CHAPTER I

Transcriber’s Notes

1. New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the

public domain.

2. Certain hyphenation and spelling variations are retained as in

original which is sourced by bibliographic references.

3. Footnotes were moved to the end of the book.

4. Illustrations were moved from middle to end of the paragraph.

5. The text version is coded for italics and the like mark-ups i.e.,

(a) italics are indicated thus _italic_;

(b) small-caps are indicated thus +CAPS+;

(c) Gothic or black letter script letters are indicaed by =Gothic=

(d) Images are indicated as [Illustration: (with narration...)]

SIR JOHN LUBBOCK’S

HUNDRED BOOKS

THE

RAMAYANA

AND THE

MAHABHARATA

_Reprinted by permission of George Bell and Sons from “Bohn’s Standard

Library” for “Sir John Lubbock’s Hundred Books.”_

=Sir John Lubbock’s Hundred Books=

THE GREAT INDIAN EPICS

THE STORIES OF THE

RAMAYANA

AND THE

MAHABHARATA

BY

JOHN CAMPBELL OMAN

PROFESSOR OF NATURAL SCIENCE IN THE GOVERNMENT COLLEGE LAHORE

AUTHOR OF “INDIAN LIFE RELIGIOUS AND SOCIAL” ETC.

WITH NOTES APPENDICES AND ILLUSTRATIONS

_NEW EDITION REVISED_

=London and New York=

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

LIMITED

CHISWICK PRESS:--CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.

TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

PREFACE

The Indian Epics are precious relics of the spring-time of Eastern

thought, revealing a new and singularly fascinating world, which

differs very remarkably from that depicted in the epic poetry of

Western lands. But although these epics are extremely interesting, and

although they are accessible in English translations, more or less

complete, they are such voluminous works that their mere bulk is enough

to repel the ordinary English reader, and even the student, in these

days of feverish occupation.

I may, no doubt, be justly reminded that every Indian History, written

within recent years, contains abstracts of the two epics; but these

abstracts, I would observe, are skeletons rather than miniatures of

the poems; they are the dry bones, on which the historians try to

support a fabric of historical inferences or conjectures, and they

are necessarily deficient in the mythological, romantic and social

elements so important to a proper comprehension of the “Ramayana”

and “Mahabharata.” Besides, when the structures are so colossal, so

composite and in many respects so beautiful, there can be no harm in

having yet another view of them, taken probably from a new standpoint.

In Europe the Homeric poems are very extensively studied in the

original Greek; they are productions of very moderate size in

comparison with the Indian Epics; many and excellent translations of

them, in both prose and verse, are always issuing from the press;

and yet condensed epitomes of the “Iliad” and “Odyssey” are welcomed

by the reading public, by whom also prose versions of the poetical

narratives of even English poets--as Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare and

Browning--are favourably received.

Such being the case, I make no apology for the appearance of this

little volume, in which I have not only tried to reproduce faithfully,

_in a strictly limited space_, the main incidents and more striking

features of those gigantic and wonderful creations of the ancient

bards of India--the “Ramayana” and “Mahabharata”--but also to direct

attention to the abiding influence of those works upon the habits and

conceptions of the modern Hindu.

As they are often very incorrectly cited in support of views for

which there is no authority whatever in their multitudinous verses,

it has been my especial aim to give as accurate a presentment as

possible of the Indian Epics, taken as a whole; so that a fair and

just idea--_neither too high nor too low_--of their varied contents

and their intellectual level might be formed by the readers of this

volume, be they Europeans or Indians. And from what I have recently

learned, I have good ground for believing that both classes of readers

will, after perusal of this little book, be in a position to see the

erroneous character of many ideas in regard to life in ancient India

which are current in their respective circles.

Where, for any reason, I have especially desired that an event

recorded, or an opinion expressed, in the epics should be reproduced

without the possibility of misrepresentation on my part, I have thought

it best to quote _verbatim_ the translations of them made by Hindu

scholars; although, unfortunately, their versions are by no means

elegant, and, indeed, often quite the reverse. But as they, no doubt,

reflect the structure and texture of the poems in a way that no more

free or polished English rendering could possibly do, I fancy the

citations I have made will not be unwelcome to most readers.

My book is divided into two distinct parts dealing separately with the

“Ramayana” and the “Mahabharata,” and at the end of each part I have

given, in the form of an Appendix, one or two of the more striking

legendary episodes lavishly scattered through these famous epics, and

which, though not essential for the comprehension of the main story,

are too beautiful or important to be omitted. Of these episodes I

should say that they are the best-known portions of the “Ramayana” and

“Mahabharata,” having been told and retold in all the leading Indian

vernaculars, and having, most of them, been brought before the European

world in both prose and verse.

A General Introduction to the two poems, and a concluding chapter,

containing remarks and inferences based on the materials supplied to

the reader in Parts I. and II., complete the scheme of this little

volume, which, I trust, will be found to be something more than a mere

epitome of the great Sanskrit epics; for, in its preparation, I have

had the advantage of considerable local knowledge and an intimate

acquaintance with the people of _Aryavarta_.

J. C. O.

CONTENTS

PAGE

+GENERAL INTRODUCTION+ 1

PART I.--THE RAMAYANA

CHAPTER I

+INTRODUCTORY REMARKS+ 15

CHAPTER II

+THE STORY OF RAMA’S ADVENTURES+ 19

CHAPTER III

+THE RAM LILA OR PLAY OF RAMA+ 75

APPENDIX

+THE STORY OF THE DESCENT OF GANGA+ 87

+NOTES+ 91

PART II.--THE MAHABHARATA

CHAPTER I

+INTRODUCTORY REMARKS+ 95

CHAPTER II

+THE STORY OF THE GREAT WAR+ 101

CHAPTER III

+THE SACRED LAND+ 197

APPENDIX

(1) +THE BHAGAVATGITA OR DIVINE SONG+ 207

(2) +THE CHURNING OF THE OCEAN+ 219

(3) +NALA AND DAMAYANTI+ 225

+NOTES+ 237

+CONCLUDING REMARKS+ 241

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

+THE ABDUCTION OF SITA.+ (From an illustrated Urdu Version) 50

+HANUMAN AND THE VANARS REJOICING AT THE RESTORATION OF SITA.+

(Reduced from Moor’s “Hindu Pantheon”) _face_ 70

+MEN WITH KNIVES AND SKEWERS PASSED THROUGH THEIR FLESH.+

(From a Photograph) _face_ 76

“+THE TERRIBLE DEMON KING OF LANKA AND HIS NO LESS

FORMIDABLE BROTHER.+” (From a Photograph) _face_ 80

+THE TEMPLE AND BATHING GHÂTS ON THE SACRED LAKE

AT KURUKSHETRA.+ (From a Photograph) _face_ 200

+THE CHURNING OF THE OCEAN.+ (Reduced from Moor’s

“Hindu Pantheon”) 220

GREAT INDIAN EPICS

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

Foremost amongst the many valuable relics of the old-world literature

of India stand the two famous epics, the “Ramayana” and the

“Mahabharata,” which are loved with an untiring love by the Hindus,

for they have kept alive, through many a dreary century, the memory

of the ancient heroes of the land, whose names are still borne by the

patient husbandman and the proud chief.[1] These great poems have a

special claim to the attention even of foreigners, if considered simply

as representative illustrations of the genius of a most interesting

people, their importance being enhanced by the fact that they are, to

this day, accepted as entirely and literally true by some two hundred

millions of the inhabitants of India. And they have the further

recommendation of being rich in varied attractions, even when regarded

merely as the ideal and unsubstantial creations of Oriental imagination.

Both the “Ramayana” and “Mahabharata” are very lengthy works which,

taken together, would make up not less than about five and twenty

printed volumes of ordinary size. They embrace detailed histories

of wars and adventures and many a story that the Western World would

now call a mere fairy tale, to be listened to by children with

wide-eyed attention. But interwoven with the narrative of events and

legendary romances is a great bulk of philosophical, theological,

and ethical materials, covering probably the whole field of later

Indian speculation. Indeed, the epics are a storehouse of Brahmanical

instruction in the arts of politics and government; in cosmogony and

religion; in mythology and mysticism; in ritualism and the conduct

of daily life. They abound in dialogues wherein the subtle wisdom of

the East is well displayed, and brim-over with stories and anecdotes

intended to point some moral, to afford consolation in trouble, or

to inculcate a useful lesson. To epitomize all this satisfactorily

would be quite impossible; but what I have given in this little volume

will, I hope, be sufficient to show the nature and structure of the

epics, the characteristics that distinguish them as essentially Indian

productions, and the light they throw upon the condition of India

and the state of Hindu society at the time the several portions were

written, or, at any rate, collected together. The narrative, brief

though it be, will reflect the more abiding features of Indian national

life, revealing some unfamiliar ideas and strange customs. Even within

the narrow limits of the reduced picture here presented, the reader

will get something more than a glimpse of those famous Eastern sages,

whose half-comprehended story has furnished the Theosophists of our

own day with the queer notion of their extraordinary _Mahatmas_; he

will learn somewhat of the wisdom and pretensions of those sages, and

will not fail to note that the belief in divine incarnations was firmly

rooted in India in very early times. He will incidentally acquire a

knowledge of all the fundamental religious ideas of the Hindus and

of the highest developments of their philosophy; he will also become

familiar with some primitive customs which have left unmistakable

traces in the institutions of modern social life in the East as well

as in the West; and will, perhaps, be able to track to their origin

some strange conceptions which are floating about the intellectual

atmosphere of our time.

Woven out of the old-time _sagas_ of a remarkable people, “the ancient

Aryans of India, in many respects the most wonderful race that ever

lived on Earth,”[2] the Sanskrit epics must have a permanent interest

for educated people in every land; while all Indian studies must

have an attraction for those who desire to watch, with intelligent

appreciation, the wonderfully interesting transformations in religion

and manners, which contact with Western civilization is producing in

the ancient and populous land of the Hindus. Not less interesting will

such studies be to those who are able to note the curious, though as

yet slight, reaction of Hindu thought upon modern European ideas in

certain directions; as, for example, in the rise of Theosophy, in the

sentimental tendency manifested in some quarters towards asceticism,

Buddhism and Pantheism; in the approval by a small class in Europe

of the cremation of the dead, and in the growing fascination of such

doctrines as those of metempsychosis and _Karma_.

Although it is difficult for the Englishman of the nineteenth century

to understand the intellectual attitude of modern India in respect to

the wild legends of its youth, it may help towards a comprehension of

this point if one reflects that had not Christianity superseded the

original religions of Northern Europe, had the Eddas and Sagas, with

their weird tales of wonder and mystery, continued to be authoritative

scripture in Britain, the religious faith of England might now have

been somewhat on a par with that of India to-day--an extraordinary

medley of the wildest legends and deepest philosophy. It is a subject

for wonder how the gods of the ancestors of the English people have

entirely faded from popular recollection in Britain, how Sagas and

Eddas have been completely forgotten, leaving only a substratum of old

superstitions about witchcraft, omens, etc. (once religious beliefs),

amongst the more backward of the populace. How many Englishmen ever

think, how many of them even know, anything about Thor or Odin and the

bloody sacrifices (often human sacrifices)[3] with which those deities

were honoured? How many realize that the worship of these gods and the

rites referred to had a footing in some parts of Europe as recently as

eight hundred years ago?[4]

The almost complete extinction of the ancestral beliefs of the

European nations is a striking fact to which the religious history

of India presents no parallel. In Europe the great wall of Judaic

Christianity--too often cemented with blood--has been reared, in

colossal dimensions, between the past and the present, cutting off all

communication between the indigenous faiths and modern speculative

philosophy of the Western nations; while diverting the affectionate

interest of the devout from local to foreign shrines.

No barrier of nearly similar proportions has ever been raised in

India. Islam, it is true, has planted its towers in many parts of the

country and has, to some restricted extent, blocked the old highways

of thought, causing a certain estrangement between the old and new

world of ideas; but the severance between the past and the present

has nowhere been as complete as in Europe, for many an Indian Muslim,

though professing monotheism, still lingers upon the threshold of the

old Hindu temples, and still, in times of trouble, will stealthily

invoke the aid of the national deities, who are not yet dead and

buried like those of the Vikings. Hence it may be asserted of the vast

majority of the Indian people that their vision extends reverentially

backward, through an uninterrupted vista, to the gods and heroes of

their remote ancestors.

And who were those remote ancestors, those Aryan invaders of India

in the gray dawn of human history? We have had two answers to

that question. A few years ago the philologists assured us, very

positively, that the Aryans were a vigorous primitive race whose home

was in central Asia and who had sent successive waves of emigration

and conquest westwards, right across the continent of Europe, to be

arrested in their onward march only by the wide waters of the Atlantic.

We were also assured, by these learned investigators into the mysteries

of words and languages, that one horde of Asiatic Aryans, instead

of following the usual westward course adopted by their brethren,

had turned their thoughts towards the sunnier climes of the South,

and, scaling the northwestern barrier of India, had conquered the

aborigines and settled in the great Indo-Gangetic plain at the foot of

the Himalayas. These conclusions find a place in all our text-books of

Indian or European history. The schoolboy, who has read his Hunter’s

brief history[5] of India, knows well that “the forefathers of the

Greek and the Roman, of the English and the Hindu, dwelt together

in Central Asia, spoke the same tongue, worshipped the same gods,”

and that “the history of ancient Europe is the story of the Aryan

settlements around the shores of the Mediterranean.” However, these

conclusions have recently undergone revision and radical modification.

Within the last decade a theory, which originated in England with Dr.

Latham and which met with contemptuous disregard when first propounded,

has been revived by certain German _savants_ and scientists.[6]

Supported by the latest results of craniological and anthropological

investigation, Latham’s theory, in a modified form, has, under the

erudite advocacy of Dr. Schrader and Karl Penka, gained all but

universal acceptance. The theory now in favour, which is founded more

on inferences from racial than linguistic peculiarities, differs from

the one referred to above in a very important respect. The home of the

Aryans, instead of being found in Central Asia, is traced to Europe, so

that the Aryan invaders of India, many centuries before Christ, were

men of _European_ descent who pushed their way _eastward_ and gradually

extended their dominion first over Iran and subsequently over Northern

India, having scaled the snowclad Himalayas, literally in search of

“fresh fields and pastures new.” When they reached India, after a long

sojourn in Eastern countries, they were a mixed European and Asiatic

race, with probably a large share of Turanian blood,[7] speaking a

language of Aryan origin.[8] A strong, warlike, aggressive race, these

Aryans won for themselves a dominant position in ancient India, and

have left to this day the unmistakable traces of their language in many

of the vernaculars of the land.

The decision of the question of the origin of the Aryans and the

locality of their primitive home is not one of purely antiquarian

interest, it is one of national importance, as anyone will be prepared

to admit who knows, and can recall to mind, the effect upon the

educated Hindus of the announcement that their own ancestors had been

the irresistible subjugators of Europe. Whether the Norman conquerors

of England were of Celtic or, as the late Professor Freeman insisted,

of Teutonic stock, is not unimportant to the Englishman for the true

comprehension of his national history and not without some influence

even in practical politics; but of far greater moment will it be for

the Hindu whether he learn to regard the Aryans of old as an Asiatic or

a European race, cradled on the “Roof of the World” or in the flats of

the Don.

Although all Hindus look upon the Aryan heroes of the Indian epics as

the _ancestors_ of their race, and fondly pride themselves in their

mighty deeds, the claim, in the case of the vast majority, is, of

course, untenable; since the great bulk of the Indian population has

no real title to Aryan descent. Yet Rama and Arjuna are truly Indian

creations, enshrined in the sacred literature of the land. And the

pride and faith of the Hindus in these demigods has, perhaps, sustained

their spirits and elevated their characters, through the vicissitudes

of many a century since the heroic age of India.

What genuine facts, or real events, may underlie the poetical

narratives of the authors of the “Ramayana” and “Mahabharata” will

never be known. The details naïvely introduced are often such as

to leave an irresistible impression that there is a substratum of

substantial truth serving as a foundation for the fantastic and airy

structure reared by the poets, and we now and then recognize, for

instance in their despairing fatefulness, a distant echo of ideas which

have travelled with the Aryan race to the Northern Seas. But the too

fertile imagination of the Indian poets, their supreme contempt for

details and utter disregard of topographical accuracy, leave little

hope of our ever getting any satisfactory history out of the Sanskrit

epics, or even of our establishing an identity in regard to localities

and details of construction such as has been traced, in our own day, by

Schliemann, between the buried citadel of Hissarlik on the Hellespont

and vanished Ilion. For those who do not share these opinions there

is a wide and deep field for industrious research; but I confess that

I am somewhat indifferent regarding the extremely doubtful history or

the very fanciful allegory that may be laboriously extracted from the

Indian epics by ingenious historians and mythologists. Indeed I would

protest against these grand epics being treated as history, for then

they must be judged by the canons of historical composition and would

be shorn of their highest merits. They are _poems_ not _history_, they

are the romantic legends and living aspirations of a people, not the

sober annals of their social and political life.

