The soul-mate, the sole-mate

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain...                                                    --  John Keats, Ode on a Nightingale

We have seen four of the five verses that precede the beginning of the ‘trial’ – though in my view the word ‘trial’ is a misnomer, which we shall go into, later – in the poetry of Kamban. I should, in all appropriateness, say that we have listed those four verses merely, rather than ‘seen’ them, for the discussion on them has not even begun. If the first verse was somewhat romantic, the second was seemingly ironic, the third had metaphysical undertones and the fourth spoke of the body and the soul, the fifth is a little complicated. It is not that easy to capture all its shades. It wears the appearance of a monologue of Sita on the surface; but its essence contains deeper implications relating to all the souls athirst for and about to reach their fulfilment.

Though we have been looking at the epic purely as a human drama, enacted by human beings – the dramatis personae divine, wearing the true human garb in all respects – let’s go over it quickly, confining ourselves to the immediate business in hand.

Sita looking at him from a distance – a few paces away – bowed to him and mumbled to herself. ‘pirappinum thuNaivanai,’ she fondly refers to Rama, ‘(I have seen) the companion in every birth.’ Of the twelve different shades of meaning of the word ‘thuNaivan,’ the ones that come closest are, ‘companion, husband, protector, God.’ The connotation of the phrase is multifarious. ‘He is my companion in every single one of my birth,’ if Sita is thought of as the speaker. It may even mean ‘the Lord of all life forms.’ Or, the ‘protector in birth (when the soul is born in the cycle of births and death till it finds its salvation.)’

Having given a few shades of a single phrase in the verse let me continue with translating it, leaving the pleasure of taking the plunge to the reader, for the present. We will find time to go into it in detail, later. So, he is the companion in every birth, or to all that is born. ‘piravip pEr idar thurappinum thuNaivanai.’ He is the ultimate; the companion, the soul-mate, of the soul liberated from the cycle of births and deaths. That is, He is the soul-mate when one is born (unable to escape from the cycle of births and deaths) and He is the sole companion to the ones that break the cycle. ‘thozhudhu,’ I have seen him now. I have bowed to him. I have paid my respects to him. ‘naan in marappinum nandru,’ it would all be well with me even if I have to forget all and pass into oblivion, ‘maari, vEru vIzndhu iRappinum nandru,’ or it would still be well with me, even if I have to die after this moment. My eyes are full and my heart is full. Let me die even if I have to; but let me die in his presence.

I have not done justice to this piece. I am afraid if I could ever do so. This once piece stirs the soul and moves the heart deeply. And it is quite heavy, laden in excess, at least a hundred-fold more than what a mere quatrain can hold.

This moment is beautiful. Calm. Serene. This is the moment of fulfilment. This is the moment of peace. She looks to him for the warmth that she is used to. At the very same time Rama was looking at her too. Who was he looking at? Kamban describes: ‘karpinukku aNiyinai,’ The jewel of purity; ‘penmaik kaapinai,’ the haven of refuge for all womanliness; ‘porpinukku azaginai,’ the one who adds beauty to what is known as beauty, ‘thar pirindhu, aruL dharumap pOliyai,’ one who lived in separation from him, one who is the very resemblance of the Dharma Devata.

The poet showers epithet upon epithet on her as Rama is looking at her. And he drops an epithet on Rama, which may once again, sound ironic or even sarcastic. ‘aRpin ath thalaivanum amaya nOkkinaan.’ The word ‘aRpin’ is nothing but the modified form of the word ‘anbin’. He, who was full of love for her, was looking at her. How? ‘amaya’. Fully. Completely. From head to toe.

Does this moment not remind us of their first meeting in Mithila, she leaning over the balcony of the gynaecium and looking down at him and he looking up from where he was standing, in the street of Mithila? Are they not the same old pair who fell in love, looking at each other? (See: aNNalum nOkkinaan avaLum nOkkinaaL and pEsavum vENdumO?)

But that moment lasted only for a fraction of a moment. His attitude changed suddenly. No longer did his countenance remain the ‘unchanging lotus bloomed on a canvas,’ – ‘chitthirathu alarndha senthaamaarai’ – that it used to be. ‘paNam kiLar aravu enaa paarupuraa,’ Kamban moves into the drama. Rama turned into a hooded cobra. He raised his head as a cobra would raise its hood. And the fangs were full and ready.

With this, we will move to the narration Valmiki, and come back to Kamban after taking a look at the scene through his eyes.

Sita Continued from the last instalment

The moon and the moon

Coming back to Valmiki, I think the best way to narrate this scene is to bifurcate it into convenient pieces and to present it piece by piece, alternating between Valmiki and Kamban, rather than adopting the conventional method of completing the version of one poet in one stretch first and then taking up the next. I trust that this would help ease of reading, grasping and understanding better. For my part, I will try to restrict myself to the narrative part alone, refraining from going into intricacies, analysis and arguments, until this scene is completed. Of course, the commentaries and arguments would follow, on completion of this task in hand.

