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“I cannot live without you,” Sita told him, and she was merely speaking the words she saw in his eyes. He crushed Sita to his chest, and it was a long time before he let her go.
As long as the sun and Earth existed, they would not be separated.
“I may regret this decision as long as I live,” he said, “but we will go together.”
He held Sita’s hand firmly and led her out.
Sita’s spirit soared with triumph. The veil of consciousness had returned, and she could not recall in detail what had occurred below the Earth—neither the vision of the gatekeeper nor her mother’s being. But deep within her heart, Sita knew that she was supported by her mother, the goddess. She knew that she had decided long ago that Rama’s destiny was her own. Knowing Rama’s firm nature, Sita had not expected Rama to give in at all. And so Sita followed her husband into his exile with a victorious heart, embracing his hardships as her own. She would walk with him past the boundaries of civilization, into worlds where few humans had dared to go.
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chapter 54
The Departure
ama led Sita out, leaving their home. He would bid his father farewell and R inform the elders that he was taking Sita with him. Taking the exile to heart, Rama set out on foot to Dasharatha’s palace, taking only his bow with him. Lakshmana stood waiting at the gate. Rama both expected and did not expect Lakshmana’s decision. His brother’s anger had, for the moment, been replaced by his absolute desire to accompany Rama. Like Sita, he would not be dissuaded from following Rama into exile. Rama reached for his brother’s shoulder.
“Then bid Urmila farewell,” Rama said. “Join us as soon as you can. I do not wish to tarry.”
At the mention of Urmila’s name, Sita’s hand twitched. Rama pressed her hand and led her onward. The news had spread fast. The people of Ayodhya had expected a grand celebration; instead, hours of silence brought them only tragic news. The prince and princess were greeted by thousands of lamenting citizens. The older men stood together in groups, heads shaking in disbelief. The younger men were more agitated; shaking their fists in the air, they seemed uncertain how to react. Many women openly sobbed and consoled one another. The same beautiful women who had showered flowers on Rama from their balconies now hung from the balconies like wilted flowers. Ayodhya, the happy, spotless capital, was facing a dynastic
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collapse. When Rama and Sita passed by in the streets, the crowds grew silent. Then a cry arose: “Don’t go! Don’t go!”
The shout was heard from every corner. Rama gazed ahead steadily, but smiled now and then to the people as he passed. As they walked, the citizens began to follow, and by the time they reached King Dasharatha’s palace, thousands of distressed citizens had amassed behind them. Lakshmana joined them at the king’s palace, a grim expression across his face.
When the three entered, Dasharatha rose from his seat. Kausalya and the eight ministers stood on one side, Kaikeyi and Manthara on the other. Father’s transformation was shocking. Halfway across the room to meet Rama, his knees buckled and he fell forward. Rama ran to catch him. The two brothers took their father’s arms and lifted him. After seating their father, Lakshmana grabbed a fan from one of the servants and fanned his father, swallowing his tears.
With one arm around his father, Rama looked at Kaikeyi. During Rama’s absence, Kaikeyi had taken the time to change her garb; she was decked in jewelry, hair done up, and draped in her signature red silks. Manthara stood next to the queen, leaning on her cane.
Manthara’s gaze darted across the room, settling on Rama. Sita nudged Rama, and whispered, “Manthara is pleased.”
While every soul in the room grieved, Manthara celebrated. His stepmother had not invented this scheme alone. Who was the wicked soul, hiding inside the form of a hunchback?
The ministers spoke quietly among themselves, though Sumantra had left the room to compose himself. Kausalya spoke into one of the minister’s ears; Rama caught his mother’s eyes and shook his head. He did not want her to interfere; his course was set.
Kaikeyi avoided everyone but Manthara. But Rama noticed how often her gaze strayed to Dasharatha. She was not as immune to Father as she pretended. Why, then, was she hurting him with her desires? Rama probed into her soul, seeing layers of thoughts, a web of colors. But he found no answer. Kaikeyi’s motives were so deeply buried within her, perhaps she did not know them herself. Rama looked once again at Manthara. He felt increasingly certain that Manthara held the key to Kaikeyi’s mind.