Like the other great poems created by the genius of the past, the

Indian epics have a value quite independent of either the history or

the allegory which they enshrine. They appeal to our predilection

for the marvellous and our love of the beautiful, while affording us

striking pictures of the manners of a bygone age, which, for many

reasons, we would not willingly lose.

Being religious books, the “Ramayana” and “Mahabharata” are, more or

less, known to the Hindus; but it is a noteworthy fact that even

educated Indians are but little acquainted with the _details_ of these

poems, although both epics have been translated into the leading

vernaculars of the country and also into English. I have known educated

young men, with more faith in their ancient books than knowledge of

their contents, warmly deny the possibility of certain narratives

having a place in these books, because, to their somewhat Europeanized

ideas, they seemed too far-fetched to be probable. The more striking

incidents are, however, familiar to every Hindu, for Brahmans wander

all over the country, reciting the sacred poems to the people. They

gather an audience of both sexes and all ages and read to them from

the venerable Sanskrit, rendering the verses of the dead language of

the Aryan invaders of India into the living speech of their hearers.

Sometimes the Brahmans read and expound vernacular translations of

these poems of Valmiki and Vyasa. Often-times these recitations

are accompanied with much ceremony and dignified with a display of

religious formalities.[9] Day after day the people congregate to

listen, with rapt attention, to the old national stories, and the moral

lessons drawn from them, for their instruction, by the Pandits. To this

day a considerable proportion of the people of India order much of

their lives upon the models supplied by their venerable epics, which

have, moreover, mainly inspired such plastic and pictorial work as

the Indian people have produced; being for the Hindu artist what the

beautiful creations of Greek fancy, or the weird myths of the Middle

Ages, have been for his European brother.

Impressed with the importance of some knowledge of the Indian epics

on the part of everyone directly or indirectly interested in the

life and opinions of the strange and highly intellectual Hindu race,

which has preserved its marked individuality of character through so

many centuries of foreign domination, I have written, for the benefit

of those, whether Europeans or Indians, who may be acquainted with

the English language, the brief epitomes of them contained in the

following pages; deriving my materials not from the original Sanskrit

poems, which are sealed books to me, but from the translations, more

or less complete and literal, of these voluminous works, which have

been given to the world by both European and Indian scholars. On

all occasions where religious opinions or theological doctrines are

concerned I have given the preference to the translations of native

scholars, as I know that Indian Sanskritists have a happy contempt

for Western interpretations of their sacred books, and it seemed very

desirable, in such a case, to let the Hindus speak for themselves.

Besides, I am of opinion that the English versions of the “Ramayana”

and “Mahabharata,” now being given to the world by Indian scholars,

have a unique value, which later translations will, in all probability,

not possess. The present translators are orthodox Hindus possessing

a competent knowledge of English, and their aim has been to produce

English versions of their sacred poems, as understood and accepted by

themselves and by the orthodox Indian world to-day, their renderings,

no doubt, reflecting the traditional interpretation handed down from

past times. Hereafter we shall have more _learned_ translations, in

which European ideas will do duty for Indian ones, and the old poems

will be interpreted _up to_ our own standard of science and philosophy.

In wild legends we shall discover subtle allegories veiling sober

history, in license and poetry we shall find deep religious mysteries,

and in archaic notions shall recognize, with admiration, the structure

of modern philosophy. Something of this has already come about, and

that the rest is not far-off is evident; for we have only recently

been told, that “in the _shlokas_ of the ‘Ramayana’ and ‘Mahabharata’

we have many important historical truths relating to the ancient

colonization of the Indian continent by conquering invaders ... all

designedly concealed in the priestly phraseology of the Brahman, but

with such exactitude of method, nicety of expression and particularity

of detail, as to render the whole capable of being transformed into a

sober, intelligible and probable history of the political revolutions

that took place over the extent of India during ages antecedent to the

records of authentic history, by anyone who will take the trouble to

read the Sanskrit aright through the veil of allegory covering it.”[10]

While regretting my shortcomings in respect to the language of the

bards who composed the Sanskrit epics, since I am thereby cut off from

appreciating the beauty of their versification and the felicities

of expression which no translation can possibly preserve, I derive

consolation from the reflection, that with sufficiently accurate

translations at hand--similar to our English versions of the Hebrew and

Greek Scriptures--a knowledge of Sanskrit is certainly not essential

for the production of a work with the moderate pretensions of this

little volume.

PART I

THE RAMAYANA

THE RAMAYANA

OR ADVENTURES OF RAMA

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTORY REMARKS

Once every year, at the great festival known as the _Dasahra_, the

story of the famous Hindu epic, the “Ramayana,” is, throughout Northern

India, recalled to popular memory, by a great out-door dramatic

representation of the principal and crowning events in the life of the

hero, Rama. The “Ramayana” is not merely a popular story, it is an

inspired poem, every detail of which is, in the belief of the great

majority of the Indian people, strictly true. Although composed at

least nineteen centuries ago, it still lives enshrined in the hearts

of the children of Aryavarta and is as familiar to them to-day as it

has been to their ancestors for fifty generations. Pious pilgrims even

now retrace, step by step, the wanderings, as well as the triumphal

progress, of Rama, from his birth-place in Oudh to the distant island

of Ceylon. Millions believe in the efficacy of his name alone to insure

them safety and salvation. For these reasons the poem is of especial

value and interest to anyone desirous of understanding the people of

India; affording, as it does, an insight into the thoughts and feelings

of the bard or bards who composed it and of a race of men who, through

two thousand eventful years, have not grown weary of it.

In the following chapters I shall first give a brief summary of the

leading events narrated in the “Ramayana” and then proceed to link, as

it were, the past with the present, by describing the annual play as I

have often witnessed it in Northern India.

The “Ramayana,” written in the Sanskrit language, embraces an account

of the birth and adventures of Rama. The whole poem, which is divided

into seven books or sections, contains about fifty thousand lines

and occupies five goodly volumes in Mr. Ralph Griffith’s metrical

translation,[11] which is, to a certain extent, an abridged version.

To Valmiki is attributed the authorship of this famous epic, and a

pretty story is told of the manner in which he came to write it. A

renowned ascetic, a sort of celestial being, named Narada, had related

to Valmiki the main incidents of the adventurous life of Rama, and

had deeply interested that sage in the history of the hero and his

companions. Pondering the events described by Narada, Valmiki went

to the river to bathe. Close at hand two beautiful herons, in happy

unconsciousness of danger, were disporting themselves on the wooded

bank of the stream, when suddenly one of the innocent pair was laid

prostrate by the arrow of an unseen fowler. The other bird, afflicted

with grief, fluttered timidly about her dead mate, uttering sore cries

of distress. Touched to the heart by her plaintive sorrow, Valmiki gave

expression to his feelings of irritation and sympathy in words which,

to his own surprise, had assumed a rhythmic measure and were capable

of being chanted with an instrumental accompaniment. Presently, Brahma

himself, the Creator of all, visited the sage in his hermitage, but

Valmiki’s mind was so much occupied with the little tragedy at the

river-side, that he unconsciously gave utterance to the verses he had

extemporized on the occasion. Brahma, smiling, informed the hermit that

the verses had come to his lips in order that he might compose the

delightful and instructive story of Rama in that particular measure

or _shloka_. Assuring Valmiki that all the details of the stirring

tale would be revealed to him, the Supreme Being directed the sage to

compose the great epic, which should endure as long as the mountains

and seas exist upon this earth. How Valmiki acquired a knowledge of

all the details of the story is worth remembering, as being peculiarly

Indian in its conception.

“Sitting himself facing the east on a cushion of _Kusa_ grass, and

sipping water according to the ordinance, he addressed himself to the

contemplation of the subject through _Yoga_.[12] And, by virtue of his

_Yoga_ powers, he clearly observed before him Rama and Lakshmana, and

Sita, and Dasahratha, together with his wives, in his kingdom, laughing

and talking and acting and bearing themselves as in real life.”[13]

CHAPTER II

THE STORY

The story of the “Ramayana,” in brief outline, is as follows:

In the ancient land of Kosala, watered by the River Surayu, stood the

famous Ayodhya,[14] a fortified and impregnable city of matchless

beauty, and resplendent with burnished gold, where everyone was

virtuous, beautiful, rich and happy. Wide streets traversed this city

in every direction, lined with elegant shops and stately palaces

glittering all over with gems. There was no lack of food in Ayodhya,

for “it abounded in paddy and rice, and its water was as sweet as

the juice of the sugar-cane.” Gardens, mango-groves and “theatres

for females” were to be found everywhere. Dulcet music from _Venas_

and _Panavas_ resounding on all sides, bore evidence to the taste of

the people. Learned and virtuous Brahmans, skilled in sacrificial

rites, formed a considerable proportion of the population; which also

included a crowd of eulogists and “troops of courtesans.” The pride

of ancient families supported a large number of genealogists. Hosts

of skilled artisans of every kind contributed to the conveniences and

elegancies of life, while an army of doughty warriors protected this

magnificent and opulent city from its envious foes. Over this wonderful

and prosperous capital of a flourishing kingdom, ruled King Dasahratha,

a man some sixty thousand years of age, gifted with every virtue and

blessed beyond most mortals. But, as if to prove that human happiness

can never exist unalloyed with sorrow, even he had one serious cause

for grief; he was childless, although he had three wives and seven

hundred and fifty concubines.[15] Acting upon the advice of the

priests, the Maharajah determined to offer, with all the complicated

but necessary rites, the sacrifice of a horse, as a means of prevailing

upon the gods to bless his house with offspring. The accomplishment

of such a sacrifice was no easy matter, or to be lightly undertaken,

even by a mighty monarch like Dasahratha, since it was an essential

condition of success that the sacrifice should be conducted without

error or omission in the minutest details of the ritual of an intricate

ceremony, extending over three days. Not only would any flaw in the

proceedings render the sacrifice nugatory, but it was to be feared that

learned demons (Brahma-Rakshasas), ever maliciously on the look-out

for shortcomings in the sacrifices attempted by men, might cause the

destruction of the unfortunate performer of an imperfect sacrifice

of such momentous importance. However, the sacrifice was actually

performed on a magnificent scale and most satisfactorily, with the

assistance of an army of artisans, astrologers, dancers, conductors of

theatres, and persons learned in the ceremonial law. Birds, beasts,

reptiles, and aquatic animals were sacrificed by the priests on this

auspicious occasion, but the sacred horse itself was despatched,

with three strokes, by the hand of Kauçalya, Dasahratha’s queen. When

the ceremonies had been conducted to a successful close, Dasahratha

showed his piety and generosity by making a free gift of the whole

earth to the officiating priests; but they were content to restore

the magnificent present, modestly accepting in its stead fabulous

quantities of gold and silver and innumerable cows.

The gods, Gandharvas and Siddhas, propitiated by the offerings

profusely made to them, assembled, each one for his share,[16] and

Dasahratha was promised four sons.[17] While these events were

transpiring, a ten-headed Rakshasa named Ravana was making himself the

terror of gods and men, under the protection of a boon bestowed upon

him by the Creator (Brahma), that neither god nor demon should be able

to deprive him of his life. This boon had been obtained by the Rakshasa

as the reward of long and painful austerities.[18]

The hierarchy of minor gods, in their own interest and for the sake of

the saints who were constantly being disturbed in their devotions by

this Ravana and his fellows, appealed to the Supreme Deity to find some

remedy for the evil. Brahma, after reflecting on the matter, replied--

“One only way I find

To stay this fiend of evil mind.

He prayed me once his life to guard

From demon, God and heavenly bard,

And spirits of the earth and air,

And I consenting heard his prayer.

But the proud giant in his scorn,

Recked not of man of woman born,

None else may take his life away

But only man the fiend may slay.”

--+GRIFFITH.+

On receiving this reply the gods petitioned Vishnu to divide himself

into four parts and to appear on earth, incarnate as the promised sons

of Dasahratha, and thus, in human form, to rid the world of Ravana.

Vishnu consented. He proceeded to the earth and appeared amidst the

sacrificial flames of Dasahratha’s offering, in an assumed form “of

matchless splendour, strength and size”--black, with a red face, and

shaggy hair--apparelled in crimson robes, and adorned with celestial

ornaments, holding in his hands a vase of gold, containing heavenly

nectar, which he handed to the king, with instructions to make his

three queens partake of the sacred draught, in order that they might

be blessed with sons.

Dasahratha distributed the nectar amongst his wives, though not in

equal proportions. In due time the promised sons were born, viz., Rama,

Lakshmana, Bharata and Satrughna. Rama possessed the larger share of

the divine nature and decidedly excelled his brothers in prowess.

To him, especially, was allotted the task of destroying Ravana. And

countless hosts of monkeys and bears were begotten by the gods, at

Brahma’s[19] suggestion, to aid him in his work.

Whilst yet a mere stripling, Rama was appealed to by the sage

Vishwamitra to destroy certain demons who interrupted the religious

rites of the hermits.

The boy was only sixteen years of age, and Dasahratha, naturally

solicitous for his safety, declined to let him go to fight the dreadful

brood of demons, who had an evil reputation for cruelty and ferocity;

but the mighty ascetic waxed so wrath at this refusal of his request,

that “the entire earth began to tremble and the gods even were inspired

with awe.” Vasishta, the king’s spiritual adviser, who had unbounded

confidence in Vishwamitra’s power to protect the prince from all harm,

strongly advised compliance with the ascetic’s request, and Dasahratha

was prevailed upon to allow Rama and Lakshmana to leave Ayodhya with

Vishwamitra.

The incidents of the journey reveal a very primitive state of society.

The princes and their guide were all of them on foot, apparently

quite unattended by servants and unprovided with even the most

ordinary necessaries of life. When they reached the River Surayu,[20]

Vishwamitra communicated certain _mantras_ or spells to Rama, by the

knowledge of which he would be protected from fatigue and fever[21] and

from the possibility of being surprised by the Rakshasas against whom

he was going to wage war.

The land through which our travellers journeyed was sparsely inhabited.

A goodly portion of it seems to have been covered with woods, more or

less pleasant, abounding in the hermitages of ascetics, some of whom

had been carrying on their austerities for _thousands of years_. Beside

these pleasant woods there were vast, trackless forests, infested

by ferocious beasts and grim Rakshasas, and it was not long before

the might of the semi-divine stripling, Rama, was tried against one

of these terrible creatures, Tarika by name, an ogress of dreadful

power, whom Rama undertook to destroy “in the interests of Brahmans,

kine and celestials.” When the ascetic and the two princes arrived in

the dark forest where the dreaded Tarika ruled supreme, Rama twanged

his bowstring loudly, as a haughty challenge to this redoubtable

giantess. Incensed at the audacious sound of the bowstring, Tarika

uttered terrible roars and rushed out to attack the presumptuous

prince. The ascetic raised a defiant roar in response. That was his

entire contribution to the combat in which Rama and his adversary were

immediately involved, Lakshmana taking part in it also. This, the

first conflict in which Rama was engaged, may be taken as a type of

all his subsequent battles. Raising clouds of dust, Tarika, “by help

of illusion,” poured a shower of huge stones upon the brothers, but

these ponderous missiles were met and arrested in mid-air by a volley

of arrows. The battle raged fiercely, but the brothers succeeded with

their shafts in depriving Tarika of her hands, her nose and her ears.

Thus disabled and disfigured, Tarika changed her shape[22] and even

concealed herself from view, while still continuing the fight with

unabated fury; but Rama, guided by sound alone, assailed his invisible

foe with such effect that he eventually laid her dead at his feet, to

the joy of Vishwamitra and the relief of the denizens of the great

forest over which she had terrorized.

After this successful combat, the ascetic, Vishwamitra, conferred

on Rama a gift of strange weapons, which even the celestials were

incapable of wielding. How very different the magic weapons received by

Rama were from those familiar to the sons of men, will be apparent from

the poet’s statement that the weapons themselves made their appearance

spontaneously before Rama, “and with clasped hands, they, well-pleased,

addressed Rama thus: These, O highly generous one, are thy servants, O

Raghava. Whatever thou wishest, good betide thee, shall by all means be

accomplished by us.”

Such wonderful and efficient weapons, endowed with a consciousness and

individuality of their own, needed, however, to be kept under strict

control, lest in their over-zeal or excitement they might effect

undesigned and irreparable mischief. The sage accordingly communicated

to Rama the various _mantras_ or spells by which they might, on

critical occasions, be restrained and regulated in their operations.

