahmins, the ministers and great citizens, discussed quietly amongst themselves the new proposal. At last, having come to a common decision, they appointed their own spokesman, and announced to Dasaratha their sympathy and agreement with all his wishes. And when the whole assembly, at the end of this address, raised their clasped hands to their heads like so many lotuses, in token of their acquiescence, the King felt an inexpressible relief and joy. He sent messengers for Rama, summoning him to appear before the council, and these, receiving homage from him, acquainted him with his intention of installing him on the morrow as his immediate successor. Then, having again received the homage of his son, Dasaratha dismissed the assembly, and began to make preparations for the forthcoming ceremony.
Scarcely had the counsellors and officers of the household dispersed, when the King, retiring to his own apartments, sent once more for his son, and talked with him long and quietly regarding his own wishes, the ceremony of the morrow, and the possibilities of his future policy. Reminding him, at last, of the necessity that both Sita and himself should pass the night in prayers and austerity, Dasaratha dismissed him, and Rama sought the presence and blessings of his mother, Kausalya, before returning finally to his own palace. There he was followed almost immediately by the priest of the royal family, with minute instructions for the evening observances, and the hours that remained were spent accordingly.
Now the news of the installation had gone out through all Ayodhya. The streets and thoroughfares were thronged with excited people. Every house was decorated with raised flagstaffs and flying pennons. The terraces and verandahs of the city were filled with groups of watchers. Garlands and incense and great branching lamp-stands had been brought out for the adorning of the roadways. Even frolicsome lads, playing about the city, knew only one theme, and stopped their games to talk eagerly together of the anointing of the prince that would take place on the morrow.
Yet amidst all this joy, the heart of Dasaratha the King was filled with a strange unrest. He could not forget that his dreams of the night before had been ill-starred. And he had a feverish desire to hurry on the installation, for his mind turned, with a curious foreboding, to his second son Bharata, now absent from the city, as the source of some possible ill to Rama. Bharata had never failed in the course of duty, nor did the King in any way suspect his motives. Yet something, he knew not what, whispered to him that it would be well to crown Rama in the absence of Bharata.
There lived in the palace of Dasaratha, in the apartments of the youngest queen, Kekai, a certain humpbacked woman, of malicious temper, who acted as an attendant. This woman, returning from a journey, and making her way into that palace whose splendour was like that of the moon, found all Ayodhya at work, having the streets watered, strewn with lotus-petals, and ornamented with pennons. She saw too the crowds of freshly-bathed worshippers, heard the chanting of music of rejoicing, saw the thresholds of the temples sprinkled with white powder, and perceived the fragrance of sandal-wood in all the water. There could be no doubt, in fact, that the city was keeping some unexpected festival, and she was not slow to acquaint herself with the reason.
Through this woman, then, came to Kekai the news of the approaching coronation of Rama. On first hearing it, the young Queen was filled with delight, and tossed a costly and beautiful jewel to her handmaid, in token of her pleasure. But the woman knew how to poison the mind of her mistress, and an hour or two later, when Dasaratha came to call on Kekai, in order to acquaint his youngest wife in person with his plans regarding Rama, the servants told him, to his consternation, that if he would find her, he must follow her to the anger-chamber.
There, in truth, lay the King's wife—even, if the truth were known, his favourite wife—on the bare floor, like a fallen angel, having cast away her garlands and ornaments. Clad in garments that were not fresh, her countenance clouded with the gloom of wrath, she looked like a sky enveloped in darkness, with the stars hidden.
Like unto the moon rising in a sky covered with fleecy white clouds, so did Dasaratha enter into the mansion of Kekai. Like a great elephant in the midst of a forest, did he seek her out, in the anger-chamber, and, gently carressing her brow and hair, ask what he could do to comfort her. Again and again did he promise that nothing she could ask would be in vain.
At this Kekai rose, and called upon sun and moon, night and day, the sky, the planets, and the earth, to witness to the King's words. And having done so, she reminded him of how she had once nursed him back to life, in his camp, in time of war, and how he had then promised her two boons, which it would lie with her to name. Today, at last, she would claim these boons. She desired that her husband should banish Rama to the forests, sentencing him to live for fourteen years the life of a hermit. And she desired further that her own son Bharata should be installed and crowned in his stead as heir-apparent.
At first the King indignantly refused Kekai's absurd requests. Then, comparing her habitual sweetness and nobility with her present extraordinary conduct, he wondered if she had suddenly become insane. Finally, he pleaded and remonstrated, striving to make her withdraw her request. The affection he had hitherto felt for this youngest and most charming of his three queens began now to seem to him like a disloyalty to Rama's mother. He wondered if he had caused her pain and loneliness. He saw his whole life as an error, and he prayed for mercy.