Father regained his composure. He looked directly at Rama. “Rama, imprison me at once! Take the throne by force! Overthrow me! No one will stop you!”
Father’s eyes were dark with desperation.
Rama knelt by his side, resting his hands on Father’s knees. “Father, please. I do not covet the throne or the kingdom. Do not feel that you have hurt me. Honoring your promise is the only thing dear to me.”
“Sumantra,” the king called, searching for his trusted friend. Sumantra entered, eyes red. “Make arrangements for a portion of the army to accompany this honorable son of mine. Select the best servants and cooks. Let them arrange for large tents, soft blankets, and many cushions. If my son must go to the forest, let him go in royal comfort.”
“You cannot do this!” Kaikeyi exclaimed.
She had been silent until then. “He is trying to trick me,” she cried louder. Manthara 440
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seemed to be mouthing the words silently behind her. “You are taking what belongs to my son. Bharata will never accept a land robbed of its plenty.”
“Be quiet!” Dasharatha roared. “Why do you poke a hot iron into the wounds you have made? If you wanted Rama bereft of comforts, you should have included that in your boons.”
“I said I wanted him to dress in bark cloth and live as an ascetic!”
Manthara whispered something into Kaikeyi’s ears. The queen’s eyes grew cold, and she said, “King, there is a precedent in our dynasty for how a son should be exiled. King Sagara cast off his son, Asamanja, without anything. You should do the same to Rama.”
The room became heavy with silence. Rama refused to defend himself.
Siddhartha, the oldest minister, spoke up, his white beard trembled as he shook with indignation. “Asamanja delighted in drowning his playmates in the river Sarayu. How dare you compare Asamanja to Rama, who has never spoken an ill word or harmed anyone. King Sagara acted in accordance with his people’s wishes. Can you claim that you are doing the same? You should end this evil charade before it goes too far.”
Kaikeyi stared at Siddhartha with disdain. Sumantra stepped forward.
“Ayodhya embraced you with open arms. Until this day we have never spoken about your mother or the legacy she left you. Do not prove yourself to be your mother’s daughter. You can choose differently, Queen Kaikeyi. Rise above this petty ambition.”
Kaikeyi looked at one after the other, blinking rapidly. Rama felt her waver. Again Manthara muttered something and Kaikeyi clenched her jaw. “I am merely enforcing the right course of action by returning my son’s birthright to him.”
Dasharatha stood up. “If you go on with this scheme, Kaikeyi, I will take all my people with me and accompany Rama to the forest. You can stay here and enjoy the kingdom with your son. The citizens will never follow you when their hearts are with Rama.”
Kaikeyi opened her mouth, but Rama stepped forward. “No, Father. I will go to the forest alone, as my third mother has decreed. Sita and Lakshmana are determined to follow me.
Please give us your blessings to proceed at once. Let Bharata hold absolute rule over the land I abdicate. The truth of your vow must be preserved.”
Dasharatha sat down heavily, putting his head in his hands. Kaikeyi wasted no time.
“Here they come, finally,” she said, pointing at the Kekayan twins who served her.
“Rama, I have arranged the proper attire for you.”
As if she was being helpful and kind, Kaikeyi took the bundles from Sukhi and Dukhi and presented them to Rama. He accepted the bundle without a word, seeing within it rough strips of bark cloth and deerskins.
First, Rama removed his crown, earrings, and his golden necklaces. Having been dressed for the coronation, he had extra adornments to remove: bracelets, armlets, belts, and rings.
Lakshmana mirrored his movements. The heap of jewelry on the floor grew. No one said a word as the brothers stripped down to their loincloths and replaced their fine silk attire with the bark cloths. Still, Kaikeyi was not satisfied. “What about her?” she said, pointing to Sita.
“She needs to divest herself of her royal garb.”
Sumantra audibly cursed. Sita’s hands went to her necklace.
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“Stop,” Rama said with authority. “The terms of this exile apply to me alone.” He did not turn to face Kaikeyi, but his eyes found her and warned her that he too had an edge. “My brother is simply demonstrating his loyalty by following my example. Sita is free to leave or to stay, as the princess that she is.”