In their woodland wanderings amongst the hermitages the brothers and

their guide came across many sages whose laborious austerities were

constantly being hindered by wicked, flesh-eating Rakshasas. Indeed

the world, outside the cities and villages,--which it would seem were

very few and far between,--as pictured by Valmiki, is a very strange

one, mostly peopled by two sets of beings, _hermits_ striving after

supernatural power through the practice of austerities, and _demons_

bent on frustrating their endeavours by unseasonable interruptions of

their rites, or impious pollution of their sacrifices. Sometimes, as in

the case of Ravana, the demons themselves would practise austerities

for the attainment of power.

Very prominent figures in the poem are the great ascetics, like

Vishwamitra himself, who, a Kshatriya by caste and a king by lineage,

had obtained, through dire austerities prolonged over thousands of

years, the exalted rank and power of _Brahmanhood_. A single example of

his self-inflicted hardships and the consequences resulting therefrom

may not be out of place. He once restrained his breath for a thousand

years, when vapours began to issue from his head, “and at this the

three worlds became afflicted with fear.” Like most of his order,

he was a very proud and irate personage, ready, upon very slight

provocation, to utter a terrible and not-to-be-escaped-from curse.[23]

Once, in a fit of rage against the celestials, Vishwamitra created

entire systems of stars and even threatened, in his fury, to create

another India by “the process of his self-earned asceticism.”

The life led by the princely brothers in their pedestrian wanderings

with this mighty sage was simplicity itself. They performed their

religious rites regularly, adoring the rising sun, the blazing fire or

the flowing river, as the case might be. Their sojourn in the forests

was enlivened by pleasant communion with the hermits to whose kind

hospitality they were usually indebted for a night’s lodging, if such

it can be called, and a simple fare of milk and fruits. Vishwamitra

added interest to their journeyings by satisfying the curiosity of

the brothers in regard to the history of the several places they

visited. Here, as he informed them, the god Rudra had performed his

austerities--for even the gods were not above the necessity and

ambition of ascetic practices--and blasted the impious Kama into

nothingness with a breath. There, the great god Vishnu of mighty

asceticism, worshipped of all the deities, dwelt during hundreds of

_Yugas_, for the purpose of carrying on his austerities and practising

_yoga_.[24] At one time Vishwamitra would relate the history of the

origin of Ganga and of her descent upon the earth, as the mighty and

purifying Ganges, chief of rivers. At another time he would himself

listen complacently, along with his princely companions, to the history

of his own wonderful asceticism and marvellous performances, as the

wise Satananda related it for the special edification of Rama.

So passed away the time in the forests, not altogether peacefully,

however, for the object of the journey would not have been fulfilled

without sundry fierce and entirely successful encounters with the

Rakshasas, those fiendish interrupters of sacrifice and persistent

enemies of the anchorites. Eventually the wanderers came to the kingdom

of Mithila, whose king, Janaka,[25] had a lovely daughter to bestow

upon the worthy and fortunate man who should bend a certain formidable

bow which had belonged to Siva and which he had once threatened to use

in the destruction of the gods.

Janaka’s daughter, the famous Sita, whose matrimonial future was thus

connected with Siva’s bow, was of superhuman origin, having sprung from

the earth in a mysterious manner; for, while Janaka was ploughing the

ground in the course of a child-conferring sacrifice, the lovely maiden

had, by the favour of the gods, come to him out of the furrow.

Allured by the fame of Sita’s beauty, suitor after suitor had come to

Mithila and tried that tough bow of Siva’s, but without success; and

Rama’s curiosity was awakened about both the mighty weapon and the

maiden fair.

Having been introduced by Vishwamitra to the King of Mithila, Rama

was allowed to essay his strength against the huge bow, and huge it

was indeed, for it had to be carried on an eight-wheeled cart which

“was with difficulty drawn along by five thousand stalwart persons of

well-developed frames.” To Rama, however, the bending of this gigantic

bow was an easy matter, and he not only bent but broke it too, at which

event all present, overwhelmed by the noise, rolled head over heels,

with the exception of Vishwamitra, the “king and the two Raghavas.”

The lovely and much-coveted prize was Rama’s of course. Arrangements

for the wedding were carried out in grand style. Dasahratha and his

two other sons were invited to Mithila and brides were found, in the

family of Janaka, for all the _four_ brothers. Upon a daïs covered with

a canopy, and decked with flowers, the happy brides and bridegrooms

were placed, attended by the king and the priests of the two families.

Water-pots, golden ladles, censers, and conches, together with

platters containing rice, butter, curds and other things for the _Hom_

sacrifice, were also arranged for use on the platform. The sacrificial

fire was lighted, the appropriate _mantras_ repeated, and the four

bridegrooms led their brides first round the fire, and then round the

king and the priests. At this stage of the proceedings showers of

celestial flowers rained down upon the happy couples, now united in the

bonds of matrimony.[26] After these marriages the return to Ayodhya was

accomplished with rejoicings and in great state; but Vishwamitra took

his solitary way to the Northern Mountains.

As the years went by and Rama was grown to man’s estate he was endowed

with every princely virtue; the people idolized him, and his father,

desirous of retiring from the cares of government, determined to place

him upon the throne. But, although apparently simple of execution,

this arrangement was beset with difficulties. Rama was the son of the

Rajah’s eldest and principal wife; but Bharata was the son of his

favourite wife, the slender-waisted Kaikeyi. The suffrages of the

people and Dasahratha’s own wishes were entirely in favour of Rama,

but, apparently unwilling to face the grief or opposition of his

darling Kaikeyi, the king took advantage of Bharata’s absence on a

visit to a distant court to carry out the rather sudden preparations

for Rama’s installation as Yuva-Rajah, hoping, it would seem, to keep

Kaikeyi in complete ignorance of what was being done. The whole city,

however, was in a state of bustle and excitement at the approaching

event. The streets were being washed and watered, flag-staffs were

being erected on every side, gay bunting was floating about and

garlands of flowers adorned the houses. Musicians played in the

highways and in the temples, and, notwithstanding the seclusion

of the women’s apartments, it was impossible to conceal from the

inmates of the _zenana_ what was going on in the great world outside.

A deformed and cunning slave-girl, named Manthara, found out and

revealed the whole plot to Bharata’s mother. At first Kaikeyi received

the intelligence with pleasure, for Rama was dear to everybody; but

the slave-girl so worked upon her feelings of envy and jealousy, by

artfully picturing to her the very inferior position she would hold in

the world’s estimation, the painful slights she would have to endure

and the humiliation she would have to suffer, once Kauçalya’s son was

raised to the throne, that in a passion of rage and grief, she threw

away her ornaments and, with dishevelled hair, flew to the “_chamber

of sorrow_” and flung herself down upon the floor, weeping bitterly.

Here the old king found her “like a sky enveloped in darkness with the

stars hid” and had to endure the angry reproaches of his disconsolate

favourite. Acting upon a suggestion of the deformed slave-girl, the

queen reminded her husband of a promise made by him long previously,

that he would grant her any two requests she might make. She now

demanded the fulfilment of the royal promise, her two requests being

that Rama should be sent away into banishment in the forests for

a period of fourteen years and that her own son Bharata should be

elevated to the dignity of Yuva-Rajah. On these terms, and on these

only, would the offended and ambitious Kaikeyi be reconciled to her

uxorious lord. If these conditions were refused she was resolved to

rid the king of her hated presence. Dasahratha, poor old man, was

overwhelmed by this unexpected crisis. He fell at his wife’s feet,

he explained that preparations for Rama’s installation had already

commenced, he besought her not to expose him to ridicule and contempt,

he coaxed and flattered her, alluding to her lovely eyes and shapely

hips, he extolled Rama’s affectionate devotion to herself. He next

heaped bitter reproaches upon Kaikeyi’s unreasonable pride and finally

swooned away in despair. But she was firm in her purpose and would not

be shaken by anything, kind or unkind, that this “lord of earth” could

say to her. The royal word she knew was sacred, and had to be kept at

any cost.

As soon as it came to be known what a strange and unforeseen turn

events had taken, the female apartments were the scene of loud

lamentations, and the entire city was plunged in mourning. Rama, of

expansive and coppery eyes,[27] long-armed, dark blue like a lotus, a

mighty bowman of matchless strength, with the gait of a mad elephant,

brave, truthful, humble-minded, respectful and generous to Brahmans,

and having his passions under complete control, was the idol of the

zenana, the court, and the populace. The thought of his unmerited

banishment to the forests was intolerable to everyone. But he himself,

with exemplary filial devotion, prepared to go into exile at once,

without a murmur. The poet devotes considerable space to a minute

description of the sorrow experienced by the prominent characters in

the story on account of Rama’s banishment. Each one indulges in a

lengthy lamentation, picturing the privations and sufferings of the

ill-fated trio, and nearly everyone protests that it will be impossible

to live without Rama. With affectionate regard for Sita’s comfort, and

loving apprehension for her safety, Rama resolved to leave her behind

with his mother; but no argument, no inducement, could prevail upon

the devoted wife to be parted from her beloved husband. What were the

terrors of the forest to her, what the discomfort of the wilderness,

when shared with Rama? Racked with sorrow at the proposed separation,

Sita burst into a flood of tears and became almost insensible with

grief. At the sight of her tribulation Rama, overcome with emotion,

threw his arms about his dear wife and agreed to take her with him,

come what may.

Lakshmana, with devoted loyalty, would also accompany his brother into

exile.

Kaikeyi, apprehensive of delays, hurried on their preparations, and

herself, unblushingly, provided them with the bark dresses worn by

ascetics. The two brothers donned their new vestments in the king’s

presence.

“But Sita, in her silks arrayed,

Threw glances, trembling and afraid,

On the bark coat she had to wear

Like a shy doe that eyes the snare.

Ashamed and weeping for distress

From the queen’s hand she took the dress.

The fair one, by her husband’s side,

Who matched heaven’s minstrel monarch, cried:

‘How bind they on their woodland dress,

Those hermits of the wilderness?’

There stood the pride of Janak’s race

Perplexed, with sad appealing face,

One coat the lady’s fingers grasped,

One round her neck she feebly clasped,

But failed again, again, confused

By the wild garb she ne’er had used.

Then quickly hastening Rama, pride

Of all who cherish virtue, tied

The rough bark mantle on her, o’er

The silken raiment that she wore.

Then the sad women when they saw

Rama the choice bark round her draw,

Rained water from each tender eye

And cried aloud with bitter cry.”[28]

--+GRIFFITH.+

After giving away vast treasures to the Brahmans the ill-fated trio

took a pathetic leave of the now miserable old king, of Kauçalya

who mourned like a cow deprived of her calf, of Sumitra the mother

of Lakshmana, and of their “other three hundred and fifty mothers.”

With an exalted sense of filial duty the exiles also bid a respectful

and affectionate farewell to Kaikeyi, the cruel author of their

unmerited banishment, Rama remarking that it was not her own heart,

but “_Destiny_ alone that had made her press for the prevention of his

installation.”

When Rama and his companions appeared in the streets of the capital,

in the dress of ascetics, the populace loudly deplored their fate,

extolling the virtues of Rama while giving vent to their feelings of

disapproval at the king’s weak compliance with his favourite’s whim.

Sita came in for her share of popular pity and admiration, since she

“whom formerly the very rangers of the sky could not see, was to-day

beheld by every passer-by.”

A royal chariot conveyed away to the inhospitable wilderness the two

brothers and faithful Sita, torn from stately Ayodhya, their luxurious

palaces and the arms of their fond parents. All they carried with them,

in the chariot, was their armour and weapons, “a basket bound in hide

and a hoe.” Crowds of people, abandoning their homes, followed in the

track of the chariot, resolved to share the fate of the exiles. And

such was the grief of the people that the dust raised by the wheels

of the car occupied by Rama and his companions was laid by the tears

of the citizens. They drove at once to the jungles and rested there

for the night. During the hours of slumber the exiles considerately

gave their followers the slip and hurried off, in the chariot, towards

the great forest of Dandhaka. When they arrived at the banks of the

sacred and delightful Ganges the charioteer was dismissed with

tender messages to the old king from his exiled children. After the

departure of the charioteer Rama and his companions began their forest

wanderings on foot. Their hermit-life was now to commence in earnest.

Before entering the dark forests that lay before them, the brothers

resolved to wear “that ornament of ascetics, a head of matted hair,”

and, accordingly, produced the desired _coiffure_ with the aid of the

glutinous sap of the banyan tree. Thus prepared and clothed in bark

like the saints, the brothers, with faithful Sita, entered a boat

which chanced to be at the river-side and began the passage of the

Ganges. As they crossed the river the pious Sita, with joined hands,

addressed the goddess of the sacred stream, praying for a happy return

to Ayodhya, when their days of exile should be over. Having arrived

on the other bank, the exiles entered the forest in Indian file,

Lakshmana leading and Rama bringing up the rear. Passing by Sringavara

on the Ganges, they proceeded to Prayaga at the junction of the Ganges

and the Jumna. Here they were hospitably entertained by the sage

Bharadvaja, who recommended them to seek an asylum on the pleasant

slopes of wooded Chitrakuta. On the way thither Sita, ever mindful of

her religious duties, adored the Kalindi river--which they crossed on

a raft constructed by themselves--and paid her respects to a gigantic

banyan tree, near which many ascetics had taken up their abode. On the

romantic and picturesque side of Chitrakuta the exiles built themselves

a cottage, thatched with leaves, “walled with wood, and furnished with

doors.” Game, fruits, and roots abounded in the neighbourhood, so

that they need have no anxiety about their supplies. So much did they

appreciate the quiet beauties of their sylvan retreat, the cool shade,

the perfumed flowers, the sparkling rivulets and the noble river, that

they became almost reconciled to their separation from their friends

and the lordly palaces of Ayodhya, in which city important things were

happening.

The exile of Rama had been too much for the doting old Maharajah.[29]

Weighed down by sorrow, he soon succumbed to his troubles, and Bharata,

who was still absent at Giri-braja, was hastily summoned to take up the

regal office. He, accompanied by his brother Satrughna, hurried to the

capital, and finding, on his arrival, how matters really stood, heaped

reproaches upon his wicked, ambitious mother, indignantly refusing to

benefit by her artful machinations. In a transport of grief Bharata

“fell to the earth sighing like an enraged snake,” while Satrughna,

on his part, seized the deformed slave-girl Manthara, and literally

shook the senses out of her. In Rama’s absence, Bharata performed his

father’s obsequies with great pomp. The dead body of the late king,

which had been preserved in oil, was carried in procession to the river

side and there burnt, together with heaps of boiled rice and sacrificed

animals. A few days later the _sraddha_ ceremonies for the welfare of

the spirit of the departed king were performed, and, as usual, costly

presents,--money, lands, houses, goats and kine, also servant-men and

servant-maids were bestowed upon the fortunate Brahmans.

When this pious duty, which occupied thirteen days, had been fulfilled,

affairs of State demanded attention. Bharata, although pressed to do

so, resolutely declined to accept the sceptre, and resolved to set out,

with a vast following, on a visit to Rama in his retreat, hoping to

persuade him to abandon his hermit-life and undertake the government

of the realm. Great preparations had to be made for this visit to

Rama, which was a sort of wholesale exodus of the people of Ayodhya

of all ranks and occupations. A grand army was to accompany Bharata,

and the court, with all the ladies of the royal family, including

the no-doubt-reluctant Kaikeyi, were to swell the procession. A road

had to be made for the projected march of this host; streams had to

be bridged, ferries provided at the larger rivers, and able guides

secured. When the road was ready and the preparations for the journey

completed, chariots and horsemen in thousands crowded the way, mingled

with a vast multitude of citizens riding in carts. Artificers of every

kind attended the royal camp. Armourers, weavers, tailors, potters,

glass-makers, goldsmiths and gem-cutters, were there; so also were

physicians, actors and shampooers, peacock-dancers and men whose

profession it was to provide warm baths for their customers. Of course

the Brahman element was strongly represented in this great procession

from the flourishing city to the solitudes of the forest. Bharata’s

march is described at great length by the poet; but only one incident

need be mentioned here. On the way the hermit Bharadvaja, desirous of

doing Bharata honour, and probably not unwilling to display his power,

invited him and his followers, of whom, as we have seen, there were

many thousands, to a feast at his hermitage. At the command of the

saint the forest became transformed into lovely gardens, abounding in

flowers and fruit. Palaces of matchless beauty sprang into existence.

Music filled the cool and perfumed air. Food and drink, including meat

and wine, appeared in profusion:--soups and curries are especially

mentioned, and the flesh of goats and bears, deer, peacocks and cocks;

also rice, milk and sugar. In addition to all this, a host of heavenly

nymphs from Swarga descended to indulge in soft dalliance with the

ravished warriors of Bharata’s army.

“Then beauteous women, seven or eight,

Stood ready by each man to wait.

