The World Of Valmiki
by N. Raghunathan
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Sita Ravana did not underrate the loss that Rama had suffered in losing Sita. And Hanuman, no mean judge of mahat sattva,
could only marvel that Rama had survived that shock. They were made for each other, he says. And nothing shows the poet's perception so much as that he should have described Sita as the unbought grace that made duty a
delight. Age does not wither nor custom stale her infinite variety. She is nature's darling--Ayonija--schooled in the decencies. She is also the dancing flame on the horizon of the imagination, that makes
blase hearts leap. Her mother has instructed her in the proprieties. The sages have promised happy issue of her fruitful loins. And a chance soothsayer visiting her father's court had foretold a term in the
forest. Nothing could content her more--she has not only the beauty of the pard but also its singleness of mood. She is so happily constituted that in obeying the behests of her heart she cannot go wrong. She is
simple and confiding, so much so even Ravana has not the heart to keep up his deception. And because she loves with her whole being, Maricha's false alarm is to her distracted ears the sound of the last trump. Blindly
she lets fly at poor Lakshmana; and how little she believes her own indictment is shown by the reckless way she ropes in Bharata also as an accessory before the fact. (Aran. 45.24) Her mind thrown off its hinges
momentarily, she lapses into the mass emotion expressed in the idiom of her age. (Aran. 45.23) But how magnificently she makes reparation! Hardly five minutes later Ravana in ascetic garb presents
himself and, with the obtuseness of the arrogant, imagines that he is flattering her by using language that harrows her chaste ears. She is repelled but fears to offend a Brahman and a guest. She tells him her story
simply and in doing so she pays tribute to Lakshmana in language which is conclusive proof that her explosion of temper had been merely the buffeting of an agonised mind. (Aran. 47.19-20) And when long
after, in her captivity, a ray of hope comes with the advent of Hanuman, her heart is irradiated with gratitude thinking of the happy days in the forest and Lakshmana's unobtrusive devotion. There comes a note of maternal
tenderness, of unavailing regret into her voice as she bursts into a splendid eulogy of Lakshmana. With consummate tact the poet puts into her mouth eight slokas in praise of Lakshmana when she charges Hanuman to
remember her to him, while her simple heart-cry to Rama is discharged in one. (Sundara. 38.56-64) She says of Lakshmana 'He behaved towards me as he would to his own mother.' And which mother could
ever harbour uncharity in her heart and that, too, against such a son? It is her impulsiveness that gilds the edge of her goodness for us. Alone with Rama, lover and spouse, protector and comforter, we see her
coruscating like a many-faceted gem in the level light of his calm affection, which Hanuman later analyses with the power of divination born of sympathy. (Sundara, 15.49-50) She rejoices in the thought that Rama
will be Yuva-raja, ruling over the kingdom of the high-minded, and leading a life dedicated to the service of the gods. (Ayo. 16.23) But the loss of the promised kingdom does not cause her a moment's
regret. She is frightened only by his unusual depression. And when the cause comes out, and she finds that Rama wants her to stay at home while he goes to the forest, her misgiving turns into friendly chiding. She
cannot imagine living away from him for a moment. Gibes and tears, pleadings and protestations, the voice of duty, the petulance of wounded affection and the despairing cry of the heart, they all come tumbling down with the
impatience of the mountain torrent caught up among the impeding rocks. And then the appeal to his magnanimity, which Rama could never resist. The tempest is stilled by the wave of Prospero's wand. And off she goes
joyously to give away her all, finding in renunciation a simple delight. To Kausalya and Dasharatha she speaks with the comforting assurance of the deferential daughter-in-law instructed in Dharma. To Anasuya she
prattles with the artless innocence of the mugdha. The rishi-patni
seasoned in austerity, living for the good of mankind, looks at Sita with the delighted fascination with which one watches the bud blossom. Sita's humility as she thinks of her supreme good fortune in having been accepted by Ramachandra is as precious balsam to the heart of that dame of immemorial age with her connoisseur's eye for
pativratya. The unfading anga-raga and the resplendant jewels she bestows on her in appreciation are the stridhana from mother to daughter. What more could woman desire than to be approved of
Arundhati and Anasuya? Sharing her unaffected joy in the simple life, her gaiety as of a doe among its kind, Sri Rama found that forest-life, which might have been otherwise irksome to him, was really a joy with her. In the few
but precious sargas in which the idyllic life of the hermitage of Panchavati is described, Valmiki pours out the poetry of nostalgia with a lavish hand. Accustomed as we are to see Sita as Our Lady of
Sorrows, the pictures of this sylvan paradise and of the other days at Ayodhya where she had lived as a well-beloved Princess--provide a charming contrast. Soon, all too soon, the shadows come crowding thick upon
Sita: she speaks the truth when she calls herself duhkhamurti (sorrow personified). But she is so sure of Rama's love that nothing else seems to matter. She lives in hope: (Sun. 34.6) And her misfortunes have not soured her. She speaks with the blunt straightforwardness of the uncompromising upholder of dharma to Ravana. But while she chastises the sin, she has pity for the
sinner. 'Is there no good man here to keep you on the strait and narrow path?' she asks. And she tells him it is not too late to make his submission to Sri Rama. See how heart speaks to heart. Rama had proclaimed in the
great Council (though Sita did not know it) that, supposing it was Ravana himself that sought refuge with him, why, he should be accepted without question and his sins forgiven. Kingly renunciation The world has been much exercised over the severity--so out of character, seemingly--that Rama showed to Sita redeemed from captivity. Supposing Ravana had surrendered, it is asked by those who are wedded to the
discursive intellect, would Rama, who had forgiven Ravana, have still refused to take back Sita? It is no use asking hypothetical questions. In Ravana's case svabhava won. He would not throw himself open to
the inundation of Grace, and the Divine compassion could only release him by death from the hard shell of his ego. But the death of Ravana could make no difference to the fate of Sita. The gossips would talk (as they
were to go on talking to the end of the chapter). And in an organic society there can be no double standards, no arbitrary separation of the public from the private life. Bharata told himself that Kaikeyi had no doubt
succeeded in driving Rama to the forest, but her ambition to have her son crowned should not be fulfilled. Even so Rama told himself that evil tongues might make life gall and wormwood to him and Sita; but they should not
gloat over the dissolution of the dharmic society. Had not Sita pledged herself to be his saha-dharmacharini? They must drink the bitter cup to the lees.
Thus Rama was a King to the last, every inch a King, pursuing svadharma as the key to that yashas for which like a true Kshattirya he lived. (Ayo. 1.16) Valmiki was writing a
heroic poem. There are fashions in chivalry, but the man of honour, the knight without stain and without reproach, is a persistent type. In representing Rama in this role the poet makes him adopt the manner and the
mannerisms of this class in his time. But Valmiki's Rama is far more than the honnete homme of convention. It was Hanuman, the nitya-siddha, who discovered his inner truth and unity. The one character in
the epic who had no doubts about him and no fears for him, had seen him with the direct gaze of the mystic. And, like the saint who hungers to give God his love, all he asks of Rama is that the flame of his Rama-bhakti shall
never burn low. Valmiki makes us see Rama and Sita from many angles. But our most authentic picture of them is derived through the eyes of Hanuman. He has enshrined them in his heart as one and inseparable and as
eternally present. And, if he could speak to our hearts, he might tell us that the yashas which Rama pursued with such single-minded devotion was not the Kshattriya ideal of honour but the spleadour of his own
Self, the amimimsya-Atma--the self-existent Narayana of whom Sruti says: Tasya Nama Mahad-yashah.