Kaikeyi waved her hands, letting it go, but then said, “What of your signet ring?”
Kaikeyi pointed at the only thing Rama had not discarded on the floor. Now she merely acted the part of a spoiled, gloating child, wanting anything she pointed out. It was painful to experience her in this way.
Lakshmana stepped between them. “If you so much as say another word to Rama, I will not hold myself accountable for my actions.”
Kaikeyi laughed as if he were harmless. But she did not press Rama further.
“Sumantra, prepare the chariot,” she ordered. “It’s time to send them off.”
Sumantra looked at King Dasharatha, who neither nodded nor disagreed. Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana walked around the room, touching their elders’ feet. When Sita reached out for Dasharatha’s hand, he clasped both of hers to his chest and sobbed, saying, “Forgive me!
Forgive me!”
His grief was terrible. Lakshmana hid his face at Father’s knee. Dasharatha stroked Lakshmana’s hair. Meanwhile, Rama brought forth his reluctant mother.
“Father, I have one request to make of you before I leave. Here is my mother, your faithful wife. Watch over her carefully and do not allow any harm to befall her from anyone, especially from her co-wife. She is now bereft of her only son, and I beg you to take care of her.”
Mother held her head high, but tears rolled down her face. Father hung his head in shame and said, “Your mother is my only hope for shelter now, if she will have me. I have renounced that one as my wife.”
He pointed at Kaikeyi without looking at her. Kaikeyi crossed her arms, keeping her face averted.
Rama went forward to embrace his father one last time, and Father took hold of him and refused to let go. Rama heard Sita’s voice speaking to Kausalya. “Mother, will you please inform my father that it was my own wish to follow Rama into this exile. I want my father to know that I made the choice and that I’m content.”
“Blessings upon you Sita,” Kausalya answered. “Many are those who turn fickle in face of hardship, forgetting past prosperity. Your choice speaks of your strong character. Your sacrifice will be rewarded.”
“Rama’s love is the only reward I need,” Sita said softly. And then, “Will Urmila not come to bid us farewell?”
Lakshmana’s eyes did not seek anyone, and therefore Rama knew that Urmila would not come to bid them farewell. The time to leave had come. Father’s arms were still tightly wrapped around him. Rama had to carefully extricate himself. Pain etched deep lines on Father’s face.
Rama took Sita’s hand and reached for Lakshmana’s as well.
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Without looking back, they went down the stairway to the waiting chariot. Everyone in Kaikeyi’s chamber followed them out, even Kaikeyi.
They ascended the chariot. “Please start at once,” Rama told Sumantra. He didn’t want to see his father openly sobbing on the street as he left, but the Ayodhyans clung to his chariot, trying to detain their prince. The chariot’s start was a slow one. As Rama spoke in a soothing tone, the people let go, and the chariot gradually picked up speed.
Just as the chariot horses began to gallop, a loud command reached their ears. “Stop the chariot!”
Sumantra’s head whipped around when he heard the shout.
Rama turned around and saw his father running through the crowd. “Stop the chariot!”
Sumantra habitually heeded the king’s command.
“What are you doing?” Rama cried. “Speed up!”
Confused by the contradictory instructions, Sumantra didn’t know what to do. He had lived his life following the king’s orders. He slowed the chariot. The king, who was weak and exhausted, ran pitifully behind. It was a heart-breaking sight.
“Can’t you see that it is unbearable for me to see my aged father like this?” Rama shouted.
“Speed up the chariot and end this at once!”
Sumantra cracked his whip and urged the horses on.
Sita took Rama’s shoulder and firmly turned him back until he was facing the direction they were going, saving him from seeing his father stumble in the dust and fall.
The chariot sped forever out of Dasharatha’s reach.