Beside the stream his limbs they stripped,

And in the cooling water dipped,

And then the fair ones, sparkling-eyed,

With soft hands rubbed his limbs and dried,

And sitting on the lovely bank

Held up the wine-cup as he drank.”

--+GRIFFITH.+

For one day and one night the intoxicating enjoyment continued; and

then, at the word of command, all the creations of the sage’s power

vanished, leaving the forest in its wonted gloom.

Having taken a respectful leave of the mighty ascetic, Bharata and his

followers threaded their way through the dense forests towards the

Mountain Chitrakuta and the River Mandakini. After a long march they at

last found the object of their desire, the high-souled Rama, “seated in

a cottage, bearing a head of matted locks, clad in black deerskin and

having tattered cloth and bark for his garment.” When Rama heard of his

father’s death he was deeply moved and fell insensible upon the ground,

“like a blooming tree that hath been hewn by an axe.” The loving

Vaidehi (Sita) and the brothers Lakshmana and Bharata sprinkled water

on the face of the prostrate man and restored him to animation, when

he at once burst into loud and prolonged lamentations. Presently Rama

pulled himself together and duly performed the funeral rites, pouring

out libations of water and making an offering of _ingudi_ fruits to

the spirit of his departed father. These offerings were not worthy of

being presented to the manes of so great a man as Dasahratha; but were

justifiable, under the circumstances of the case, on the accepted

principle that “that which is the fare of an individual is also the

fare of his divinities.”[30] Bharata and the rest, respectfully sitting

before Rama with joined hands, entreated him, with the greatest

humility, to undertake the reins of government; but he was not to be

persuaded to do so. He would not break the resolution he had made, nor

would he be disloyal to his dead father’s commands. Then Javali, a

Brahman atheist, insisting that there was and could be no hereafter,

that Dasahratha, once his sire, was now mere nothing, advised the

prince to yield to the reasonable wishes of the living and return

with them to rule over the kingdom of his ancestors. Rama, however,

warmly rebuked the atheist for his impiety, and all that Bharata could

accomplish was merely to induce him to put off from his feet a pair of

sandals adorned with gold, which he (Bharata) carried back with him

in great state to the deserted Ayodhya--now inhabited only by cats

and owls--as a visible symbol of his brother Rama, in whose name he

undertook to carry on the affairs of the State until the appointed

fourteen years of exile should have run their course.

The incidents connected with Rama’s exile to the forests, his life

and rambles at Chitrakuta, Bharata’s imposing march through the same

wooded country which the exiles had traversed, affords the poet of

the “Ramayana” rare opportunities of displaying his love for the

picturesque and his strong natural leaning towards the serene, if

uneventful, life of the hermit. Often in these early forest rovings,

and indeed throughout the fourteen years of exile, does Rama, or

some other one, linger to note and admire the beauties of woodland

and landscape, and to hold loving communion with the fair things of

field and forest. Though he praises the cities, and pictures their

grandeur of gold and gems, it is plain throughout that the poet’s

heart is in the woods, displaying on his part an appreciation of

the charms of nature and scenery, very remarkable, indeed, when we

consider how slowly the taste for the beauties of inanimate nature was

developed in Europe. After Bharata’s return to Ayodhya, Rama and his

companions moved further southwards, in the direction of the great

forest of Dandhaka, which extended indeed as far as the Godavari. In

their wanderings they came to the abode of a certain ascetic whose

wife, having performed severe austerities for ten thousand years,

was privileged, during ten years of drought, to create fruits and

roots for the sustenance of the people and to divert the course of

the river Jumna, so that its waters should flow by the thirsty asylum

of the hermits. This ancient dame took a great fancy to Vaidehi,

and, woman-like, gave her fair disciple a worthy gift, consisting of

fine apparel, of beautiful ornaments, a precious cosmetic for the

beautification of her person, and a rare garland of flowers. Nor was

the old lady contented until she had seen the effect of her present on

Janaka’s charming daughter, who had pleased her much by her good sense

in affirming that “the asceticism of woman is ministering unto her

husband.”

Wheresoever the exiles turned their steps, in these almost trackless

forests, they were told of the evil doings of the Rakshasas, who not

only interrupted the sacrifices, but actually carried off and devoured

the anchorites. Very curious, too, were the ways in which some of these

Rakshasas compassed the destruction of the saints. One of them, the

wily Ilwala, well acquainted with Sanskrit, would assume the form of

a Brahman and invite the hermits to a _sraddha_ feast. His brother,

in the assumed form of a sheep, would be slaughtered and cooked for

his guests. When they had enjoyed their repast the cruel Ilwala

would command his brother Vatapi to “come forth,” which he would do

unreluctantly, and with a vengeance, bleating loudly and rending the

bodies of the unhappy guests, of whom thousands were disposed of in

this truly Rakshasa fashion. It is noteworthy that those ascetics who

had, by long and severe austerities, acquired a goodly store of merit,

might easily have made short work of the Rakshasas; but, on the other

hand, if they allowed their angry passions to rise, even against such

impious beings, they would, while punishing their tormentors, have

inevitably lost the entire advantage of their long and painful labours.

Hence many of the hermits made a direct appeal to Rama for protection.

Entering the forest of Dandhaka the exiles encountered a huge, terrible

and misshapen monster, besmeared with fat and covered with blood,

who was roaring horribly with his widely distended mouth, while with

his single spear he held transfixed before him quite a menagerie of

lions, tigers, leopards and other wild animals. This awful being

rushed towards the trio, and, quick as thought, snatched up the gentle

Vaidehi in his arms, bellowing out “I am a Rakshasa, Viradha by name.

This forest is my fortress. Accoutred in arms I range (here), feeding

on the flesh of ascetics. This transcendantly beauteous one shall be

my wife. And in battle I shall drink your blood, wretches that ye

are.” At this juncture, Rama, as on some other trying occasions, gave

way to unseasonable lamentations and tears; but Lakshmana, always

practical, bravely recalled him to the necessity of immediate action.

The Rakshasa, having ascertained who his opponents were, vauntingly

assured them that, having gratified Brahma by his asceticism, he had

obtained this boon from him, that no one in the world could slay him

with weapons; and he mockingly advised the princes to renounce Sita

and go their way. But Rama’s wrath was now kindled, and he began a

vigorous attack upon the monster, piercing him with many arrows. A

short, though fierce, combat ensued, the result being that the Rakshasa

seized and carried off both Rama and Lakshmana on his ample shoulders.

His victory now seemed complete, and Sita,--who had apparently been

dropped during the combat,--dreading to be left alone in the terrible

wilderness, piteously implored the monster (whom she insinuatingly

addressed as the “best of Rakshasas”) to take her and to release the

noble princes. The sound of her dear voice acted like a charm upon the

brothers, and, with a vigorous and simultaneous effort, they broke both

the monster’s arms at once, and then attacked him with their _fists_.

They brought him to the ground exhausted, and Rama, planting his foot

upon the throat of his prostrate foe, directed Lakshmana to dig a deep

pit for his reception, and when it was ready, they flung him into it.

The dying monster, thus overcome, _though not with weapons_, explained

that he had been imprisoned in that dreadful form of his by the curse

of a famous ascetic, and was destined to be freed from it only by the

hand of Rama. With this explanation the spirit of the departed Viradha

passed into the celestial regions.

Rama, with his wife and brother, now sought the hermitage of the sage

Sarabhanga, and on approaching it, a strange, unexpected and imposing

sight presented itself to Rama’s view:--Indra, attended by his court,

in conversation with the forest sage! The god of heaven, in clean

apparel and adorned with celestial jewels, was seated in a wondrous

car drawn by green horses up in the sky. Over him was expanded a

spotless umbrella, and two lovely damsels waved gold-handled _chowrees_

above his head. About him were bands of resplendent celestials hymning

his praises.

At Rama’s approach the god withdrew and the sage advised the prince to

seek the guidance of another ascetic named Sutikshna, adding, “This

is thy course, thou best of men. Do thou now, my child, for a space

look at me while I leave off my limbs, even as a serpent renounces

its slough.” Then kindling a sacrificial fire, and making oblations

to it with the appropriate _mantras_, Sarabhanga entered the flames

himself. The fire consumed his old decrepit body, and he was gradually

transformed, in the midst of the flames, into a splendid youth of

dazzling brightness, and, mounting upwards, ascended to the heaven of

Brahma. After Sarabhanga had left the earth in this striking manner,

bands of ascetics waited on Rama, reminded him of his duty as a king,

and solicited his protection against the Rakshasas. As Rama and his

companions wandered on through the forests another wonder soon engaged

their attention. Sweet music reached them from beneath the waters of a

charming lake covered with lotuses, and on inquiring about the strange

phenomenon, a hermit told them that a great ascetic had formed that

lake. By his fierce austerities, extending over ten thousand years,

he had acquired such a store of merit that the gods, with Agni at

their head, began to fear that he desired a position of equality with

themselves. To lure him away from such ideas they sent him five lovely

Apsaras to try the power of their charms upon him. Sage though he

was, he succumbed to their allurements, and now, weaned from his old

ambitions, he passed his time in youth and happiness--the reward of

his austerities and _yoga_ practices--in the company of the seductive

sirens whose sweet voices, blending with the tinklings of their

instruments, came softly to the ears of the wandering princes.

Sita, who had confidently followed her husband, like his very shadow,

through all these adventurous years in the forest, seems at length to

have been somewhat shaken by the very risky encounter with Viradha,

of which she had been an unwilling and terrified eye-witness, in

which her own person had been the object of contention, and which

had threatened, at one critical moment, to end very tragically for

her and her loved ones. Under the influence of these recent and

impressive experiences, Sita ventured, in her gentle, womanly way, to

suggest to her husband the advisability of avoiding all semblance of

hostility towards the Rakshasas. There were, she timidly assured her

husband, three sins to which desire gave rise: untruthfulness, the

coveting of other men’s wives, and the wish to indulge in unnecessary

hostilities. Of untruthfulness, and of allowing his thoughts to stray

towards other women, Sita unhesitatingly exonerated her lord; but

she artfully insinuated that, in his dealings with the Rakshasas, he

was giving way to the sin of provoking hostilities without adequate

cause, and she advised his laying aside his arms during his wanderings

in the forest; since the mere carrying of bows and arrows was enough

to kindle the wish to use them. To give point to this contention,

Vaidehi related how, in the olden time, there lived in the woods a

truthful ascetic whose incessant austerities Indra desired, for some

reason or other, to frustrate. For the attainment of his end the king

of heaven visited the hermit in the guise of a warrior, and left his

sword with him as a trust. Scrupulously regardful of his obligation

to his visitor, the ascetic carried the sword with him wherever duty

or necessity directed his footsteps, till constant association with

the weapon began to engender fierce sentiments, leading eventually to

the spiritual downfall of the poor ascetic, whose ultimate portion was

hell. Rama received Sita’s advice in the loving spirit in which it was

offered, and thanking her for it, explained that it was his _duty_ to

protect the saints from the oppression of the evil Rakshasas, and that

Kshatriyas carried bows in order that the word “distressed” might not

be known on this earth.

Several years of exile slipped away, not unpleasantly, in the shady

forests through which the royal brothers roamed from hermitage to

hermitage, always accompanied by the lovely and faithful Sita, whose

part throughout is one of affectionate, unfaltering and unselfish

devotion to her husband. On the banks of the Godavari, Lakshmana, who

has to do all the hard work for the party, built them a spacious hut

of clay, leaves and bamboos, propped with pillars and furnished with a

fine level floor, and there they lived happily near the rushing river.

At length the brothers got involved in a contest with a brood of giants

who roved about the woods of Dandhaka, delighting, as usual, in the

flesh of hermits and the interruption of sacred rites. This time it

was a woman who was at the bottom of their troubles. Surpanakha, an

ugly giantess and sister of Ravana, charmed with the beauty and grace

of Rama, came to him, and, madly in love, offered to be his wife. But

Rama in flattering terms put her off, saying he was already married.

In sport, apparently, he bid her try her luck with Lakshmana. She took

his advice, but Lakshmana does not seem to have been tempted by the

offer, and, while artfully addressing her as “supremely charming and

superbly beautiful lady,” advised her to become the younger wife of

Rama, to whom he referred her again. Enraged by this double rejection,

the giantess attempted to kill Sita, as the hated obstacle to the

fulfilment of her desires. The brothers, of course, interposed, and

Lakshmana, always impetuous, punished the monster by cutting off her

nose. Surpanakha fled away to her brother Khara, and roused the giant

Rakshasas to avenge her wounds. These terrible giants possessed the

power of changing their forms at will; but their numbers and their

prowess were alike of little avail against the valour and skill of

Rama, who, alone and unaided,--for he sent Lakshmana away with Sita

into an inaccessible cave,--destroyed fourteen thousand of them in a

single day. The combat, which was witnessed by the gods and Gandharvas,

Siddhas and Charanas, is described at great length, and the narrative

is copiously interspersed with the boastful speeches of the rival

chiefs. In the bewildering conflict of that day his fourteen thousand

assailants poured upon Rama showers of arrows, rocks, and trees.

Coming to close quarters they attacked him vigorously with clubs,

darts, and nooses. Although hard pressed and sorely wounded, the hero

maintained the conflict with undaunted courage, sending such thousands

of wonderful arrows from his bow that the sun was darkened and the

missiles of his enemies warded off by them. Finally Rama succeeded

in laying dead upon that awful field of carnage nearly the entire

number of his fierce assailants. Khara, the leader of the opposing

host, a worthy adversary and possessed of wondrous weapons, still

lived. Enraged at, but undaunted by, the wholesale destruction of

his followers, Khara boldly continued the fight. In his war-chariot,

bright as the sun, he seemed to be the Destroyer himself, as he

fiercely assailed the victorious Rama. With one arrow he severed the

hero’s bow in his hand; with seven other shafts like thunder-bolts

he severed his armour joints, so that the glittering mail fell from

his body. He next wounded the prince with a thousand darts. Not yet

overcome, however, Rama strung another bow, the mighty bow of Vishnu,

and discharging shafts with golden feathers, brought Khara’s standard

to the ground. Transported with wrath at this ill-omened event, Khara

poured five arrows into Rama’s bosom. The prince responded with six

terrible bolts, some of them crescent-headed. One struck the chief

in the head, two of the others entered his arms, and the remaining

three his chest. Following these up with thirteen of the same kind,

Rama destroyed his enemy’s chariot, killed his horses, decapitated his

charioteer, and shattered his bow in his grasp. Khara jumped to the

ground armed with a mace, ready to renew the conflict. At this juncture

Rama paused a moment to read the Rakshasa a homily on his evil doings;

the latter replied with fierce boasts, and hurled his mace at Rama,

who cut it into two fragments with his arrows as it sped through the

air. Khara now uprooted a lofty tree and hurled it at his foe; but, as

before, Rama cut it into pieces with his arrow ere it reached him, and

with a shaft resembling fire put a period to the life of the gallant

Rakshasa. At this conclusion of the conflict the celestials sounded

their kettle-drums, and showered down flowers upon the victorious son

of Dasahratha. Thus perished the Rakshasa army and its mighty leader:

“But of the host of giants one,

Akampan, from the field had run,

And sped to Lanka to relate

In Ravana’s ear the demon’s fate.”

--+GRIFFITH.+

This fugitive made his way to the court of Ravana, the king of the

giants, and related to him the sad fate of his followers. Close on the

heels of Akampan came Surpanakha herself, with her cruelly mutilated

face. Transported with rage at the destruction of his armies and

at sight of the disfigured countenance of his sister, the terrible

Rakshasa chief vowed vengeance on Rama and Lakshmana. But the necessity

for great caution in dealing with such valorous foes was apparent, and

Ravana did not seem over-anxious to leave his comfortable capital,

Lanka, in order to seek out the formidable brothers in the woods of

Dandhaka. But Surpanakha, scorned and mutilated, was thirsting for an

early and bitter revenge. Reproaching her brother for his unkingly

supineness, she artfully gave him a description of Sita’s beauty,

far superior to that of any goddess, which served to kindle unlawful

desires in his heart. She referred to Vaidehi’s golden complexion, her

moon-like face, her lotus eyes, her slender waist, her taper fingers,

her swelling bosom, her ample hips and lovely thighs, till the giant

was only too willing to assent to her suggestion, that the most

effectual and agreeable revenge he could take for the destruction of

his hosts, and the cruel insults to his sister, would be to carry off

the fair Sita, by stratagem, from the arms of her devoted husband, and

thus add the lovely daughter of Janaka to the number, not very small,

of the beauties who adorned his palace at Lanka. We shall presently see

that the plot was ingeniously contrived and too successfully carried

out.