We left Rama in our last instalment standing up like an angry cobra raising its hood – as shown by Kamban. Let’s now look at what Valmiki has to say about Janaki, as she approached Rama.

We saw that Rama was weighed down by three different feelings. ‘harso dainyam ca rosas ca trayam rāghavam āvisat.’ He was filled with joy; felt miserable and overcome by anger. (See: The point of palanquin) And three too, were the feelings that overfilled Janaki’s heart, as she walked down her way to Rama. Valmiki says,

vismayāc   ca    praharsāc  ca   snehāc ca  paridevatā |
udaiksata mukham bhartu saumyam  saumyatarānanā ||
                                (Yuddha Kanda, Canto 114, Sloka 35)

‘vismayāc ca praharsāc ca snehāc ca’ She was taken over by vismaya, or astonishment (or wonder, or bewilderment); praharsä, or thrill of delight and sneha, or love, affection. She was astonished, thrilled with joy, and was filled with love. It is not difficult to find the reasons for her joy and the love that welled up in her. The key word here is vismaya, or astonishment, for this indicates that she is able to ‘sense’ some kind of a curious and inexplicable change in the stance of her loving Rama. This is how the Gorakhpur edition translates this Sloka: “She (who looked upon her spouse as a god) of (still) more gracious aspect regarded the agreeable countenance of her husband with (a mixed feeling of) astonishment, excessive delight and affection.” And this is how Ralph T. H. Griffith translates:

The lady's gentle spirit sank,
And from each eye in fear she shrank,
As, her sweet eyelids veiled for shame.
Slowly before her lord she came.
While rapture battled with surprise
She raised to his her wistful eyes.

“She sees that she is not coming back to the warm bosom of a loving husband from whom she has been separated for a long time. But she is apparently moving into a court of high judgment in order to hear sentence against a criminal,” observes Rt. Hon’ble Srinivasa Sastriyar, referring to the way the scene opens in Valmiki Ramayana. Very true. He certainly not was the same Rama who, unable to bear the suffering of his dear wife, made Brahmastra out of a blade of grass, to punish a mere crow, to follow it wherever it flew, until it came back to his feet seeking protection.

But then, Valmiki adds another Sloka, indicative of the moods of the couple, even as Rama was preparing himself for the toughest of all the jobs that he had to perform in the epic, until now. I say until now. I do not include the Uttara Kanda for the present. Here, see what Valmiki has to say on the way they appeared, facing each other, after a long, long and agonising separation.

atha samapanudan manahklamam sā; suciram adrstam udiksya vai priyasya |
vadanam    uditapurnacandrakāntam;      vimalasasānkanibhānanā      tadāsīt ||
                                                                                            (Ibid, Sloka 36)

“Gazing on the face of her darling, which had not been seen (by her) for long and which was lovely like the full moon just risen, she forthwith actually dispelled the fatigue of her mind and her face shone at that time as the cloudless full moon.”

‘priyasya vadanam udita purna candrakāntam’. The face of her darling was as lustrous as the full-moon that was rising. Like the Rama-chandra he was! And her face as resplendent as the moon that shines in a cloudless sky. The expression priyasya (darling’s) is indicative of the love that has not yet dried up in Rama. And way his shone, bright and clear, is indicative of the unbounded love that excelled the ‘anger and the wretchedness’ that came over him, minutes ago. After all, Rama’s agony of separation was not in any way less. Every single one of the expressions in the above Slokas would form the body of evidence for us to have a peep into the heart of Rama. (However, it is essential too, to keep in mind that one of her three feelings was ‘astonishment.’)

There they stood, two full-moons, one gazing at the other, for a while. Just for a while.

The charges

The time has come to start the most difficult part of our discussions. A mere cursory reading of this particular portion of Valmiki’s grand epic – however weak the translation be – stings the heart. The power of the words transcends languages and defies the thousands of years that have rolled by. They are there, as fresh and raw as they were when they were spoken.

As we read through, we are actually able to feel the stillness that suddenly falls like a pall on the crowd that was throbbing with joy moments back, whipping its ‘joyous tumult that could silence the roar of the ocean’, to what is known as ‘pin-drop-silence’. The difference between the spread of terror and that of grief is that terror emanates from its nucleus and spreads outwards. The quickest of terrors spreads out in a few minutes, spreading its tentacles in all directions, emerging from its centre. But grief descends from above like a blanket, covers, and holds everyone under its stronghold instantaneously. It does not require the ‘minutes’ that terror needed to establish itself. Grief descended on the crowd that day.

What is true with Valmiki is true with Kamban too. However, the degree varies in that Kamban has spared us from certain very harsh remarks. Nonetheless, I cannot say it is any the less scalding. Reading out this portion to his learned audience in the grounds of the Sanskrit College, Chennai, Right Hon’ble Srinivasa Sastriyar mentions, “Then follow words which it is hard even to read at this distance of time.” I experience the truth of his words now, having undertaken the responsibility to retell the charges that Janaki faced the other day, in another era. Let me do nothing more than to re-present it here, adding the barest minimum of observations, wherever required.