But Kekai, in her present strange and cruel mood, was inflexible. She spoke only to remind the King of the heinousness of a broken promise. Again and again she insisted that the word had been given, and it must be kept. And in the morning it was she who sent messengers to summon Rama to an early audience of his father, to be given in her presence. It was she also, standing behind the seat of the afflicted monarch, who fixed piercing eyes on the kneeling prince^ and asked whether he had strength to fulfil a vow taken by his father.
Rama answered in surprise, that for Dasaratha, his father and his king, he would leap into the fire, or swallow deadly poison. And when his mind was thus prepared, amidst the groans and sighs of her husband, she commanded the prince that day to leave the kingdom, and withdraw to the forest for fourteen years, there to live the life of the most pronounced ascetic, while her own son Bharata would ascend the throne and reign in his stead.
Not a shadow passed over the face of Rama as he listened to this demand. Nor did those outside the palace, who saw him a few minutes later, perceive in him the slightest sign of mental trouble. Fully agreeing with Kekai that the King's word must at all costs be kept, touching his father's feet with his head, and seeking in vain to offer him consolation, he cheerfully gave the pledge his stepmother required, and turned away, as happily as he had come, to make preparations for the day's departure.
He had recognised in his own mind, the moment be heard the words of the young Queen, that she was merely voicing the will of some power behind herself. Never before had he had to make any distinction between the honour due from him to his own mother and to her. Nor had she ever before distinguished, in her affection, between himself and her own son Bharata. Yet here was she, the daughter and wife of kings, ordinarily possessed of an excellent disposition and highly accomplished, speaking harshly and cruelly in the presence of her husband, like the most ordinary of women! To the mind of Kama, this was incomprehensible. Therefore he put it aside, as the working of destiny, over which neither Kekai nor he could have any control, and set himself to fulfil it. He laughed quietly with Lakshmana at the jars of water, standing in rows, which had been carried by the servants for the coronation ceremony. "Verily," said he, "water drawn with my own hands from the well, would be more fit for the ceremonies that will to-day accompany the vows of a hermit!"
But he knew well that of the two things, the forest-life or a throne, the forest was more glorious. And with a glad heart he made preparations to leave without delay. Lakshmana would fain have led an armed rebellion against Dasaratha, in favour of Rama. Kausalya would willingly have measured forces with Kekai for the protection of her son. But Rama, whose mind did not waver for a moment, soothed and calmed all opposition, and made it understood that his decision was final. The King's word must be made good.
Sita, in the inner apartments of her own palace, had spent many hours in the morning worship, and stood now, waiting for the return of her husband. She half-expected him to return to her, duly installed and anointed, covered with the white umbrella of state, and surrounded by innumerable attendants. Instead of this, he entered her presence with a look of hesitation, showing signs, with regard to her, of uncontrollable emotion. Reluctantly he told her that this meeting was their farewell. He must wend his way to the forest, and live for fourteen years in banishment.
Tears had sprung to the eyes of the princess at the thought that they must be parted, but when she heard the reason, she recovered all her gaiety. Life in the forest had no terrors for her; the loss of a throne occasioned her no regret; if only she might follow her husband, and share his life and its hardships with him. And so at last it was arranged. Rama, Sita, Lakshmana, presented themselves before Dasaratha in full court, and there doing homage and saying farewell, they received from the hands of Kekai the dress of ascetics, and set out immediately for the life of exile in the forest. And it came to pass that some days later, when Bharata, the son of Kekai, returned to Ayodhya, he found that his father, Dasaratha, had died of grief. And when he discovered why and by whom this had been caused, he fell upon the hump-backed serving-woman, and in his wrath, although she was a woman, had almost slain her, till she, in her despair, took refuge in the name of Rama, and was spared. And when they told the young prince that the kingdom w^as his, he could hardly speak for wrath and shame. For in the eyes of Bharata there was none so beloved as his elder brother Rama. Likewise to him was his allegiance sacred, for he regarded Rama as his King.
Bharata, therefore, withdrew from Ayodhya-—leaving the sandals of Rama on the throne of the King, under the shadow of the royal umbrella—and stationed himself at Nandigrama, to rule the kingdom in his brother's name. Thus Kekai had not even the satisfaction of acting as the mother of the sovereign, for by Bharata's own orders all men continued to regard Rama as the monarch, and Kausalya his mother as the Queen-mother,