How conveniently the race of Rakshasas could assume at will the forms

in which they chose to appear, we know already. Taking advantage of

this faculty of metamorphosis, a Rakshasa named Maricha, in obedience

to Ravana’s orders, showed himself near Rama’s hermitage, in the

shape of a wonderful golden deer, spotted with silver, having horns

resembling jewels, a belly like a sapphire, and sides like _madbuka_

flowers. The strange creature captivated the fancy of Sita, and she

was so eager to possess it, alive or dead, that Rama was induced to go

in pursuit of it. Suspecting mischief from this unusual appearance,

Rama left his brother with Sita, commanding him on no account to quit

her side until he returned from his pursuit of the jewelled deer. The

chase led him to a considerable distance from the hermitage. Weary of

his endeavours to secure the deer, Rama grew angry, and, with one of

his flaming arrows, pierced it in the breast. It bounded off the ground

to the height of a palm tree and, in the act of dying, began to cry,

exactly in the voice of Rama, “Ah! Sita; Ah! Lakshmana.” The words

reached the hermitage, as they were intended to do, and Sita, in an

agony of terror, implored Lakshmana to go to the aid of his brother,

who seemed to be in some dire trouble. Lakshmana, however, protested

that it was all illusion, and refused to believe that Rama could be

in any real danger; for, as he assured the trembling wife, “even the

Almighty Himself with the celestials and the three worlds cannot defeat

him” (Dutt, 609). But Vaidehi took another view of the matter, and

turning sharply upon her brother-in-law accused him roundly of desiring

the destruction of Rama in order that he might gratify an improper wish

to possess her himself. This, indeed, she said, must have been the

reason that brought him all the way from Ayodhya. What, if any, grounds

the charming lady may have had for this accusation does not appear.

They could have been known only to herself and to Lakshmana, who, with

joined hands, humbly reproached her for her cruel words, and bending

low before her went off, with a heavy heart, in search of his brother.

In a garment (probably a _saree_) of yellow silk, Sita sat alone at the

door of her thatched cottage, weeping bitterly, when Ravana presented

himself before her, in the guise of a pious medicant. Ravished by her

beauty, this pious medicant began, without ceremony, to praise the

various charms of Sita’s person with the most reprehensible license

of detail. Nor did he stop there, but telling her that she had carried

away his heart, as a stream carries away its banks, invited her to

accompany him out of the gloomy forest, tenanted by Rakshasas and wild

beasts, and quite unfit for the abode of a goddess like herself.

As her visitor was in appearance a Brahman, she dutifully attended

to him, bringing him water to wash his feet with, and food to eat,

while her eyes were straining through the forest for her absent lord.

Dreading that her Brahman guest might curse her if she did not speak

to him, Vaidehi began to relate the history of her exile, addressing

the seeming medicant in such flattering terms as “thou best of twice

born ones.” After listening to her story, Ravana revealed himself to

her, and again declaring his love, invited her to become his wife in

the great city of Lanka, where she should live in luxury, attended

by five thousand maid-servants. Sita indignantly spurned the offer,

threatening the Rakshasa with the consequences of her husband’s anger.

While indulging in boastful speeches regarding his own prowess, Ravana

assumed his natural form, with ten heads and twenty arms. As he stood

there before Vaidehi, “his eyes were bloody,” and he appeared beautiful

like unto blue clouds, being dressed in gold-hued apparel (Dutt).

Approaching the adorable Sita, the enamoured giant caught her hair with

one hand and her legs with another and carried her off, through the

air, in his golden car drawn by asses. As she was being borne away, the

fair lady cried aloud for help, invoking the sylvan deities to tell

her husband whither, and by whom, she had been carried off. Her voice

reached the virtuous Jatayus, the king of birds, who, though sixty

thousand years old, immediately interposed to rescue her. A furious

and picturesque battle ensued, in which the huge vulture-king, with

his formidable beak, talons, and wings, made a gallant stand against

Ravana, in the cause of virtue and his friend Rama, but eventually lost

his noble life in the struggle, and left his huge bones to mark, to

this day, the scene of his terrible aërial conflict with the demon.[31]

The victorious Ravana carried Sita away through the air in his arms.

Some of her ornaments fell to the ground as the two sped along in their

journey towards Lanka, and showers of blossoms, falling from her head,

were scattered around. At this sorrowful event the sun hid his face and

all nature was oppressed with grief. Not yet despairing of succour,

the brave-hearted Sita observed, as she passed along in mid-air, five

monkey-chiefs seated on the summit of a hill, and, unnoticed by Ravana,

dropped amongst them her gold-coloured sheet and some glittering

ornaments, in the hope that they might convey to Rama the intelligence

of her abduction by the giant. But Fate had more sorrow in store for

her. Over mountain peaks, over rivers, over the sea, Ravana conveyed

his prize without meeting with further opposition, and lodged her

safely in his magnificent palace in Lanka, where he treated her with

the greatest consideration, and wooed her like a youthful lover,

placing her tender feet upon his _heads_ and professing himself her

obedient slave.

[Illustration:

+THE ABDUCTION OF SITA.+

(From an illustrated Urdu version of the “Ramayana.”)]

Rama, on discovering the loss he had suffered, was in despair.

Sometimes he would indulge in excessive lamentations, wildly calling

upon the trees and streams, the deer of the forest and the birds of

the air, to tell him where his love had gone. At other times, assuming

a different tone, he would petulantly threaten to destroy “the three

worlds,” if the celestials did not restore Vaidehi to his arms. At such

moments Lakshmana would address his brother in the most abject terms of

flattery, and gently remind him of the necessity of doing his duty and

preserving his dignity.

Roaming about in search of the lost Sita, the brothers came across

Jatayus lying, in mortal agony, amidst the fragments of Ravana’s

wonderful car and his shattered umbrella. All that Rama could learn

from the dying king of the vultures was the name and rank of the

Rakshasa who had carried off his wife, and in a frenzy of grief he

rolled upon the ground, uttering vain lamentations. Presently the

brothers piously erected a funeral pile for the dead bird, and having

cremated the body, proceeded in their search for Sita, when they

encountered a horrid deformed monster, named Kabandha; thus described

by the poet:

“There stood before their wondering eyes

A fiend, broad-chested, huge of size;

A vast misshapen trunk they saw

In height surpassing nature’s law.

It stood before them dire and dread,

Without a neck, without a head,

Tall as some hill aloft in air,

Its limbs were clothed with bristling hair,

And deep below the monster’s waist

His vast misshapen mouth was placed.

His form was huge, his voice was loud

As some dark-tinted thunder-cloud.

A brilliance as of gushing flame

Beneath long lashes dark and keen

The monster’s single eye was seen.”[32]

In the battle which ensued the terrible monster had his two arms cut

off by Rama and Lakshmana respectively, and in this helpless condition

he explained that, though naturally endowed with a surpassingly

beautiful form, he used to assume this monstrous one in order to

frighten the ascetics in the forests; but one of these saints, in a

moment of anger, invoked this curse upon him, that he should retain

the disgusting form he had adopted, at least till, in course of time,

Rama should in person deliver him from its repulsive deformity. The

brothers placed the giant’s bulky body on a funeral pyre, and from

the ashes arose a beautiful being, clad in celestial raiment, at

whose suggestion Rama sought the friendship and aid of Sugriva, King

of the Vanaras, by whose assistance he hoped to find out to what

particular spot his beloved wife had been conveyed by Ravana. Rama,

in due course, found Sugriva and made the acquaintance of his chief

councillor the famous Hanuman, a son of the god of the winds. When Rama

met Sugriva, the latter was, like himself, an exile from his native

land, having been expelled from it by his elder brother, King Bali,

who had also taken unto himself Ruma, Sugriva’s wife. The deposed

monarch was wandering, with a few faithful monkey companions, in the

forest, and it was amongst them, resting together on a mountain peak,

that Sita had dropped her yellow robe and golden ornaments. A sort of

offensive and defensive alliance was formed between the two banished

princes, who were, moreover, drawn towards one another by the fact

that each had been forcibly deprived of his consort. Rama was to help

Sugriva to overthrow Bali, secure the Vanar sceptre and recover his

wife Ruma; while Sugriva, on his part, was to assist Rama to discover

Sita’s whereabouts and to destroy her abductor. So great was the dread

Sugriva entertained of the prowess of his warlike brother Bali, that,

before committing himself to this alliance with Rama, he desired that

prince to give him some practical illustration of what he could do as

a wielder of warlike weapons; whereupon Rama shot from his mighty bow

a wondrous arrow, which, after passing through the stems of seven palm

trees, traversed a hill which stood behind them, then flew through six

subterranean realms and finally returned to the hands of the bowman.

Before this feat all Sugriva’s doubts vanished and he was ready for

action.

At Rama’s suggestion he proceeded to the great Vanar city Kishkindha,

and, in a voice of thunder, dared Bali to single combat. The impetuous

and passionate King of the Vanars accepted the challenge at once,

and an exceedingly fierce encounter took place between the brothers

outside the walls of the city. At length Sugriva seemed to be failing,

when Rama, who was standing by in ambush, pierced Bali in the breast

with one of those fatal arrows of his. As might have been expected,

Bali, with the life-blood welling from his wounds, reproached Rama

bitterly for his base, unfair, and cowardly interposition in the battle

between himself and Sugriva; but Rama justified his action by saying

that he was lord paramount of the whole country, that Kishkindha came

within the realm of Dasahratha, and that Bali had justly forfeited

his life by his misconduct in appropriating his brother’s wife. Rama

further remarked, contemptuously, that the lives of mere Vanars or

monkeys, as of other animals, were of little account in the eyes of

men; a remark which seems strange, indeed, when we reflect that Bali

was the king of a magnificent city decorated with gold, silver and

ivory, and that Bali’s brother was Rama’s much desired ally.[33]

As Bali lay prostrate on the ground his disconsolate queen, Tara,

hastened to the fatal spot, with her little son Angad, and, in a

passion of grief, threw herself upon the body of her husband. She gave

way to the most touching sorrow and lamentation over the dying warrior

and seemed inconsolable, both then and later on when performing the

last rites for the deceased king. Had we seen no more of Tara she

would have lived as a tender and pleasant memory in our minds; but,

unfortunately, she reappears a very short time after as Sugriva’s much

loved and ardent consort, and actually appears grateful to Rama for the

benefit his deed had conferred upon the new king and herself.

By the time Sugriva was formerly installed in the government of

Kishkindha, the rainy season came round,--a time of the year when, in

a roadless country, all military or other movements were impossible.

Rama, faithful to the conditions of his exile, would not enter the

city, and easily contented himself with a life in the woodland, which,

with its glittering fountains and laughing streams, its stately trees,

sweet-throated birds and odorous flowers, he was never tired of

admiring.

In return for the service rendered him by Rama, his ally Sugriva, now

King of the Vanars, assembled countless numbers (hundreds of hundreds

of millions!) of Vanars (monkeys and bears of different colours--white,

yellow and green) and sent them forth to search for Sita. North, south,

east and west, these Vanars traversed every land and searched every

possible retreat. From north, east and west, were received reports

of want of success; but from the south came welcome tidings of the

discovery of Sita by Hanuman, one of the chief captains of the Vanar

host, a son of the wind-god by a nymph of paradise. The discovery of

Sita’s place of captivity was made in this way. In their active search

for traces of her whereabouts, some captains of the Vanar army of the

south came across Sampati, the huge brother of Jatayus, the king of the

vultures, lying upon the top of a high mountain. Bulky and powerful,

the bird was yet quite disabled and helpless, having had his wings

scorched and destroyed in a too adventurous flight towards the sun,

which he had once undertaken in a spirit of vanity and boastfulness.

But even in this unhappy state, dependent for his daily food upon the

filial devotion of his son, the old bird could, with his penetrating

eye, see clearly to enormous distances. He had witnessed Ravana’s

hurried flight through the air, with his beautiful prize, and had noted

also that she had been conveyed by the Rakshasa to Lanka beyond the

sea. This information he now communicated to the inquiring Vanars, and

having thereby performed a signal service to the son of Dasahratha,

his feathers sprouted again and he joyfully mounted once more into his

native element on new and lusty pinions.

Sita’s place of captivity was thus known to the Vanar; but how to

reach Lanka--separated as it was from the mainland by an arm of the

sea--became the urgent problem of the hour to the Vanar commanders

of the army of the south. If Sita was to be restored to the arms of

Rama, it was absolutely necessary that some one should get to Lanka as

a spy, in order to ascertain the facts in regard to Sita’s captivity

there, and to discover the strength of Ravana’s army and his means of

resisting an attack from without. Ships or even boats were, in those

primitive times, not to be thought of; but the monkey could _leap_,

and so it was proposed that some leader of the race should essay the

rather long jump across the strait which separated Lanka from the

continent. Who was so fitted for this undertaking as the son of the

wind-god, the redoubtable Hanuman? Accordingly, after a great deal of

boasting, Hanuman, assuming a gigantic size, took the flying leap. The

gods were well disposed towards his brave venture, but there were also

enemies on the path, who endeavoured to stop him on his way. One of

these was Surasa, the mother of the Nagas, who, rushing upon him with

wide-extended jaws, mockingly told him that he must pass through her

mouth before proceeding any further on his journey. Hanuman dilated

his person till his stature attained many leagues, but the monster’s

mouth grew larger still. The cunning monkey now suddenly contracted

his dimensions to the size of a man’s thumb and jumped airily into and

out of Surasa’s gaping mouth. He had fulfilled his enemy’s conditions

and she good-naturedly acknowledged her defeat. His next opponent, a

terrific she-dragon, the fierce Sinhika, marvellously caught his shadow

as it glided over the sea, and in some mysterious way retarded his

progress thereby. With open mouth she made a furious onslaught upon the

wind-god’s son. Hanuman, equal to the occasion, craftily contracted his

dimensions, and jumping into Sinhika’s cavern-like mouth, inflicted

so much injury upon her that she died. After this interruption he

continued his aërial journey to Lanka, probably making Sinhika’s

carcass the base of a fresh leap towards the island, though this is not

expressly mentioned by the poet.

When he had reached the island-kingdom of Ravana, the Vanar spy,

contracting his dimensions to those of an ordinary cat, found his

way by moonlight within the golden walls of the city, and, lost in

admiration, wandered about the wonderful streets of Ravana’s capital,

where tonsured priests and mail-clad warriors mingled freely with bands

of ascetics in deerskins, and fiends both foul and fair. Eluding the

guards, Hanuman crept into the palace. Here everything was on a scale

to astonish even the wind-god’s son, familiar with the glories of

Kishkindha; but most of all did he find food for admiration in Ravana’s

enchanted car, avowedly the most perfect work that had been produced by

Visvakarma, the architect of the gods.

“There shone with gems that flashed afar,

The marvel of the Flower-named car,

’Mid wondrous dwellings still confessed

Supreme and nobler than the rest.

Thereon with wondrous art designed

Were _turkis_ birds of varied kind,

And many a sculptured serpent rolled

His twisted coil in burnished gold.

And steeds were there of noblest form,

With flying feet as fleet as storm;

And elephants with deftest skill

Stood sculptured by a silver rill,

Each bearing on his trunk a wreath

Of lilies from the flood beneath.

There Lakshmi, beauty’s heavenly queen,

Wrought by the artist’s skill was seen

Beside a flower-clad pool to stand,

Holding a lotus in her hand.”[34]

--+GRIFFITH+ (bk. v., canto vii.).

The zenana or women’s apartment, guarded by she-demons,[35] which

Hanuman next entered in the still hours of the night, when the feast

was over, the music had ceased and all the inmates were hushed in

slumber, affords the poet the opportunity of painting a charming

picture, which the reader will, I am sure, thank me for reproducing

here in Mr. Griffith’s agreeable version:

“He stood within a spacious hall

With fretted roof and painted wall,

The giant Ravan’s boast and pride,

Loved even as a lovely bride.

’Twere long to tell each marvel there,

The crystal floor, the jewelled stair,

The gold, the silver, and the shine

Of crysolite and almandine.

There breathed the fairest blooms of spring;

There flashed the proud swan’s silver wing,

The splendour of whose feathers broke

Through fragrant wreaths of aloe smoke.

‘’Tis Indra’s heaven,’ the Vanar cried,

Gazing in joy from side to side;

‘The home of all the gods is this,

The mansion of eternal bliss!’

There were the softest carpets spread,

Delightful to the sight and tread,

Where many a lovely woman lay

O’ercome by sleep, fatigued with play.

The wine no longer cheered the feast,

The sound of revelry had ceased.

The tinkling feet no longer stirred,

No chiming of a zone was heard.

So, when each bird has sought her nest,

And swans are mute and wild bees rest,

Sleep the fair lilies on the lake

Till the sun’s kiss shall bid them wake.

Like the calm field of winter’s sky

Which stars unnumbered glorify,

So shone and glowed the sumptuous room

With living stars that chased the gloom.

‘These are the stars,’ the chieftain cried,

‘In autumn nights that earthward glide,

In brighter forms to reappear

And shine in matchless lustre here.’