The speech of Rama divides into two parts. The first part makes it clear why he decided to undertake this mission of liberating her from the clutches of the demon. The second part repudiates her, mercilessly. The tone is very stiff and businesslike. It is so totally void of all endearing terms that it used to be embellished with. This of course, is not without exceptions. A few Freudian slips do show through, which – unlike the Freudian slip in its real sense – gives out some of the clues that we need to see his heart and understand him. I state once again – out of abundant caution – that we are not trying to justify him. We are only trying to understand him. We will take up this first part, as it is in Valmiki, see its salient points and move on with our present task. As I said in the beginning, an elaborate discussion is not possible for now.

“You stand here won back (by me) after conquering the enemy on the field of battle, O blessed one! That which was worth doing (for me) through human effort has been accomplished by me. I have attained the reward of my indignation, nay, the wanton offence given to me (by your abduction) has been fully requited and the indignity offered to me as also the enemy (who did it) have been wiped out all at once by me. Today my manliness has been witnessed, today my exertion has become fruitful, today I have fulfilled my vow and today I am the master of myself once more. The wrong done to you in that you, when you were quite alone, were borne away by the fickle-minded ogre (Ravana) which was ordained by destiny, has been repaid by me a mortal. What purpose will be served by the prowess, however great, of that petty-minded fellow who does not avenge by his might the insult suffered by him. Nay, the laudable achievement of the celebrated Hanuman in the shape of leaping across the sea and the devastation of Lanka has borne fruit today. The exertion of Sugriva, who exhibited his prowess on the battlefield with his army, and tendered friendly counsel, is fruitful today. Nay, fruitful likewise is the exertion today of Vibishana, who personally sought my presence, deserting his (own) brother (Ravana), who was devoid of virtues.” (Valmiki Ramayana, Yuddha Kanda, Canto 115, Sloka 2 – 9)

It reads like a neatly drafted Annual Report of a Managing Director, stating the purpose of the venture, why and how it was undertaken, and what has been the result. And it does not fail to thank the associates in the venture. Rama, tell me, is this you who are speaking to her? Do you really mean what you say? If you really did not fight the demon for the sake of your love for her, if you really mean that you fought only to establish the fair name of your family, why then do you address her as ‘bhadre’ when you open your speech! May be it is not an endearing term, may be it is a regular and formal term, and may be that it means simply ‘lady’– as Ralph T. H. Griffith has translated it:

He saw her trembling by his side,
And looked upon her face and cried:
'Lady, at length my task is done,
And thou, the prize of war, art won

Nonetheless, ‘bhadre’ does mean ‘blessed one.’ When you are able to maintain a stiff outer, and carefully avoid all forms of address when speaking to her, why is that you could not avoid this particular word! Does it not sound a bit like someone saying, ‘I hate you darling?’

Okay. Let’s see the fifth Sloka in the above portion of Rama’s speech. It says:

yā  tvam  virahitā   nītā calacittena raksasā |
daivasampādito doso mānusena mayā jitah ||

“The wrong done to you in that you, when you were quite alone, were borne away by the fickle-minded ogre (Ravana) which was ordained by destiny, has been repaid by me a mortal.”

This point is noted, My Lord, to come back to you later.

The way of the Will

On reflection, one can see that Rama places the emphasis to a large extent on himself and his lineage. He speaks about the personal indignity done to him by the abduction, the personal indignation, the avenging of it, the entire world witnessing his paurusam – manliness or valour – the fulfilment of his vow, and his becoming a master of himself again. ‘Of what use is prowess,’ he puts the rhetorical question to himself, ‘if a person does not avenge the insult suffered by him, by his might,’ and adds, ‘such person is a petty-minded fellow, however great he may be.’

That sixth Sloka in the scene in question gives out what Rama thinks about the abduction, what it means to him, and why was he – of necessity – forced to undertake the venture to set her free.

samprāptam avamānam yas tejasā na pramārjati |
kas  tasya   purusārtho  'sti purusasyālpatejasah ||

“What purpose will be served by the prowess, however great, of that petty-minded fellow who does not avenge by his might the insult suffered by him.”

What does this Sloka reveal? That Sita was taken away by force was a personal insult – avamānam – done to him, and of course to the Ikswäku race. That a person should avenge for an insult by his might. That a person who does not take such revenge would only be considered to be petty-minded, even if his prowess – paurusa – might be great.
That is to say, ‘Your abduction was a personal insult to me. I had to take my revenge on that demon. Had I not done so, despite my immeasurable prowess, I would have been considered as a petty-minded person.’ And therefore, it became essential for him to wage the war against Ravana, not merely because he abducted the wife of the former, but mainly because of the insult that was caused to him by that act. These are serious questions with deeper implications. We are not going to examine them completely now. We have to wait till we take up the study of Rama for doing so.