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Sunset
n the five days since Rama had left Ayodhya, Kausalya had kept vigil at her husIband’s bed. After exiling her only son, Dasharatha had taken residence in her inner apartment, a day of reunion that Kausalya had always longed for. How ironic it was now, when she ached to just spit out her anger and hurt. Every time she was on the brink of doing so, she was checked by the king’s condition. He was not the husband she knew but a helpless man. Stripped of his power, Dasharatha’s love for Rama had never been more exposed. He clung to the hope that Rama would return to them. But Sumantra had returned with an empty chariot. Rama had crossed Ayodhya’s border along with his companions. As if Dasharatha’s life was tied to Rama, he grew weaker before Kausalya’s eyes.
“Kausalya, take my hands. I feel so cold.”
She did as he asked, inching closer and massaging his hands. With a lifeless voice, Dasharatha spoke only of his firstborn. Rama was too obedient. Why had he listened, when he knew better than any of them? Rama should have revolted against the exile. Dasharatha had begged him to. But his words had come too late. Kaikeyi’s cunning scheme had trapped Rama, just as she had snared in Dasharatha.
“As my love for Rama grew,” Dasharatha said, “so did my certainty that one day I would lose him. I committed a great crime in my youth.” Dasharatha told
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Kausalya and Sumitra that he had murdered a boy on a moonless night, taking him for an animal at the river. “His parents cursed me to die in grief without my son. Now those words are coming true. I have been called the ‘Great King.’ I doubt I will be remembered that way.
My last act will overshadow a lifetime of tireless action. The curse was there all along.”
Despite the king’s chilling confession, Kausalya blamed Kaikeyi for what had taken place.
Manthara was involved, that was certain, but Kaikeyi was the queen. She had viciously shattered endless years of peace and destroyed a dynasty for her selfish reasons. Ayodhya was a broken city, the royal family in turmoil.
“Call Vasishta,” Dasharatha whispered.
A messenger was sent to summon the preceptor. Kausalya brought water to Dasharatha’s lips hoping to alleviate the tenor of his strained voice. When Vasishta entered, he let go of Kausalya’s hands. “I need just a few moments,” he said, almost apologetically, as if every moment with her now counted.
Kausalya stepped away from the bed unwillingly. His need had instantly bound her deeper to him than ever. Turning his cloudy eyes on the all-seeing preceptor, Dasharatha said, “You who are so wise, how did you let this happen?”
There was no accusation in Dasharatha’s voice, only grief.
Vasishta was as silent as Death who comes to your door unannounced. The gravity of the ancient sage filled the room. Dasharatha’s eyes closed. “Do you too shun me then?”
Still Vasishta was silent. His bright white hair was tied into a topknot on his head. His white garments shone with purity. Dasharatha struggled to sit up, cleared his throat, and then spoke, louder than necessary. “I call on you, Vasishta, to be the executor of my will when I die. Now that my righteous Rama is gone, you are the only one I can trust. I cannot retract my past with Kaikeyi, but I do hereby shun her as my wife. Do not allow her to touch my body ever again, in life or in death. She may not approach the sacred pyre or attend my last rites. From now on, I will be the husband of two queens alone.”
Kausalya bit her lip. He was speaking of his death as though it was imminent.
“My relationship to my second son, Bharata,” he continued, “is contingent on his innocence. If by even one word or thought he is complicit in his mother’s scheme, I hereby shun him as my son. I will be the father of three, not four, sons. Vasishta, use your unequaled perceptive capacity to judge this errant son of mine. If you find him guilty, I bar him from any and all privileges or duties of a son. He may not come near me or touch me, in life or in death.”
Kausalya reached for Sumitra’s hand, feeling the ice of the king’s declaration. Bharata, the absent prince, had been convicted for his mother’s crime. Kausalya felt hot tears rise for the boy who was like a son to her. And yet the king’s words resonated with truth. If Bharata was of his mother’s heart, he would be cast out of theirs, hers and the king’s. It was only fitting and fair.
“You can depend on me,” Vasishta reassured his king, speaking for the first time.
As Vasishta left them, Kausalya stepped closer.
“Kausalya, come to me,” he begged, as if he fully expected her to deny him. “Stay by my side until the end.”
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“I’m here,” Kausalya said. She lay down by his side, resting her head on his shoulder, a place once so familiar to her. As Kausalya listened to his breathing and his endless murmurs, she prayed that his end was far, far away.