With wondering eyes awhile he viewed

Each graceful form and attitude.

One lady’s head was backward thrown,

Bare was her arm and loose her zone.

The garland that her brow had graced

Hung closely round another’s waist.

Here gleamed two little feet all bare

Of anklets that had sparkled there.

Here lay a queenly dame at rest

In all her glorious garments dressed.

There slept another whose small hand

Had loosened every tie and band.

In careless grace another lay,

With gems and jewels cast away,

Like a young creeper when the tread

Of the wild elephant had spread

Confusion and destruction round,

And cast it flowerless to the ground.

Here lay a slumberer still as death,

Save only that her balmy breath

Raised ever and anon the lace

That floated o’er her sleeping face.

There, sunk in sleep, an amorous maid

Her sweet head on a mirror laid,

Like a fair lily bending till

Her petals rest upon the rill.

Another black-eyed damsel pressed

Her lute upon her heaving breast,

As though her loving arms were twined

Round him for whom her bosom pined.

Another pretty sleeper round

A silver vase her arms had wound,

That seemed, so fresh and fair and young,

A wreath of flowers that o’er it hung.

In sweet disorder lay a throng

Weary of dance and play and song,

Where heedless girls had sunk to rest,

One pillowed on another’s breast,

Her tender cheek half seen beneath

Red roses of the falling wreath,

The while her long soft hair concealed

The beauties that her friend revealed.

With limbs at random interlaced

Round arm and leg and throat and waist,

That wreath of women lay asleep

Like blossoms in a careless heap.”[36]

--+GRIFFITH+ (bk. v., canto ix.).

Still in eager quest of Sita the Vanar roamed stealthily from place to

place within the spacious bounds of the royal palace, and, as day was

breaking, entered the enchanting ashoka grove, a sort of ideal retreat

in fairyland. Here Rama’s messenger discovered the weeping, but still

peerless, captive, guarded by fierce she-demons of monstrous shapes--a

weird, frightful troupe--some earless, some with ears hanging down to

their feet, some one-eyed, some long-necked and covered with hair, some

huge, some dwarfish, some with faces of buffaloes, others with the

heads of dogs and swine. Perched upon a bough, and concealed by its

foliage, Hanuman watched his opportunity to open communication with

the object of his search. Presently Ravana, in great state, heralded

by music and attended by a crowd of ravishing beauties, with tinkling

zones, entered the grove. Sita, in utter despair, fell upon the ground

“Like Hope when all her dreams are o’er.”

Approaching her kindly, the King of Lanka, who was passionately

enamoured of her beauty, endeavoured to reassure her, and wooed her

softly with all the arts of flattery, with offers of boundless wealth,

and with protestations of deep affection.

“Methinks when thy sweet form was made

His hand the wise Creator stayed;

For never more could he design

A beauty meet to rival thine.

Come let us love while yet we may,

For youth will fly and charms decay.”

--+GRIFFITH.+

Sita, ever faithful to her lord, treated his suit with scorn; whereupon

the demon king, waxing wrath, threatened to have her killed and served

up at his table if she persisted in rejecting his advances. Turning

to leave the palace in high dudgeon, he directed the demon guards to

bend the fair captive to his will by threats and blandishments of every

kind. Their persuasions being unsuccessful, these horrid monsters

assailed the unfortunate princess with threatening weapons; but even in

this critical moment the pure, chaste wife of Rama preferred death to

dishonour.[37]

Amidst the persecutions of the luckless Sita an old Rakshasa matron,

named Trajata, raised a warning voice; for she had dreamed a dream

which foreboded the destruction of Lanka by Rama, and she counselled

the demons to deal kindly by Sita, if they hoped for mercy from the

conquerors.

It seems necessary to explain now that it was not a sense of honour

or a feeling of chivalry that had restrained the unscrupulous King of

Lanka from the gratification of his passion. It was fear only that kept

him back; for, as he confidentially explained to his assembled lords,

having once, under the influence of ungovernable desire, dishonoured

one of the nymphs of Indra’s heaven, fair Punjikashthala, Brahma had

decreed that if Ravana committed the same offence again his head should

be rent in pieces. Of course this fact and the protection thus enjoyed

by Sita, through dread of Brahma’s decree, were quite unknown to Rama,

whose knowledge was merely human.

At length the Vanar found the long wished-for opportunity of

communicating with Sita and of consoling her with the hope of an

early rescue. He even offered to carry her off, there and then,

on his shoulders, but her modesty shrank from the mere thought of

voluntarily touching the body of any male person beside Rama. The

monkey-god then set about committing as much destruction as he could

in the city of Lanka, which, built by Visvakarma, the architect of the

gods, is described as surpassingly beautiful and encircled by a golden

wall. After a succession of fierce and successful battles with the

giants--thousands at the time with their most famous captains--Hanuman,

covered from head to foot with wounds, was _noosed_ by means of a magic

shaft from the bow of Ravana’s son, Indrajit, overpowered and taken

prisoner. Exceedingly incensed, Ravana ordered the destructive and

formidable Vanar to be put to death at once. One of his counsellors,

however, suggesting that Hanuman might be regarded in the light of an

envoy from Rama, it was decided to spare his life, but, at the same

time, to treat him with the greatest indignity before releasing him. In

pursuance of this determination his tail was wrapped round with cloth

dipped in oil, which was then set on fire; but at the prayer of Sita,

who came to know what was going on in the city, the flames abstained

from harming her friend. By contracting his dimensions, Hanuman easily

freed himself from his bonds, and now, by means of his blazing tail,

carried fire and destruction through the beautiful city; after which he

once more performed his perilous journey through the air, back to the

mainland of India, bearing tidings of his doings to his master and Rama.

When the place of Sita’s captivity became known, the Vanar armies were

rapidly advanced southward, and encamped on the border of the strait

which separates Lanka from the mainland of India. Here they were

joined by Vibhishana, Ravana’s brother, who, with four attendants, had

fled through the air from Lanka, in dread of the consequences of the

offence he had given his king, by counselling conciliatory proceedings

towards Rama, of whose formidable prowess he seems to have formed a

just estimate.

Vibhishana, on account of his local knowledge and great wisdom, was of

much service to the Vanar host.

The sea, although it could be crossed by the Rakshasas and by the

wind-god’s son, Hanuman, was a serious impediment to Rama and his Vanar

allies. Standing on the margin of the trackless ocean which barred his

march, the chief vented his impatience in a shower of his wonderful

arrows, which he angrily shot into the wide bosom of the deep. His

attack stirred the waters to their very depths and terrified its

strange denizens out of their wits. As the hero laid against his bow

a more formidable arrow than the rest (a fiery dart of mystic power),

by means of which he threatened to dry up the waters of the sea and

pass his legions over on dry land, all Nature was horrified, darkness

fell upon land and sea, bright meteors flashed across the murky sky,

red lightning struck the trembling earth, and the firm mountains

began to break and crumble away. At this critical moment of universal

terror the grand form of the king of the ocean, attended by glittering

sea-serpents, rose majestically above the seething billows of his

watery realm.[38] Addressing Rama with great reverence, the ocean-king

protested that it was impossible to make a dry pathway through the sea.

“Air, ether, fire, earth, water, true

To Nature’s will, their course pursue;

And I, as ancient laws ordain,

Unfordable must still remain.”

--+GRIFFITH.+

But he advised that Nala, a Vanar chief, who was the son of the

architect of the gods (Visvakarma) should be requested to bridge the

strait that intervened between Rama and the object of his expedition.

Nala undertook the work, and, under his direction, the bridge was

successfully completed. The construction of the bridge was not opposed,

nor the passage disputed, so the countless hosts[39] of Vanars passed

over to the island, with Rama mounted on Hanuman’s back, Lakshmana on

Angad’s back, and camped[40] near Ravana’s capital. Even at this stage

of events Ravana, still under the spell of his passion for the lovely

Sita, resorted to a stratagem to obtain her consent to his wishes.

He got a magician of his court to prepare a head exactly resembling

Rama’s, and also a bow and arrows such as the hero usually carried, and

had them brought into Sita’s presence, with the tale that her lord had

been killed while asleep in his camp. Sita, completely deceived by the

wizard’s art, was lamenting her bitter loss, when a messenger hurriedly

summoned Ravana away to see to the defence of his capital, and a female

attendant took advantage of the moment to relieve the fair captive’s

mind, by explaining the deception that had been practised upon her.

The attack that shortly followed and the defence made by the giants

are described by Valmiki in considerable detail, and with much

monotonous repetition. The Vanars had, for arms, uprooted trees,

rocks, and mountain peaks; while the Rakshasas fought with bows and

arrows, swords and spears. Many single combats are described. Indrajit,

the redoubtable son of Ravana, in a desperate encounter, concealed

himself in a magic mist. Under this protection he fired some wondrous

serpent-arrows at Rama and Lakshmana, which bound the royal brothers

in a noose. He then, with a storm of missiles, laid them prostrate and

apparently dying. But it was not thus that the contest was to end. From

their helpless condition Rama and Lakshmana were freed by Garuda, who,

as the king of birds, possessed a special power over the serpent-arrows.

On another occasion Rama with his brother Lakshmana, both sorely

wounded, and ever so many of their Vanar allies, were restored to

life and vigour, by the scent of some healing herbs brought by the

swift-footed Hanuman from the distant Himalayas. In the combats around

the walls of Lanka, as in other contests narrated in the “Ramayana,”

the poet describes the power of the various archers to interrupt

_with their arrows_ the shafts of their adversaries, or even the most

ponderous missiles hurled at them, such as trees and rocks.

With varying success the fierce contest raged round the walls of Lanka,

when at length the giants, sorely pressed, called upon Kumbhakarna to

assist them. This dreadful monster was Ravana’s brother and a terror to

men and gods. At his birth, or shortly after it, he devoured a thousand

men. Indra interposed to save the human race from his ravages, but

only to be himself discomfited and driven to seek the protection of

Brahma, who decreed that Kumbhakarna should sleep for six months at a

time, and then only wake for a single day. The mere appearance of the

monstrous giant caused a panic in the Vanar army. Multitudes perished

under Kumbhakarna’s arm and were devoured by him; but such was his

voracity that he captured and flung thousands of living Vanars into his

mouth, out of which some fortunate ones managed to escape, through his

nostrils and ears. But formidable as he was, Kumbhakarna at length fell

by a crescent-headed arrow from Rama’s bow.

“Through skin and flesh and bone it smote,

And rent asunder head and throat.

Down, with the sound of thunder, rolled

The head adorned with rings of gold,

And crushed to pieces in its fall

A gate, a tower, a massive wall.

Hurled to the sea the body fell,

Terrific was the ocean’s swell,

Nor could swift fin and nimble leap

Save the crushed creatures of the deep.”

--+GRIFFITH+ (bk. vi., canto lxvii.).

One memorable episode in this siege of Lanka was a night attack,

planned and successfully carried out by Sugriva. Overpowering the

guards, the Vanars entered the city, and, amidst the most terrible

carnage, gave beautiful and stately Lanka over to the flames:

“As earth with fervent head will glow

When comes her final overthrow;

From gate to gate, from court to spire,

Proud Lanka was one blaze of fire,

And every headland, rock and bay

Shone bright a hundred leagues away!”

--+GRIFFITH.+

Succeeding this night attack came the final struggle. Ravana sallied

forth from Lanka with a marvellous array of chariots,[41] elephants,

horses, and men. He himself was the most formidable adversary yet

encountered by Rama, having in his time subjugated the Nagas, defeated

the gods of heaven, and even successfully invaded the land of departed

spirits, ruled over by the dreaded Yama. During the battle that ensued,

Indra, anxious, no doubt, to pay off old scores, sent his own chariot

to Rama, who, mounted on it, encountered Ravana in single combat, and

after a long contest killed his adversary with an arrow which had been

made by Brahma himself. As the giant fell, celestial music filled the

air, perfumed breezes wandered pleasantly over the field, and heavenly

blossoms were rained down upon the conquering hero, the champion of the

gods.

With the death of Ravana the war was at an end, and Vibhishana was

installed king in his place. Sita, so long and so ardently sought,

was now brought forth in state from Lanka, borne in a screened litter

on the shoulders of sturdy Rakshasas, to meet her victorious lord.

The inquisitive Vanars pressed round to see Vaidehi, on whose account

they had so often risked their lives; but the attendants rudely drove

them back. Rama, however, interposing, commanded that the lady should

descend from the litter and proceed on foot, unveiled, so that his

Vanar friends might have a good look at her; for, as he said:

“At holy rites, in war and woe

Her face unveiled a dame may show;

When at the maiden’s choice they meet,

When marriage troops parade the street.

And she, my queen, who long has lain

In prison, racked with care and pain,

May cease awhile her face to hide,

For is not Rama by her side?”

The meeting between Rama and his long-lost queen is a highly dramatic

and unexpected scene. Instead of Rama folding his darling in his arms,

as one might have expected he would have done, after all his piteous

laments about her loss and his often expressed desire to possess

his peerless wife once more, we find him coldly repulsing her, on

the ground of her long captivity in Ravana’s power. More than that,

he cruelly tells her that it was not love for her, but a desire to

vindicate his outraged honour, that had brought him to Lanka. Quite

unprepared for this undeserved and heartless reception, poor Vaidehi

asks her husband most touchingly if the past is all forgotten, if her

love and unfaltering devotion have quite faded from his memory? And,

waxing sadly indignant, she requests Lakshmana, in a voice broken with

sobs, to prepare a funeral pile for her, the only refuge she had left

to her in her dark despair. With Rama’s tacit consent the pyre was

erected and ignited. Boldly did the virtuous queen enter the flames,

and as she fell overpowered by them a cry of grief rose from the

bystanders. At this important moment a band of celestial beings, headed

by Brahma himself, appeared before the assembled multitude and revealed

to Rama his true nature, that he was Vishnu and no mortal man, while

the god of fire raised Sita out of the flames, and, publicly attesting

her purity, restored her to Rama, who now joyfully received her back

to his heart and home. Before the gods departed to their celestial

abodes, Indra, at Rama’s considerate request, restored to life all the

Vanars who had fallen in his cause. Thus was the great war brought to a

conclusion.

Rama now proceeded to Ayodhya, carried aloft through the clouds, over

sea and land, in the famous magic car _Pushpak_, already referred to.

With the returning hero went Sita and Lakshmana, the Vanar chiefs and

Vibhishana too. After a meeting with his brother Bharata, who came

forth with joy to welcome him back, Rama assumed the government of

Dasahratha’s kingdom, and reigned over it for ten thousand years.[42]

But his life and Sita’s had still more trouble in them. The people of

Ayodhya mocked at Rama for taking back his wife, after she had been

so long in the giant’s power. They even attributed a famine which

desolated the land to the anger of the gods on account of Rama’s

conduct. About to become a mother, Sita expressed a great desire to

visit the forest hermitages of the saints. Her husband accorded his

consent to her wishes, and directed Lakshmana to conduct her thither.

Unable to endure the jibes of his people, Rama resolved to abandon his

innocent, unsuspecting wife, alone and unprotected, in the immense

forests of Dandhaka, near the sources of the Godavari. The bitter duty

was intrusted to Lakshmana, who, ever obedient, carried it out to the

letter. Alas! poor Vaidehi, such was the reward of her pure, unselfish

love and devotion through many trying years of hardship and sorrow!

Cast adrift, alone in the pathless wilderness, Sita was found by the

saint Valmiki himself, and tenderly entertained by the holy women of

the hermitage. Shortly after this she gave birth to twin sons, who

were named Kusa and Lava. In his forest-home, Valmiki, under divine

inspiration, composed the “Ramayana,” and taught the sons of Sita

to recite the immortal epic. On the occasion of a grand ceremony at

Ayodhya, Kusa and Lava had the honour of reciting the great poem in

the presence of their father, who, after inquiry, acknowledged them as

his sons, and invited Sita to come forward and assert her innocence

publicly.

[Illustration:

[_To face p. 70._]

HANUMAN AND THE VANARS REJOICING AT THE RESTORATION OF SITA.

(Reduced from Moor’s “Hindu Pantheon.”)]

“But Sita’s heart was too full, this second ordeal was beyond even her

power to submit to, and the poet rose above the ordinary Hindu level

of women when he ventured to paint her conscious purity as rebelling.

Beholding all the spectators, and clothed in red garments, Sita,

clasping her hands, and bending low her face, spoke thus in a voice

choked with tears: ‘As I, even in mind, have never thought of any

other person than Rama, so may Madhavi, the goddess of earth, grant

me a hiding-place.’ As Sita made the oath, lo! a marvel appeared.