But, if that was an insult caused to him and to his family, does he hold Janaki responsible for it? That is a question to be answered, if we are to see the true intentions of Rama. Does he hold her responsible; blame her for this personal insult that was caused to him? She was at the root of all this trouble; but was she responsible for it? What does Rama think? What he has to say on that? Let us now come back to Sloka 5 that we presented at the end of our last post.

yā    tvam   virahitā nītā raksasā
daivasampādito doso mānusena mayā jitah

“The wrong done to you in that you, when you were quite alone, were borne away by the fickle-minded ogre (Ravana) which was ordained by destiny, has been repaid by me a mortal.”

‘It was just not an insult done to me. It was a wrong done to you as well. You were borne-away when you were alone – virahitā. The mind of that demon was not under his control. He was calacitta. His mind ran amuck. Functioned erratically. He went behind his mind, instead of holding that mad-elephant under control with the goad of his wisdom, as is expected of every man of penance. That person, despite his enormous penance was fickle-minded. You were alone (and therefore, I know you were helpless). He carried you away. It was a wrong done to you. Though it was a demon that carried you away, me – mayā – a mere human being – mānusena – paid for it, avenged it, with my victory jitah.

‘It was no doubt a wrong done to you. I know you are not responsible for it,’ can only be what Rama implies when he says that it was ‘daiva sampādito dosa’ that which was brought about by destiny; by fate. ‘It was preordained that this should happen this way,’ is what Rama implies here. ‘You are at the root of all this. All the difficulties that I had to undergo were due to the wrong done to you. Though this venture to wipe the stain on me and my family was undertaken with you as the reason, I know that you are not the cause. It was fate that was the cause of all this.’

Though this is not the right place to go into Rama’s ideas on fate, that he staunchly believed in it, is more than obvious. You can see him pacify a fuming Lakshmana when Kaikeyi ‘conveys’ the order of the king asking him to go to the forest for fourteen years. ‘nadhiyin pizayandru narum punal inmai,’ he would say. It is not the fault of the river if it goes dry. And he winds up by saying, ‘vidhiyin pizhai, idharkku nI en kol veguNdadhu?’ Why should you be agitated, angered and be up in arms, when this was a wrong caused by destiny, by fate! It is fate, it is preordained that I have to be ordered this way. Do not blame anyone else for it.

This is something which has to be studied more elaborately. But not now. I quoted the verse of Kamban here just to lay emphasis on how Rama believed in the ways of the Will. He of course was that Will in human form. That is a different question, which would not apply now. What we have to see here is that even at such a time, Rama finds it difficult to hold her responsible, or blame her for all that has happened, as is widely believed and discussed. He blames fate instead.

Let’s move to the more painful aspect of his speech now. But before that let’s see how Kamban portrays this portion.

Dead, you should have been

What Valmiki’s Rama delivers is a well-drafted and a carefully rehearsed speech that divides itself into two neat portions. The first portion starts with the announcement that Janaki stands before him, won back by him, freed from the clutches of the demon. It also states why she was won back and who were all responsible for the victory that has become his, and ends with thanking Hanuman, Sugriva and Vibishana. If at all he is angry, his anger gets worked up by and by and the actual sting takes place only in the second part of his speech, before getting into which the poet intervenes and gives us a short description – three Sloka long – of the dazed condition in which Janaki stands before him, her eyes wide-open and tear-laden. If one forgets all the Ramayana that is known to him for a while and starts reading as if it were the first time, it would even be that he would start wondering what Rama is actually aiming at, until the second part of his speech starts. And when the second part starts, it simply burns.

On the contrary, the sting in the speech of Kamban’s Rama starts from word one. It may be remembered that Kamban took some more time to reach this particular portion, inserting a total of six verses to describe the way in which the couple stood facing each other and the state of mind in which Sita was. However, the words of Rama are extremely raw, blunt and merciless – apart from being baseless – from the first verse onwards, in Kamban.

We have never seen Rama displaying such wanton anger anywhere in the epic, particularly in Kamban. Neither does he get angry nor does he speak highly of himself. Expressions like, “I can, if I so desire, kill with my finger-tip (all) the well-known fiends, Danavas, Yaksas, and ogres on earth, O ruler of monkey hordes,” which Rama speaks to Sugriva (Valmiki Ramayana, Yuddha Kanda, Canto 18, Sloka 23) are carefully filtered and kept away in Kamban. Kamban’s Rama is a picture of serenity and self-control and utmost modesty throughout. The only occasion on which he exhibits some pride about his own self and his achievement is on killing Ravana. He looks at his shoulders and smiles with a sense of achievement and pride, on seeing the body of Ravana lying on the ground. But for that, No. Rama always keeps his cool and stays in perfect control.