As long as the sun and Earth existed, they would not be separated.
“I may regret this decision as long as I live,” he said, “but we will go together.”
He held Sita’s hand firmly and led her out.
Sita’s spirit soared with triumph. The veil of consciousness had returned, and she could not recall in detail what had occurred below the Earth—neither the vision of the gatekeeper nor her mother’s being. But deep within her heart, Sita knew that she was supported by her mother, the goddess. She knew that she had decided long ago that Rama’s destiny was her own. Knowing Rama’s firm nature, Sita had not expected Rama to give in at all. And so Sita followed her husband into his exile with a victorious heart, embracing his hardships as her own. She would walk with him past the boundaries of civilization, into worlds where few humans had dared to go.
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The Departure
ama led Sita out, leaving their home. He would bid his father farewell and R inform the elders that he was taking Sita with him. Taking the exile to heart, Rama set out on foot to Dasharatha’s palace, taking only his bow with him. Lakshmana stood waiting at the gate. Rama both expected and did not expect Lakshmana’s decision. His brother’s anger had, for the moment, been replaced by his absolute desire to accompany Rama. Like Sita, he would not be dissuaded from following Rama into exile. Rama reached for his brother’s shoulder.
“Then bid Urmila farewell,” Rama said. “Join us as soon as you can. I do not wish to tarry.”
At the mention of Urmila’s name, Sita’s hand twitched. Rama pressed her hand and led her onward. The news had spread fast. The people of Ayodhya had expected a grand celebration; instead, hours of silence brought them only tragic news. The prince and princess were greeted by thousands of lamenting citizens. The older men stood together in groups, heads shaking in disbelief. The younger men were more agitated; shaking their fists in the air, they seemed uncertain how to react. Many women openly sobbed and consoled one another. The same beautiful women who had showered flowers on Rama from their balconies now hung from the balconies like wilted flowers. Ayodhya, the happy, spotless capital, was facing a dynastic
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collapse. When Rama and Sita passed by in the streets, the crowds grew silent. Then a cry arose: “Don’t go! Don’t go!”
The shout was heard from every corner. Rama gazed ahead steadily, but smiled now and then to the people as he passed. As they walked, the citizens began to follow, and by the time they reached King Dasharatha’s palace, thousands of distressed citizens had amassed behind them. Lakshmana joined them at the king’s palace, a grim expression across his face.
When the three entered, Dasharatha rose from his seat. Kausalya and the eight ministers stood on one side, Kaikeyi and Manthara on the other. Father’s transformation was shocking. Halfway across the room to meet Rama, his knees buckled and he fell forward. Rama ran to catch him. The two brothers took their father’s arms and lifted him. After seating their father, Lakshmana grabbed a fan from one of the servants and fanned his father, swallowing his tears.
With one arm around his father, Rama looked at Kaikeyi. During Rama’s absence, Kaikeyi had taken the time to change her garb; she was decked in jewelry, hair done up, and draped in her signature red silks. Manthara stood next to the queen, leaning on her cane.
Manthara’s gaze darted across the room, settling on Rama. Sita nudged Rama, and whispered, “Manthara is pleased.”
While every soul in the room grieved, Manthara celebrated. His stepmother had not invented this scheme alone. Who was the wicked soul, hiding inside the form of a hunchback?
The ministers spoke quietly among themselves, though Sumantra had left the room to compose himself. Kausalya spoke into one of the minister’s ears; Rama caught his mother’s eyes and shook his head. He did not want her to interfere; his course was set.
Kaikeyi avoided everyone but Manthara. But Rama noticed how often her gaze strayed to Dasharatha. She was not as immune to Father as she pretended. Why, then, was she hurting him with her desires? Rama probed into her soul, seeing layers of thoughts, a web of colors. But he found no answer. Kaikeyi’s motives were so deeply buried within her, perhaps she did not know them herself. Rama looked once again at Manthara. He felt increasingly certain that Manthara held the key to Kaikeyi’s mind.