Suddenly cleaving the earth, a divine throne of marvellous beauty rose

up, borne by resplendent dragons on their heads, and seated on it the

goddess of earth, raising Sita with her arm, said to her, ‘Welcome to

thee,’ and placed her by her side. And as the queen, seated on the

throne, slowly descended to Hades, a continuous shower of flowers fell

down from Heaven on her head.”[43]

Thus in sadness, and with the sting of injustice rankling in her heart,

does the gentle Sita disappear for ever.

In bidding farewell to Vaidehi we would notice that throughout this

epic all the female characters are much more human than those of the

opposite sex, and, in their genuine womanhood, they naturally interest

us in a far greater degree than the heroes of the story, be they lofty

demigods, cruel Rakshasas, volatile Vanars, or Rishis endowed with

superhuman powers.

We have yet to trace the further fortunes of the sons of Dasahratha.

When Rama had reigned for a long period at Ayodhya, Time, as an

ascetic, sought an interview with him, at which no one might intrude on

pain of certain death. As messenger from Brahma, Time explained to Rama

his real nature and position, leaving it to him to continue longer on

earth or to return to heaven. During the interview an impatient Rishi

desired immediate audience of Rama. Lakshmana, who knew the penalty

of intruding upon him at this moment, raised some difficulties; but

the irate saint threatened to launch a curse against Rama and all his

kinsfolk if he were not admitted to his presence forthwith. Lakshmana,

dreading, for Rama’s sake, the Rishi’s curse, interrupted his interview

with Time and thereby incurred the penalty of death. Lakshmana

accordingly went to the river Surayu and was thence conveyed bodily to

heaven. Rama, accompanied by his brothers Bharata and Satrughna, and

attended by the goddess of earth, also by _all his weapons in human

shapes, the Vedas in the form of Brahmans_, and his women and servants,

proceeded to the Surayu and entered its waters. As he did so the voice

of Brahma was heard from the sky, saying: “Approach, Vishnu, Raghav,

thou hast happily arrived with thy godlike brothers. Enter thine own

body as Vishnu or the eternal ether.” He and his followers were then

all of them translated to heaven.[44]

Such is the famous story of Rama and Sita. Ordinary men and women

are of little account and scarcely figure at all amongst the poet’s

creations. Nearly everything in the “Ramayana” is superhuman. The dire

conflicts which occupy so large a part of the epic are waged between

demigods and fiends, or giants. The weapons employed are celestial, or

perhaps only charmed. Mystic spells are of the greatest efficacy, and

the results are proportionally great.

In the war that raged around the walls of Ilium the gods did,

certainly, interfere in the combats, and sometimes unfairly too;

they even attacked each other occasionally; but, notwithstanding the

supernatural element, the Trojan war was still a war of men and heroes.

Not so that which ensanguined the hills and plains of Lanka.

The India of the “Ramayana” was covered with forests, and it is

noteworthy that Rama’s progress is traced rather from forest to forest

than from city to city, which last were very few and far between.

The hero of the tale is a very different one from those who figure

in the Homeric poems. As a son he is most dutiful, pushing the idea

of filial respect and obedience to the extreme, bearing no enmity

even towards his designing stepmother. As a layman he is religious

and unfeignedly respectful to Brahmans and saints. As a prince he

is patriotic and benign; as a warrior, skilful and fearless in the

fight. As an elder brother, however, he is often somewhat exacting and

inconsiderate, and as a husband his behaviour is, to say the least,

disappointing. On the whole the prominent characteristic of this hero,

limned by Brahman artists, is a spirit of mild self-sacrifice, as

distinguished from bold self-assertion.

The reader who has glanced through even the brief epitome of Valmiki’s

poem now presented will not have omitted to note the wealth of

imagination displayed by the author or authors, nor will he have failed

to be charmed by many a beautiful picture and many an interesting

situation.

CHAPTER III

THE RAM LILA OR PLAY OF RAMA

Let us now see how the stirring events of this Indian epic are brought

dramatically before nineteenth century spectators.

Days before the time fixed for the Dasahra festival, men, done up like

monkeys and attended by drummers, may be seen in the bazaars collecting

money for the fair, at which the more striking leading incidents of

the epic are annually performed, part by part, in a rude pantomimic

fashion. Sometimes the opening scene is a great marriage procession.

One such, on an unusually large scale, was got up in Lahore in 1884,

at the expense of certain rich bankers. This motley and gigantic

procession was made up of very heterogeneous elements. Several camels

led the way; some bulky elephants put in an appearance, and a great

number of mounted men, on good cavalry horses, gave dignity to the

procession. Three or four well-filled carriages, gaily decorated with

tinsel, flowers and coloured cloths, had the honour of accommodating

the friends of Rama. A few huge litters, each borne aloft on the

shoulders of sixteen or twenty bearers, were conspicuous objects in the

throng. On some of these sat men personating the gods and goddesses of

India in all their grotesqueness; on others squatted favourite female

singers with their attendant minstrels, who delighted the audience with

their grace and vocal performances. Imitation artillery armed with

explosive bombs, dancers, mountebanks, musicians, and an innumerable

crowd of ordinary citizens on foot, raised noise and dust enough to

gratify the most pleasure-seeking Indian mob. The hero, Rama, and his

inseparable brother, were dragged along on wooden horses, placed on

a wheeled platform. There they sat, side by side, holding tiny bows

and arrows in their hands, in a most ridiculous way, while the less

important mythological personages, divine or other, came along in

carriages or litters. There was a painful want of organization about

the procession, and the usual mixture of the sumptuous and tawdry, the

rich and squalid, to which one is accustomed in India.

A feature of the Dasahra festival is the number of men, disfigured

with paint and ashes, who go about with iron skewers or pieces of cane

passed through the skin of their arms, legs, sides, and throat, or even

through the tongue. I once called up a party of these men and examined

them. In answer to my remark, thrown out as a feeler, that the skewers

had been passed through old perforations, the leader of the party

indignantly pulled a young man before me, pinched up a good bit of the

skin of his forearm, and there and then passed a blunt iron needle

through it, which could not have been much thinner than an ordinary

lead pencil. No blood flowed, and certainly the man operated upon did

not wince in the slightest degree. After this the leader of the party,

having satisfied me that the skin of his own neck below the chin was

perfectly sound, passed a skewer through it with his own hand. In

both cases a tolerable amount of force was necessary to pass the iron

through the skin, but no blood flowed. These men, who are looked upon

with a sort of awe by the vulgar, assured me that they were protected

from pain or injury by a secret _mantra_ of Guru Gorucknath’s known

only to themselves. They have probably learned, by the experience of

many generations, safe places for the insertion of their skewers; but

I was told by a native medical man that serious consequences sometimes

follow their senseless ill-treatment of their own persons. The present

of a rupee sent these absurd fellows away apparently well satisfied.

[Illustration:

[_To face p. 76._]

MEN WITH KNIVES AND SKEWERS PASSED THROUGH THEIR FLESH.

(From a photograph by W. C. Oman.)]

Near the temple of Vishnu, by Rattan Singh’s Serai, arrangements had

been made for a dramatic representation of Rama’s famous history.

When I first came upon the spot there were five or six hundred

people assembled. The women and children, arrayed in their holiday

best, crowded the roofs of the surrounding buildings to witness the

performance and, with the gay red and yellow of their dresses and their

tinkling anklets, gave colour and animation to the scene. Men and boys

were below. Three merry-go-rounds of the kind patronized by the people,

were in full operation, creaking hideously.

Of the Ram Lila itself the only signs were two wooden horses, like

those to be seen in European nurseries, only nearly life-size,

standing, side by side, on a single wooden platform placed on wheels:

They were painted white, with gaudy patches of red all over them. A few

boys with monkey-masks on, capered about with switches in their hands.

The crowd gradually increased, and the arrival of the performers was

eagerly expected. But even yet some money-making bunniahs, surrounded

by their pots and pans, their jars and other vessels, were busily

plying their trade in oil, right in the midst of the assembling crowd;

while on one side several women kept diligently separating the chaff

from the wheat and sending clouds of dust amongst the spectators. At

length a great shout announced the arrival of Rama and Lakshmana,

who were carried in a gaudy litter on the shoulders of a number

of men. This was the signal for the commencement of business. The

crowd began to settle down. The central space was cleared. Rama and

Lakshmana walked bare-footed round the arena, showing themselves to the

spectators. They were attired in yellow garments adorned with tinsel,

and had on their heads high and much decorated hats, which, I happened

to learn subsequently, cost just _three rupees_ each. Garlands of

flowers encircled their necks, and their hats were literally covered

with floral wreaths. Their faces were thickly painted with what looked

like yellow tumeric, daubed over with some red powder, these pigments

being, no doubt, considered most suitable for imparting beauty to

an Indian complexion. The brothers carried small bows, like those

usually placed in the hands of Cupids, and were attended by a man who

vigorously waved a _chowree_ over their heads. After this preliminary

exhibition, during which several masked figures began to appear on the

scene, a white-headed Brahman, book in hand (it was the Hindi version

of Tulsi Das[45]) began to instruct the performers in their several

parts. Seated all together--demigods, monkeys, and Brahman--in the open

space, before all the spectators, they learned the first act of the

day’s performance. In deference to their position, and probably also

out of consideration for their fine clothes, Rama and his brother were

made to sit on a white sheet, whilst the others squatted comfortably

in the dust. When the actors had received their instructions, they

proceeded to carry them out in a style which rendered it very

difficult to comprehend what they actually meant to represent; but the

Hindu spectators, familiar with the old tale and its usual dramatic

rendering, seemed to recognize at least the leading events which it

was intended to bring before them. At the conclusion of the act, or

scene, Rama and his brother, with the rest, came together again to

receive their instructions from the old Brahman stage-manager, and,

when duly instructed, again dispersed to perform their several parts

in a more or less imperfect manner. One portion of the performance

consisted in dragging the brothers round the arena on their wooden

horses. The acting or pantomime was very rude, and the whole seemed

childish in the extreme. But the old story, thus brought before them,

was evidently as much appreciated by the spectators as it had been by

their ancestors for fifty generations. And rude and childish though

the performance might be, it was probably not more so than the Miracle

Plays which delighted our forefathers in the Middle Ages.

The dramatic representation extended over several days, the most

popular scenes being the amputation of Surpanakha’s nose and the

abduction of Sita. The former, a mere rough and tumble performance,

without anything striking or dramatic about it, was greeted with

uproarious mirth by the spectators, and may, possibly, be the original

suggestion and sanction of much of the female nose-cutting so commonly

practised in India by jealous husbands. In the other scene Ravana

appeared as a hermit. The supernatural doe was dragged about the

arena. Rama and his brother were, of course, lured into pursuit of the

deceiver and Sita, left alone, was carried off by Ravana. Jatayus, the

vulture king,--represented by a huge paper bird carried about by a man

hither and thither in a wild sort of way,--rushed to the rescue of

the fair dame; but after a brief, though fierce, struggle was hacked

to pieces by the demon. After this lamentable encounter, Sita, to the

great grief of the onlookers, was carried away to Lanka.

The downfall of Lanka and final triumph of Rama are scenes of too

great importance to be dealt with like the rest. For these, special

preparations and as large a theatre as possible--some wide open plain

for example--are requisite, as thousands gather to see Lanka and the

demons given over to the flames.

I select for description a favourable instance of the siege and

destruction of Lanka which I witnessed at the military station of Meean

Meer a few years ago. It was got up by the sepoys of some of the native

regiments stationed there.

Upon an open _maidan_ or plain was assembled an eager crowd of

spectators. A large space for the performance of the Ram Lila was kept

clear by sepoys, placed as sentries at short intervals. About the

centre of this space towered two huge effigies, without legs, probably

forty feet high, representing Ravana and Kumbhakarna. Each figure stood

with its arms extended right and left, level with the shoulders, in the

most absurd of attitudes, resembling the pictures of men which young

children are so fond of drawing. Ravana had ten faces,[46] and two arms

with twenty hands,[47] while Kumbhakarna had two hands only. There they

stood, the terrible demon king of Lanka, and his no less formidable

brother, grotesqueness itself. At one side, opposite to and facing the

figures, was a painted wooden car--lent by the king of the celestials

to Rama on this memorable occasion--standing on small wheels, like a

child’s toy, with two wooden horses attached to it. On the car were

seated two handsome, bare-legged and bare-footed boys, dressed in

yellow satin robes, with bows in their hands. Their hats somewhat

resembled a bishop’s mitre in shape, and were made of red and silver

materials. These boys, the reader does not need to be told, represented

Rama and his brother Lakshmana. In attendance upon them were about

thirty men, dressed in dusky red clothes, and with marks on their

faces, who personated the army of monkeys that assisted the heroes. To

the right of the two huge figures was an inclosed space which stood for

the city or citadel of Lanka. Various mythological figures were also to

be seen moving about the plain, in a more or less objectless manner.

Two tall men, got up as women, went springing about, brandishing naked

swords. They represented female Rakshasas. A man dressed up to look

very corpulent, clothed in yellow, with long flowing hair and having

serpents coiled round his throat, was dragged about upon a wooden bull

over the field. This corpulent personage was no other than Mahadeva

(_Siva_) on his bull (_Nandi_). Thus far the show was, at least,

mythological and _Hindu_. But, by a curious anachronism, the features

of a modern fair mixed themselves up with the old-world representation.

Perhaps Indian taste in this nineteenth century demanded something

more than the undiluted ancient epic. Whatever may have been the

cause, I observed, with surprise, that within the inclosure several

natives with painted faces personated Europeans of both sexes, to the

great amusement of the onlookers. A man in shaggy furs, holding a

torn umbrella over his head, and attended by a fellow disguised as a

European policeman, was announced to the spectators as the “Nawab of

Cabul.” There were also imitation bears with their leaders and such

like grotesque shows for the amusement of the populace. Although the

vast majority of the spectators were natives, many Europeans were

present, some in their carriages, some on elephants, and one or two

on camels. The scene, which was certainly strange and picturesque,

became especially lively when, towards the close of the proceedings,

the explosion of bombs and the discharge of rockets alarmed the horses

and elephants. One huge beast, carrying a European gentleman and three

ladies in a big _howdah_, was an object of interest and a cause of some

anxiety to me, for his restive and erratic movements seemed to threaten

destruction to me or to my carriage, at the least.

[Illustration:

[_To face p. 80._]

“THE TERRIBLE DEMON KING OF LANKA AND HIS NO LESS FORMIDABLE BROTHER.”

(From a photograph by W. C. Oman.)]

The proceedings commenced by Ravana’s car, wooden horses and all,

being dragged by men round the inclosure attended by the monkeys.

This was apparently a challenge to the enemy; for during the second

circumambulation a party of men, dressed in dark blue or black, who

had hitherto been kept out of sight, sprang forward to oppose Rama’s

progress. These sable warriors were terrible Rakshasas, before whom

Rama and his allies had to beat a retreat, pursued by the victors.

Before long, however, the tide of battle seemed to turn. Victory

changed sides! The Rakshasas retreated, followed by Rama and his

people. This alternate success of one party or the other was repeated

several times, apparently to prolong the proceedings, and was a most

uninteresting and childish exhibition. Whenever Rama was advancing he

was carried along discharging feeble arrows that rarely fell beyond the

line of men yoked to his car. But when the hero was retreating before

the enemy he was generally on foot, probably to obviate the necessity

of his turning his back to his foes. At length the demigods made a

furious and altogether successful onslaught. The black warriors were

supposed to have been completely exterminated. They lay stretched on

the field dead and dying for a minute or two, and then, in the most

inconsistent manner, got up and squatted on the grass to watch the

further proceedings. When Ravana’s forces were thus destroyed, a number

of fireworks were lighted all over the field. Then the fort of Lanka

was given over to the flames, and as it was well-filled with fireworks

it made a brilliant display. Next perished Kumbhakarna, similarly in

a blaze of rockets, and amidst the thunder of exploding bombs. And

last of all, the gigantic Ravana disappeared, by what to any bystander

would seem a process of spontaneous combustion. All the time the drama

lasted a regimental brass band played European music; so that Rama’s

forces may be said to have been animated to the assault of Lanka by the

soul-stirring music of European composers.

This was all! Sita the patient, faithful, loving wife was never brought

forward. The woman’s part was a quite subordinate one and was left to

the imagination of the spectators. The conquering Rama was everything;

the long-suffering Sita was forgotten on this occasion. However, the

gentle wife of Rama has a place of her own in the affectionate regard

of the people of her native land and her history is well remembered. I

have seen a picture of the car in which Sita was abducted tattooed on

the arm of an ignorant woman of the lower classes, and found on inquiry

that she knew the old old story well.

The Ram Lila I have just described was a particularly good example of

the annual celebration. Ordinarily, huge figures, stuffed with straw,

represent the demons. Rama and Lakshmana, seated on a stage, are

carried about on the shoulders of men and, after traversing the ground,

hither and thither, without any apparent object, at length set fire

to the effigies, whose combustion concludes the play, if such it can

be called; whereupon the crowds assembled to see the sport depart in

clouds of dust and smoke. Often several sets of demons and Ramas may be

seen on the same field, got up by rival parties, by different sections

of a city, or by separate villages.