We have in fact mentioned it on two earlier occasions that even Ravana is taken aback by the smile that plays on the lips of Rama, in the battlefront. (See: Without a trace of anger and I will kill Vali) This was the person who kept his cool even at the most vulnerable situations. It is not that Rama was never afflicted by anger. But such occasions were few and far between. And Rama’s anger has been very short-lived during such times. He has always been a person who listens to reason – as in the case of the advice tendered by Jatayu at the time of his death – and amenable to reconciliation – as in the case of Sugriva, when he failed to report in time with the arrangements for the search of Janaki.

But that image, so carefully built and shaped up, is shattered to pieces when Kamban makes his Rama start the speech of his repudiation of Sita, in the raw. It does not say anything about the purpose of the battle – like what we have seen in Valmiki’s – or even stops to thank the associates. He goes blind with rage right from the beginning. We saw recently that he looked at her like a hooded cobra.

‘uuN thiram uvandhanai,’ he starts his verbal assault. So? You stayed in the house of the demon? Did you have your fill? You enjoyed the feast (everyday) from the ogre’s house. ‘ozukkam paaz pada, maaNdilai.’ Your conduct got stained. And why did you not die? You should have been dead and gone by now. Why are you living, when your conduct is tainted? ‘murai thirambu arakkan maa nagar aaNdu uraindhu adanginai.’ You stayed in the city of that characterless demon for such a long time. ‘achcham thIrndhu ivaN mINdadhu en ninaivu?’ When such being so, you have come back (to my presence) shedding all fear (shamelessly). What is that you think? What is that you expect? ‘enai virumbum enbadhO?’ Do you imagine that I would (still) be in love with you? Did you come back to my presence under the impression that you would be wanted, loved, accepted?

This poor woman was in rags. She wanted to come to his presence in those rags, without even washing herself. Now she is dressed like a bride. Decked with ornaments. At the instance of Rama. How would she have felt standing before him in bridal makeup, when he spewed such venom at her!

This is just the beginning. Let’s listen to his charges which are to come.

It was not for your sake

‘I did not cross the ocean for your sake,’ continues Rama. ‘unnai mItpaan poruttu uvari thUrthu oLir minnai mItturu padai arakkar vEr aRa pinnai mIttu uru pagai kadandhilEn.’ If I choked up the ocean with rocks, mountains and trees and constructed a bridge across it, if I reached here and engaged the Rakshasas in battle and rooted them out, if I waged a war against Ravana and killed him, it was not for the purpose of retrieving you. ‘pizhai ennai mItpaan poruttu.’ It was for the purpose of restoring my fair name; to save myself from the blame that would cloud my name and that of my family. I never did this for your sake. Do not ever imagine that I did this for your sake.

When Rama utters these words, I am actually taken aback at the precision with which Janaki could read his mind in the Sundara Kanda, when sending her word to Rama through Hanuman. This was not anything new for her. She was almost prepared for this situation. She actually wanted him to come over to Lanka to fight the demon not simply for her sake, but for the sake of his own name, his own valour. Remember what she told Hanuman? ‘Hanuman, tell him that he might or might not consider me as his wife. His heart might or might not be moist with mercy for me; it might or might not have dried up. ‘than vIram kAththalai vENdu enRu vENduvAy.’ Tell him that he has a duty to protect his own name; establish his own chivalry. (See: A duty unto himself) Let him or let him not consider me as his loving wife. Remind him that he has a duty unto himself.

It is more than obvious that when she uttered those words she did not expect that this would turn out exactly to be so this day. It was just an ‘even if’ situation that mind was playing around with to add emphasis to the call of duty that awaited Rama. Nevertheless, she had the knack of reading this man’s mind, as we had mentioned on an earlier occasion. (See: Let me come as I am) Therefore, this second and solemn declaration might not have shaken her as the first one. Even the first verse that told her that ‘she should have died’ would not have mattered to her much. She had an answer for that. But, if the first verse shattered her inner being, the second poured acid over it.

The third one is something peculiar to Kamban’s work and has purposes other than that of increasing the harshness of Rama’s accusations. ‘marundhinum iniya man uyirin vaan thasai arundhinayE,’ Rama hits out, as if he has valid proof in his hand for her doing so. ‘You relished the meat of living beings, as if it was the very manna.’ This makes a major ideological move, away from Valmiki Ramayana. Being a Kshatriya, Rama is shown as hunting deer in more than one scene in the Aranya Kanda. But Kamban turns the ideology upside down. This vegetarianism is a question into which we have to go into, later. If one has to answer the question why Kamban makes Rama speak against non-vegetarianism, one has to answer also the question why Vibishana’s house was seen by Hanuman to be devoid of meat and liquor. This has ideological and sociological implications, which we can take up when we are a bit relaxed.

What is to be seen here is one of the major charges that Janaki faced in Kamban was that ‘she relished meat, and ‘naRavu amaya uNidiyE’ You drank. You guzzled liquor aplenty in the palace of Ravana. ‘irundhanayE,’ I wonder how you, having stayed there for such a long time, and violated all established ways of good conduct is living today! ‘ini emakkum Erpana virundhu uLavO urai.’ Tell me what is left in you now what remains acceptable to me.