Father regained his composure. He looked directly at Rama. “Rama, imprison me at once! Take the throne by force! Overthrow me! No one will stop you!”
Father’s eyes were dark with desperation.
Rama knelt by his side, resting his hands on Father’s knees. “Father, please. I do not covet the throne or the kingdom. Do not feel that you have hurt me. Honoring your promise is the only thing dear to me.”
“Sumantra,” the king called, searching for his trusted friend. Sumantra entered, eyes red. “Make arrangements for a portion of the army to accompany this honorable son of mine. Select the best servants and cooks. Let them arrange for large tents, soft blankets, and many cushions. If my son must go to the forest, let him go in royal comfort.”
“You cannot do this!” Kaikeyi exclaimed.
She had been silent until then. “He is trying to trick me,” she cried louder. Manthara 440
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seemed to be mouthing the words silently behind her. “You are taking what belongs to my son. Bharata will never accept a land robbed of its plenty.”
“Be quiet!” Dasharatha roared. “Why do you poke a hot iron into the wounds you have made? If you wanted Rama bereft of comforts, you should have included that in your boons.”
“I said I wanted him to dress in bark cloth and live as an ascetic!”
Manthara whispered something into Kaikeyi’s ears. The queen’s eyes grew cold, and she said, “King, there is a precedent in our dynasty for how a son should be exiled. King Sagara cast off his son, Asamanja, without anything. You should do the same to Rama.”
The room became heavy with silence. Rama refused to defend himself.
Siddhartha, the oldest minister, spoke up, his white beard trembled as he shook with indignation. “Asamanja delighted in drowning his playmates in the river Sarayu. How dare you compare Asamanja to Rama, who has never spoken an ill word or harmed anyone. King Sagara acted in accordance with his people’s wishes. Can you claim that you are doing the same? You should end this evil charade before it goes too far.”
Kaikeyi stared at Siddhartha with disdain. Sumantra stepped forward.
“Ayodhya embraced you with open arms. Until this day we have never spoken about your mother or the legacy she left you. Do not prove yourself to be your mother’s daughter. You can choose differently, Queen Kaikeyi. Rise above this petty ambition.”
Kaikeyi looked at one after the other, blinking rapidly. Rama felt her waver. Again Manthara muttered something and Kaikeyi clenched her jaw. “I am merely enforcing the right course of action by returning my son’s birthright to him.”
Dasharatha stood up. “If you go on with this scheme, Kaikeyi, I will take all my people with me and accompany Rama to the forest. You can stay here and enjoy the kingdom with your son. The citizens will never follow you when their hearts are with Rama.”
Kaikeyi opened her mouth, but Rama stepped forward. “No, Father. I will go to the forest alone, as my third mother has decreed. Sita and Lakshmana are determined to follow me.
Please give us your blessings to proceed at once. Let Bharata hold absolute rule over the land I abdicate. The truth of your vow must be preserved.”
Dasharatha sat down heavily, putting his head in his hands. Kaikeyi wasted no time.
“Here they come, finally,” she said, pointing at the Kekayan twins who served her.
“Rama, I have arranged the proper attire for you.”
As if she was being helpful and kind, Kaikeyi took the bundles from Sukhi and Dukhi and presented them to Rama. He accepted the bundle without a word, seeing within it rough strips of bark cloth and deerskins.
First, Rama removed his crown, earrings, and his golden necklaces. Having been dressed for the coronation, he had extra adornments to remove: bracelets, armlets, belts, and rings.
Lakshmana mirrored his movements. The heap of jewelry on the floor grew. No one said a word as the brothers stripped down to their loincloths and replaced their fine silk attire with the bark cloths. Still, Kaikeyi was not satisfied. “What about her?” she said, pointing to Sita.
“She needs to divest herself of her royal garb.”
Sumantra audibly cursed. Sita’s hands went to her necklace.
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“Stop,” Rama said with authority. “The terms of this exile apply to me alone.” He did not turn to face Kaikeyi, but his eyes found her and warned her that he too had an edge. “My brother is simply demonstrating his loyalty by following my example. Sita is free to leave or to stay, as the princess that she is.”