It appears that there is some difficulty in getting boys to personate

Rama and his brother on the occasion of the Ram Lila festival, as it

is the popular belief that they never live to attain manhood.[48]

There is also another, if less superstitious reason for the

difficulty in question, and it is this: At the close of the festival

Rama and Lakshmana have to feast the Brahmans, and that involves

no inconsiderable outlay of money. Hence, in the somewhat lawless

border districts on the Indus, it is the usual thing for the sons of

well-to-do persons to be actually kidnapped and carried off to play

Rama and Lakshmana at the annual festival.

For ten days during the feast they are believed to be literally

possessed by the god and are worshipped as Vishnu. But the worship of

these boys creates, I was told, a curious and interesting difficulty

about the selection of Rama and Lakshmana. The two heroes were men of

the warrior caste, and so should their modern representatives be, but,

as they have divine honours paid to them during the festival, it would

not suit the Brahmans to bow down to and touch the feet of youths of

inferior caste, while even personating demigods, and so, in defiance

of history, _Brahman_ youths are generally selected to represent the

_Kshatriya_ heroes in the Ram Lila.

What the Indian artist’s conception of the form and appearance of Rama

is, may be partially understood from the statuettes in stone made at

the present day and frequently to be met with, at least in Northern

India. They are usually sculptured in white marble, but painted (I

may say enamelled) jet black, the only unblackened portion being the

whites of the eyes. The eyebrows are gilded and so is the loin-cloth

or _dhoty_, which is the only piece of clothing on the person of the

god-man. Two big ornaments, shaped like stumpy reels, fill big holes

in the lobes of the ears, and make them stick out on either side. On

the forehead is the Vishnu caste-mark, the central line in red, and

the two side lines, diverging from the top of the nose, in gold. These

figures chiselled by the Indian sculptor are always stiff and somewhat

conventional.

The Dasahra festival of Northern India is replaced in Bengal by the

Durga Puja, and consequently the Bengalees do not perform the Ram Lila;

but I remember to have seen, years ago, in Bengal, a large collection

of colossal groups of figures representing favourite incidents in

the “Mahabharata” and “Ramayana,” prepared at the expense of the

Maharajah of Burdwan, to which show, an annual one, I believe, the

public were freely admitted. The grotesque forms of the monsters of

the Indian epics were reproduced in huge clay statues, variously

coloured and clothed. Some, armed with the strange weapons which the

poets had imagined, were engaged in deadly combat. Gigantic arrows

were conspicuous, and some of them, with the aid of thread supports,

were shown in the air on their way to some ill-fated warrior or other.

More peaceful scenes were also represented, as where Ravana, in the

disguise of a Brahman, visits Sita in the forest. Various holy hermits

were also there in all the repulsiveness of dirt and emaciation. The

figures were coloured yellow, blue, green, brown, or black, according

to the text of the poet, the conventional notions of the people, or

the taste and fancy of the artists. Some of these clay statues were

decidedly well modelled. They had real hair on their heads, faces and

breasts; they were clothed in cotton fabrics, according to the not

very elaborate fashions of the country, and, in some cases, were by no

means unartistic representations of the men, demons and demigods of the

sacred epics of India.

APPENDIX

+THE STORY OF THE DESCENT OF GANGA (THE GANGES),

AS RELATED IN THE “RAMAYANA”+

In ancient times lived Sangara, a virtuous king of Ayodhya. He had two

wives but no children. As he and his consorts longed for offspring, the

three of them went to the Himalayas and practised austerities there.

When they had been thus engaged for a hundred years, a Brahman ascetic

of great power granted this boon to Sangara; that one of his wives

should give birth to a son who should perpetuate his race and the other

should be the mother of sixty thousand manly and high-spirited sons. In

due time the elder wife bore the promised son, who was named Asamanja,

and the younger wife a _gourd_. From this _gourd_, when it burst

open, came forth sixty thousand tiny sons, who were fostered, during

their helpless infancy, by keeping them in jars filled with clarified

butter. When his numerous sons had grown to man’s estate the king,

their father, determined to offer a _horse-sacrifice_. In accordance

with this resolution a horse was, in the usual way, set free to wander

where it listed, attended, for its protection, by mighty warriors of

Sangara’s army.

Now it came to pass that one day Vasava, assuming the form of a

Rakshasa, stole the horse away. The sixty thousand sons of the King of

Ayodhya thereupon commenced, at their father’s command, a diligent

search for the missing animal. They scoured the world in vain for

the stolen horse and then set about making a rigorous search in the

bowels of the earth, digging downwards some sixty thousand _yojanas_.

In these subterranean explorations they committed great havoc amongst

the dwellers in the under-world; but they persevered in their quest

and presently, in the Southern Quarter, came upon a huge elephant

resembling a hill. This colossal elephant, named Verupaksha, supported

the entire earth upon his head and caused earthquakes whenever he

happened to move his head from fatigue. Going round this mighty beast,

the sons of Sangara continued their search in the interior of the

earth. They at last found the stolen horse and observed, quite close

to it, “the eternal Vasudeva in the guise of Kapila,” upon whom they

rushed with blind but impotent fury; for he, uttering a tremendous

roar, instantly reduced them all to ashes.

As the princes did not return home Sangara became alarmed for their

safety and sent his grandson--Asamanja’s son--to look for tidings of

them. This heroic prince, following the traces they had left of their

eventful journey, at length reached the spot where the missing horse

was detained and there discovered also the ashes of his sixty thousand

uncles. Being piously desirous of making the usual oblations of water

to the ashes of his deceased relatives, Asamanja’s son looked about for

water but could find none. However, he met, in these nether regions,

Suparna, a maternal uncle of his, “resembling the wind,” and from him

he learned that the sixty thousand dead princes would be translated

to heaven if only the waters of Ganga could be brought down from the

celestial regions to lave their dust.

Seeing there was nothing that he could do for the manes of his dead

relatives, the young prince took the horse, and returning with it to

Ayodhya helped to complete Sangara’s sacrifice.

Sangara himself died after a reign of thirty thousand years. Ançumat,

who succeeded him, practised rigid austerities, “on the romantic summit

of Himavat,” for thirty-two thousand years, and left the kingdom to

Dilipa, whose constant thought was how he should bring Ganga down from

heaven for the benefit of his dead ancestors; but though he performed

numerous sacrifices during his long reign of thirty thousand years, he

made no progress in this matter. Dilipa’s son, Bhagiratha, earnestly

devoted himself to the same object, and practised severe austerities

with the view of obtaining the wished-for boon. “Restraining his senses

and eating once a month and surrounding himself with five fires and

with arms uplifted, he for a long lapse of time performed austerities

at Gokara.” Brahma, pleased with the king’s asceticism, appeared before

him and granted his wish, advising him, at the same time, to invoke the

aid of Siva to accomplish it, as the earth would not be able to sustain

the direct shock of the descent of Ganga from the celestial regions.

To obtain the assistance of Siva, Bhagiratha spent a whole year in

adoring that god, who at the end of that period was graciously pleased

to say to the king: “O foremost of men, I am well-pleased with thee.

I will do what will be for thy welfare--I will hold the Mountain’s

daughter on my head.” Upon this Ganga precipitated herself from the

heavens upon Siva’s head, arrogantly thinking to reach the earth

without delay, but Siva, vexed by her proud thought, caused her to

wander for many a year amongst the tangles of his long hair. It was

only when Bhagiratha had recourse to fresh austerities that Siva “cast

Ganga off in the direction of the Vindu lake,” and she flowed in many

channels over the joyful earth, to the delight and admiration of the

celestials who witnessed her wonderful descent from the sky.

Ganga, following the royal ascetic Bhagiratha, flooded with her waters

the “sacrificial ground of the high-souled Jahna of wonderful deeds,

as he was performing a sacrifice.” The saint drank up her waters in a

rage. When this occurred the deities and _Gandharvas_ began to worship

the angry Jahna, who, being propitiated by their attentions, allowed

the river to flow off through his ears. Proceeding again in the wake

of Bhagiratha’s chariot, Ganga, having reached the ocean, entered the

under-world where the ashes of the sixty thousand sons of Sangara still

lay. Her sanctifying waters flowed over their earthly remains and their

spirits ascended to heaven.

Such is the history of the most sacred river of the Hindus, into whose

heaven-descended waters millions upon millions of men and women crowd

annually to have their sins washed away.

NOTES

I. _Antiquity of the “Ramayana.”_--Older than the “Ramayana” ascribed

to Valmiki is the “Ramasaga” itself, which exists as a Buddhist story,

known as the “Dasahrathajataka.” This is substantially the history

of Rama and Sita, with the important omission of the rape of Sita

and the expedition against Lanka, which incidents the poet of the

“Ramayana” is believed by Dr. Albrecht Weber to have borrowed from

the Homeric legends.[49] If this conjecture be correct, the treatment

of the incidents in question by Valmiki is no slavish imitation of

that of Homer. In the “Mahabharata” the story of Rama and Sita is

narrated to Yudhisthira as an example, taken from the olden time, by

way of consolation on a certain occasion, and agrees so closely with

the work of Valmiki that it certainly looks very much like an epitome

of that work. In regard to the age of this epic, Sir Monier Williams

says: “We cannot be far wrong in asserting that a great portion of the

‘Ramayana,’ if not the entire ‘Ramayana,’ before us, must have been

current in India as early as the fifth century +B.C.+”[50]

II. _English versions of the “Ramayana.”_--The English reader desirous

of learning more of the details of the “Ramayana” than is contained

in this epitome, may consult the following works: (1) The excellent

metrical version of Mr. Ralph Griffith, in five volumes; (2) the prose

translation now in course of publication by Babu Manmatha Nath Dutt,

M.A.; (3) Mr. Taiboys Wheeler’s “History of India,” vol. iii.; and (4)

The “Ramayana” of Tulsi Das, translated by Mr. F. T. Growse.

III. _The “Ramayana” only a nature myth._--While one scholar

finds _history_ in the pages of the “Ramayana,” and discovers in

its interesting details a poetical version of the conquest of

Southern India by the Aryans, another, with a turn for mythological

interpretation, assures us that it is only a nature myth. “The whole

story,” he writes, “is clearly an account of how the full moon wanes

and finally disappears from sight during the last fourteen days of the

lunar month, which are the fourteen years of Rama and Sita’s exile.

Her final disappearance is represented by her rape by Ravana, and her

rescue means the return of the new moon. In the course of the story the

triumph of the dark night, lightened by the moon and stars, is further

represented by the conquest of Vali, the god of tempests of the monkey

race, who had obscured the stars.”[51]

PART II

THE MAHABHARATA

THE MAHABHARATA

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTORY REMARKS

Standing on the beautiful fluted column of red sandstone, known as

the Kutub Minar, which towers loftily above the lifeless quietude of

ancient Delhi, the eye surveys a landscape which embraces one of the

most classic regions in Hindustan.

Across the ruin-strewn plain, towards the lordly minarets and cupolas

of modern Delhi, the spectator may note, just a little towards the

east, the massive remains of the _Poorana killa_, or old fort,

which still preserves, in its traditionary name of _Indrapat_ or

_Indraprasta_, a suggestion of the glory it enjoyed some fifteen

centuries before Christ.

Not only in India and to the Hindus is the _Indraprasta_ a name of

reverence; for, away in distant Cambodia, the people believe that they

are descended from colonists who immigrated into the southern peninsula

from the far-off banks of the Jumna, and the stupendous remains

of Angkor and Battambang, near the great lake of Toulé-sap, point

unmistakably to Hindu and Buddhist origin, and bear silent witness

to the existence, in the remote past, of a powerful and flourishing

kingdom of Indian origin.[52]

Delhi, and the great plain north of it, are associated with the most

stirring events in both the ancient and modern history of India, and

have witnessed the most decisive struggles for empire which have

occurred south of the Himalayas.

Perhaps the “Mahabharata” was based on simple Aryan sagas like

those of the Norsemen--historical traditions of deeds performed by

gallant warriors to whose nervous hands the spear and axe were more

familiar than the plough and the pen,[53] but, if so, the poets who

have used the materials of the sagas of their ancestors to build up

the great national epic, have been not too careful to preserve the

strict accuracy of the traditions, and when the narrative of events

is interrupted by long disquisitions and endless palavers, we discern

unmistakably the hand of the Brahman compiler and _his_ contribution

to the record. We may, then, as well admit at once that little real

history can be gleaned out of the one hundred thousand verses of the

“Mahabharata.” Yet a very great deal of valuable matter, that does not

fall under the usual denomination of history, may be readily found in

this voluminous epic, giving it a high value for all time.

The authorship of the “Mahabharata” is ascribed to the sage Vyasa,

or the _compiler_, and its production is, at least, as remarkable

as that of the “Ramayana” already referred to. We are told in the

introduction to the poem itself that, “The son of Satyavati (Vyasa)

having by penance and meditation analyzed the eternal Veda afterwards

compiled this holy history.” When he had completed the vast epic,

without, however, committing any portion of it to writing, he began

to consider how he could teach it to his disciples. Sympathizing with

his desire to extend to others the benefits of this most sacred and

interesting poem, Brahma, the Supreme Being, appeared before the saint.

“And when Vyasa, surrounded by all the tribes of Munis, saw him, he

was surprised; and standing with joined palms, he bowed and he ordered

a seat to be brought. And Vyasa having gone round him, who is called

Hiranyagarbha, seated on that distinguished seat, stood near it, and,

being commanded by Brahma Parameshti, he sat down near the seat full

of affection and smiling in joy” (P. C. Roy).[54] After expressing

his entire approval of the poem Vyasa had composed, the Supreme Being

said: “Let Ganesa be thought of, O Muni, for the purpose of writing

the poem,” and then “retired to his own abode.” Ganesa, the god of

wisdom, being invoked by Vyasa, repaired at once to his hermitage and

consented to commit the wondrous tale to writing, provided his pen were

not allowed to cease its work for a single moment. This condition was

agreed to and observed. Thus was the “Mahabharata” recorded, as undying

and infallible scripture, from the lips of its inspired bard.

In respect of its importance and sanctity we need only cite the

following passages from the poem itself. “There is not a story current

in this world, but doth depend upon this history, even as the body upon

the food that it taketh.”

“The study of the ‘Bharata’ is an act of piety. He that readeth even

one foot believing hath his sins entirely purged away.”

“The man who with reverence daily listeneth to this sacred work

acquireth long life and renown and ascendeth to heaven.”

“A Brahmana whatever sins he may commit during the day through his

senses, is freed from them all by reading the ‘Bharata’ in the evening.

Whatever sins he may commit also in the night by deed, words, or

mind, he is freed from them all by reading the ‘Bharata’ in the first

twilight (morning).”

What effects such beliefs were likely to have upon the morals of a

people we do not stop to inquire.

“Chaque peuple,” says Prévost-Paradol, “a dans son histoire un grand

fait, auquel il rattache tout son passé et tout son avenir, et dont

la mémoire est un mot de ralliement, une promesse de salut. La fuite

d’Egypte, disaient les Juifs; le renversement des Mèdes, disaient les

Perses; les guerres Médiques, disent à leur tour les Grecs. On les

rappellera à tout propos pour en tirer des arguments, des prétentions

politiques, des mouvements oratoires, des encouragements patriotiques

dans les grandes crises, et plus tard, les regrets éternels.”[55]

For the Indian people it is the great war ending with Kurukshetra,

which is the central event of their history. It closes for them their

golden age. Before that was a world of transcendent knowledge and

heroic deeds; since then intellectual decay and physical degeneracy.

Nor is this merely a sentiment, it is a deeply-rooted belief,

which the highly-educated Indian holds in common with his ignorant

countryman. I have known an educated Hindu to maintain with much warmth

that in the golden age the Rishis and others were well acquainted with

the art of aërial navigation, and probably with other rapid modes

of locomotion unknown to us moderns. I have heard him assert boldly

that even the telephone, microphone, and phonograph had been known

to the Hindu sages up to the time when the sciences and arts of the

ancient world perished, wholesale and _for ever_, with the heroes of

the “Mahabharata” on the fatal field of Kurukshetra. However little

one might be disposed to import such romantic statements into a

sober history of science, they are, at any rate, true as regards the

non-existence of anything like even the germs of progressive science

among the people of India from a very remote date up to the present

time.

Of the one hundred thousand verses of the “Mahabharata” not more than

a fourth part is concerned with the main story of the epic--the rest

consists of more or less irrelevant, though often beautiful episodes,

and of disquisitions on government, morals and theology. It is the main

story that I have endeavoured to reproduce in brief outline in this

volume, and I have also attempted to preserve, as far as possible, the

important doctrinal features of the great epic.