Look at the assertiveness. Look at the certainty with which Rama speaks every one of his words. The tone of every accusation is not in the manner of an enquiry or in the accusative; it is in the assertive, as though Rama has valid proof in his possession that she did all this.

This is just another piece of the accusations. Let us turn to Valmiki now and see what he has to say there, comparing his narration with that of Kamban.

Get lost and be prosperous?

The assertion of Rama that ‘it was not done for the sake of my love for you,’ is found in Valmiki as well as in Kamban. But the basis for that assertion, the reason that he gives out, varies and takes another direction in Kamban. Naturally so. It probably was for this moment that Kamban changed his drama and portrayed the abduction in a different manner. Whereas Valmiki’s Ravana grabbed here carried her in his arms, Kamban’s Ravana dug out and lifted the hermitage and carried her seated in the hermitage. (See: Carrying her away, Embodiment of Patience and The abduction)

Before the commencement of the second part of Rama’s speech, as we mentioned earlier, (See: Dead, you should have been) Valmiki gives us a short picture running to a length of three-Slokas. Of these three, the second Sloka brings out the heart of Rama very well. It says, “The heart of King Sri Rama (even) as he beheld Sita (the beloved of his heart) near him, was torn (within him) for fear of public scandal.” (Valmiki Ramayana, Yuddha Kanda, Canto 115, Sloka 11) But, as is usual with all our ancient works, this particular portion seems to have undergone textual interpolations and modifications and the authenticity of this Sloka is questioned by scholars. Some other versions read as ‘seeing her close to him, his anger increased.’ Ralph Griffith, in his translation of the Valmiki Ramayana, has skipped these three Slokas safely, for reasons best known to him. Even if we cannot hinge on this Sloka as a pointer to the heart of Rama, there are other places where Rama himself talks about ‘fear of public opinion.’ The painful fact is that this ‘fear of public opinion’ extends itself up to the Uttara Kanda. And if it was painful, none could have been more pained than Rama himself, apart from the suffering that it caused to Janaki.

Having said that much on one of the most vital clues in the 11th Sloka, we will move into the second part of Rama’s speech in Valmiki Ramayana. Reiterating what he said earlier, Rama says that this difficult task of crossing the ocean and defeating the most dreaded demon was accomplished by him, a mere mortal, as easily as Sage Agastya who conquered the southern quarter. And adds,

viditas  cāstu  bhadram  te yo 'yam ranaparisramah |
sa tirnah suhrdām viryān na tvadartham mayā krtah ||
                                                        (Ibid, Sloka 15)

“Let it be known to you that (all) this exertion in the shape of war, which has been successfully carried through, thanks to the prowess of my friends (the monkeys and Vibishana) was not undertaken for your sake; may prosperity attend you!”

It was not done for your sake. Agreed. But take a close look at the Sloka again. That curious phrase – undoubtedly a very usual and normal usage – ‘bhadram te’ finds quite an incongruous place to slip in. This is a form of blessing which can be found almost everywhere and forms part of almost every kind of speech. However, that it IS a form of blessing cannot be denied. Let’s rephrase the Sloka and see the effect. ‘It was a mighty superhuman task that I, a mere mortal undertook and came out successful. But, know it from me; I did not do that out of my love for you; not certainly because I love you any more. May prosperity attend you.

‘May you be prosperous!’ Again, this reminds us of the peculiarity of the expression, ‘I hate you darling,’ that we spoke of earlier. (See: The charges) What prosperity can attend her if you are going to repudiate her outright! If you are really angry with her, why should you express your wish and bless her to remain prosperous! What prosperity could attend her, she who chose to follow you to the jungles saying, ‘nin pirivinum sudumO kaadu?’ ‘Could heat of the jungles burn me more than the pangs of separation?’ when you have chosen to repudiate her and are about to announce that to her!

As is obvious, this is not an ironical statement. It is more than clear that the poet does not want us to understand that Rama is declaring, ‘Get lost and be prosperous.’ This is not one of those places to employ pun, double entendre, saying something and meaning something else, et al. This is a very serious moment when any poet would like to keep it simple and straight forward rather than indulging in irony, risking the quality of the character that he is building. What the poet wants us to understand is, this phrase slips from Rama’s heart, despite his Herculean efforts to stage a show otherwise. A Freudian slip again, with a positive tinge. Let’s keep gathering all these bits of descriptions by the poet, and the phrases that slip through, for we would need them later.

We now move on to the most painful portion of Rama’s speech in Valmiki Ramayana.