Kaikeyi waved her hands, letting it go, but then said, “What of your signet ring?”
Kaikeyi pointed at the only thing Rama had not discarded on the floor. Now she merely acted the part of a spoiled, gloating child, wanting anything she pointed out. It was painful to experience her in this way.
Lakshmana stepped between them. “If you so much as say another word to Rama, I will not hold myself accountable for my actions.”
Kaikeyi laughed as if he were harmless. But she did not press Rama further.
“Sumantra, prepare the chariot,” she ordered. “It’s time to send them off.”
Sumantra looked at King Dasharatha, who neither nodded nor disagreed. Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana walked around the room, touching their elders’ feet. When Sita reached out for Dasharatha’s hand, he clasped both of hers to his chest and sobbed, saying, “Forgive me!
Forgive me!”
His grief was terrible. Lakshmana hid his face at Father’s knee. Dasharatha stroked Lakshmana’s hair. Meanwhile, Rama brought forth his reluctant mother.
“Father, I have one request to make of you before I leave. Here is my mother, your faithful wife. Watch over her carefully and do not allow any harm to befall her from anyone, especially from her co-wife. She is now bereft of her only son, and I beg you to take care of her.”
Mother held her head high, but tears rolled down her face. Father hung his head in shame and said, “Your mother is my only hope for shelter now, if she will have me. I have renounced that one as my wife.”
He pointed at Kaikeyi without looking at her. Kaikeyi crossed her arms, keeping her face averted.
Rama went forward to embrace his father one last time, and Father took hold of him and refused to let go. Rama heard Sita’s voice speaking to Kausalya. “Mother, will you please inform my father that it was my own wish to follow Rama into this exile. I want my father to know that I made the choice and that I’m content.”
“Blessings upon you Sita,” Kausalya answered. “Many are those who turn fickle in face of hardship, forgetting past prosperity. Your choice speaks of your strong character. Your sacrifice will be rewarded.”
“Rama’s love is the only reward I need,” Sita said softly. And then, “Will Urmila not come to bid us farewell?”
Lakshmana’s eyes did not seek anyone, and therefore Rama knew that Urmila would not come to bid them farewell. The time to leave had come. Father’s arms were still tightly wrapped around him. Rama had to carefully extricate himself. Pain etched deep lines on Father’s face.
Rama took Sita’s hand and reached for Lakshmana’s as well.
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Without looking back, they went down the stairway to the waiting chariot. Everyone in Kaikeyi’s chamber followed them out, even Kaikeyi.
They ascended the chariot. “Please start at once,” Rama told Sumantra. He didn’t want to see his father openly sobbing on the street as he left, but the Ayodhyans clung to his chariot, trying to detain their prince. The chariot’s start was a slow one. As Rama spoke in a soothing tone, the people let go, and the chariot gradually picked up speed.
Just as the chariot horses began to gallop, a loud command reached their ears. “Stop the chariot!”
Sumantra’s head whipped around when he heard the shout.
Rama turned around and saw his father running through the crowd. “Stop the chariot!”
Sumantra habitually heeded the king’s command.
“What are you doing?” Rama cried. “Speed up!”
Confused by the contradictory instructions, Sumantra didn’t know what to do. He had lived his life following the king’s orders. He slowed the chariot. The king, who was weak and exhausted, ran pitifully behind. It was a heart-breaking sight.
“Can’t you see that it is unbearable for me to see my aged father like this?” Rama shouted.
“Speed up the chariot and end this at once!”
Sumantra cracked his whip and urged the horses on.
Sita took Rama’s shoulder and firmly turned him back until he was facing the direction they were going, saving him from seeing his father stumble in the dust and fall.
The chariot sped forever out of Dasharatha’s reach.
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chapter 55
Sunset
n the five days since Rama had left Ayodhya, Kausalya had kept vigil at her husIband’s bed. After exiling her only son, Dasharatha had taken residence in her inner apartment, a day of reunion that Kausalya had always longed for. How ironic it was now, when she ached to just spit out her anger and hurt. Every time she was on the brink of doing so, she was checked by the king’s condition. He was not the husband she knew but a helpless man. Stripped of his power, Dasharatha’s love for Rama had never been more exposed. He clung to the hope that Rama would return to them. But Sumantra had returned with an empty chariot. Rama had crossed Ayodhya’s border along with his companions. As if Dasharatha’s life was tied to Rama, he grew weaker before Kausalya’s eyes.