Light on diseased eye

‘I have secured your freedom and the duty that I owe unto you, me and my family is done,’ Rama’s voice picks up an edge from here. ‘I told you that it was not done in the name of my love for you; but in the way of protecting my fair name and that of my family. Now that your freedom has been secured, move away. Do not stand before me. I am not able even to look at you, because your character is stained; your conduct is clouded.’ And the poet makes Rama to utter a beautiful simile, a double-edged dagger without a handle that cuts the hand which uses it, before it stabs into the other person.

prāptacāritrasamdehā mama pratimukhe sthitā |
dīpo    netrāturasyeva   pratikūlāsi   me drdham ||
                (Va. Ra. Yuddha Kanda, Canto 115, Sloka 18)

“Standing (unabashed) before me, even though suspicion has arisen with regard to your character, you are extremely disagreeable to me even as a light to one who is suffering from sore eyes.”

Your presence is as harsh on my eyes as light held before a person who suffers from eyesore. It is so painful. The eyes as such are unable to remain open. They would rather prefer to shut the eyelids and seek some respite from the light that surrounds everywhere. But you see, if some unkindly hand holds a burning bright torch before these pair of eyes that are stricken already, you know how much pain would that light cause to those pair of eyes that are suffering already. To put it simply, ‘I am not able to bear the sight of your presence. You cause pain to my eyes. And therefore go away.’

But then, properly speaking, the poet should have seen the choice of metaphor that he is employing, if his Rama was speaking from his heart. He could have used a relatively familiar and more acceptable phrase like, ‘I am unable to look at your ugly visage. Your character is stained and you are therefore unbearably ugly.’ Instead he makes Rama liken her to light; and himself to a pair of diseased eyes. Nobody can say that the poet could not have seen the oddity of the simile, which all the others can see! And it is a very unusual simile at that. ‘Your presence is as painful to me as light to diseased eyes.’

Quoting this Sloka, Srinivasa Sastriyar observes, “’There is a stain on your character.’ Fancy his saying that himself. ‘There is a cloud resting upon your conduct. As you stand before me, my eyes are pained to see you as a man whose eyes are sore cannot stand a bright light.’ Here a commentator shrewdly remarks that there is nothing wrong with the light. The light is all right; it has done no harm. It is the man whose eyes are sore. Why blame her?” Sastriyar ends his observation saying, “But that is only a grim joke. It does not help at all.’

It does help to an extent in bringing out what is latent in Rama’s heart. As we observed above, it is not that Valmiki could not have sensed the strange way in which the simile is employed and the ways in which it can be interpreted. I mean a straight and honest interpretation and not something that is twisted and laboured. It is therefore appropriate to conclude that the poet has deliberately left it that way so that this ‘light’ can be seen in proper light, and let the world see the pair of eyes that are diseased. This is not something like, ‘wearing dark glasses and cursing for lack of light.’ This is an instance where the eyes are diseased and are unable to behold the light, which can never be blemished, which can never be polluted and which can never be stained.

However, as Sastriyar observes, it does not help Janaki in anyway, though it may aid a bit of scholastic exercise and in depth study. The injury is caused and it bleeds. Not denying the fact that the double-edged razor has sliced through the hand that tried to stab and made it bleed, it has stabbed nonetheless, unfailingly and undeniably.

‘Because your very presence is extremely painful to me, I give you up’ Rama continues. ‘I do not need you any more. You may go.’

tad gaccha hy abhyanujnātā yatestam janakātmaje |
etā   dasa  diso   bhadre  kāryam  asti na me tvayā ||
                                                       (Ibid, Sloka 18)

“Therefore, go wherever you like, O Janaka’s daughter. I grant you leave to do this (very) day. (All) these ten directions are open to you, O good lady! No more purpose of mine remains to be served by you.”

I grant you permission. You may go. The world remains opened wide before you. You have got all the ten directions for you to move, as you please, as you desire. I would not come in your way. Choose your direction and go. Interestingly, this phrase ‘janakātmaje’ with which she is addressed in the above Sloka, was an endearing term, on another day. (See: You and your father) It was not so crude and cruel then. It did not disown her then as it does, now. ‘You, Janaka’s daughter, you may go anywhere you like.’

Rama does not stop there.

Touch… and go

‘You mean nothing to me any more,’ Rama continues, ‘because, which man can still cling to that wife who has lived in the house of another person for a long time?’

kah pumān hi kule jātah striyam paragrhositām |
tejasvi   punar    ādadyāt  suhrllekhena  cetasā  ||
                       (Valmiki Ramayana, Yuddha Kanda, Canto 115, Sloka 19)

“What man of spirit and born in a noble family for his part would take back with an eager mind a woman who has dwelt in another’s house, (simply) because she has been kindly disposed towards him (in the past)?”

You were of a kindly disposition to me in the past, just as I was. But it was in the past. I would not take you back now as you have spent a long time, living in another man’s house. How do you expect a man of noble birth to accept such a woman back into his house? Do you think that a person would be inclined to accept a woman especially when she was seen in the hands of some other person?

rāvanānkaparibhrastām   drstām   dustena    caksusā |
katham tvām punarādadyām kulam vyapadisan mahat ||
                                                           (Ibid, Sloka 20)

“While boasting of my lineage, how can I accept again you, who were squeezed into the arms of Ravana (while being borne away by him) and regarded (by him) with an evil (lustful) eye?”