“Kausalya, take my hands. I feel so cold.”
She did as he asked, inching closer and massaging his hands. With a lifeless voice, Dasharatha spoke only of his firstborn. Rama was too obedient. Why had he listened, when he knew better than any of them? Rama should have revolted against the exile. Dasharatha had begged him to. But his words had come too late. Kaikeyi’s cunning scheme had trapped Rama, just as she had snared in Dasharatha.
“As my love for Rama grew,” Dasharatha said, “so did my certainty that one day I would lose him. I committed a great crime in my youth.” Dasharatha told
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Kausalya and Sumitra that he had murdered a boy on a moonless night, taking him for an animal at the river. “His parents cursed me to die in grief without my son. Now those words are coming true. I have been called the ‘Great King.’ I doubt I will be remembered that way.
My last act will overshadow a lifetime of tireless action. The curse was there all along.”
Despite the king’s chilling confession, Kausalya blamed Kaikeyi for what had taken place.
Manthara was involved, that was certain, but Kaikeyi was the queen. She had viciously shattered endless years of peace and destroyed a dynasty for her selfish reasons. Ayodhya was a broken city, the royal family in turmoil.
“Call Vasishta,” Dasharatha whispered.
A messenger was sent to summon the preceptor. Kausalya brought water to Dasharatha’s lips hoping to alleviate the tenor of his strained voice. When Vasishta entered, he let go of Kausalya’s hands. “I need just a few moments,” he said, almost apologetically, as if every moment with her now counted.
Kausalya stepped away from the bed unwillingly. His need had instantly bound her deeper to him than ever. Turning his cloudy eyes on the all-seeing preceptor, Dasharatha said, “You who are so wise, how did you let this happen?”
There was no accusation in Dasharatha’s voice, only grief.
Vasishta was as silent as Death who comes to your door unannounced. The gravity of the ancient sage filled the room. Dasharatha’s eyes closed. “Do you too shun me then?”
Still Vasishta was silent. His bright white hair was tied into a topknot on his head. His white garments shone with purity. Dasharatha struggled to sit up, cleared his throat, and then spoke, louder than necessary. “I call on you, Vasishta, to be the executor of my will when I die. Now that my righteous Rama is gone, you are the only one I can trust. I cannot retract my past with Kaikeyi, but I do hereby shun her as my wife. Do not allow her to touch my body ever again, in life or in death. She may not approach the sacred pyre or attend my last rites. From now on, I will be the husband of two queens alone.”
Kausalya bit her lip. He was speaking of his death as though it was imminent.
“My relationship to my second son, Bharata,” he continued, “is contingent on his innocence. If by even one word or thought he is complicit in his mother’s scheme, I hereby shun him as my son. I will be the father of three, not four, sons. Vasishta, use your unequaled perceptive capacity to judge this errant son of mine. If you find him guilty, I bar him from any and all privileges or duties of a son. He may not come near me or touch me, in life or in death.”
Kausalya reached for Sumitra’s hand, feeling the ice of the king’s declaration. Bharata, the absent prince, had been convicted for his mother’s crime. Kausalya felt hot tears rise for the boy who was like a son to her. And yet the king’s words resonated with truth. If Bharata was of his mother’s heart, he would be cast out of theirs, hers and the king’s. It was only fitting and fair.
“You can depend on me,” Vasishta reassured his king, speaking for the first time.
As Vasishta left them, Kausalya stepped closer.
“Kausalya, come to me,” he begged, as if he fully expected her to deny him. “Stay by my side until the end.”
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sunset
“I’m here,” Kausalya said. She lay down by his side, resting her head on his shoulder, a place once so familiar to her. As Kausalya listened to his breathing and his endless murmurs, she prayed that his end was far, far away.