‘You were physically carried off by Ravana. He held you by your body. He took hold of you, physically lifting you up in his arms.’ The English rendition of this Sloka by Srinivasa Sastriyar reads thus: “I boast of having descended from the Solar family; I am born of Dasaratha; I am born of the race of Raghu. I boast of it. How can I take you who have been seen on Ravana’s lap for a time?”

Though this is true as far as Valmiki’s narration is concerned (See: Carrying her away), there is no way by which Rama could have come to know of the manner in which she was held and was carried off. Jatayu was the only witness to the event. When he recounted the shocking event to Rama, he was mortally wounded and was holding his breath just to inform him what happened there, in his absence. Jatayu says that Sita has been carried off by Ravana, who is the son of Visrava, and the half-brother of Kubera. He recounts how he fought with him, to stop him from his misadventure and how that Ravana used the sword of Shiva on him to lop his wings off. Jatayu breathed his last even as he was recounting this. There was not much time left for him to say anything more than the barest minimum of information. Not a single word is to be found in the narration of Jatayu, on the manner in which she was carried away by Ravana.

If at all Rama came to know of the manner of abduction, it was through Janaki herself, who in the Sundara Kanda tells Hanuman when she refuses to be carried away on his back to the mainland, to the presence of Rama. (See: The question of touch) ‘I was weak and unconscious then and not in my control,’ she tells Hanuman. “That I was forced into contact with Ravana was because, being helpless, without a protector and having lost control of myself, I could not do anything.” (Valmiki Ramayana, Sundara Kanda, Canto 37, Sloka 63)

Therefore, if Rama accuses her of being held in the arms, bosom and laps of the ogre, if at all he came to know of it, that information reached his ears only through her own words and not otherwise. I am hard to put find one valid reason that would – if not justify – help us understand this attempt at using her own words against her and bidding a neat good-bye, using her innocence against her.

We have been hinting all this while that Rama was not speaking from his heart and have been meticulously collecting evidence for our case. It is however really shocking at this point to see that Rama’s anger has crossed its limits. He spun a spider’s web around her, but he fell a prey in his own web. He lost his control. There is no other way of looking at these words. The question of touch is not at all a matter for debate, knowing the heart of this poor lady, who has been his better half for more than twenty-five years now. She is going to hit him back with this same question.

This point of repudiation on the question of touch is of course confined to the version of Valmiki. This does not arise at all as far as Kamban is concerned. We will have to wait for a couple of days more to arrive at the parallel scene of Kamban, for we are yet to see the most shocking of all statements that Rama has made so far, in Valmiki Ramayana.

The derider’s alternative

‘My purpose stands completed and I stand vindicated with my securing your freedom’, Rama goes on. ‘nāsti me tvayy abhisvango.’ There is no attachment for you in my heart. There is no more love left in me for you. ‘yathestam gamyatām itah.’ You may therefore go wherever you like. As it pleases you. As you like it. ‘iti pravyāhrtam bhadre mayaitat krtabuddhinā.’ I have carefully considered this matter. It is not that I am speaking out of impulse. I have gone into this question and considered all aspects. I am resolved about it. And I act on what I have resolved.

Anyone going through these words and the words that are to follow would very easily see that Rama is impulsive now, though he claims to be otherwise. Anybody can see that very plainly, though helplessly. That he is angered. That he has lost control over himself. That he is not sane any more, on this day, at this moment. That like anyone of us whose desire for throwing a few more punches intensifies when the other person is pained, helpless and silent, he also oversteps the bounds and adds insult to injury. Listen to him.

laksmane bharate vā tvam kuru buddhim yathāsukham ||
sugrīve     vānarendre     vā      rāksasendre   vibhīsane |
nivesaya   manah   sīte    yathā    vā sukham ātmanah ||
                                 (Valmiki Ramayana, Yuddha Kanda, Canto 115, Sloka 22 [second half] and 23)

“Set your mind on Lakshmana or even Bharata according to your mind, or even Sugriva or on the king of ogres, Vibishana, O Sita, as it pleases you.”

You may choose Lakshmana, or Bharata or Sugriva or Vibishana. It is all left to you. You may accept anyone of them. (The Bombay Edition includes the name of Satrughna, too.) Since I have nothing to do with you any more, you may choose one of these as it pleases your whim.Who would not be shocked to hear these words! Even at this distance of time we are unable to bear the burden of crudity, the sharpness with which the words slap across our cheeks and the dismay and disbelief with which they leave us frozen. Not a single soul can claim that the words could have rolled out of the lips of a person who is in his senses, who remains sane and who remains in complete control of his self.

“See what the freedom that he gives her is,” Sastriyar seems to laugh sardonically. “Here, outraged by the unsparing language,” he says, “commentators are anxious that we should not put a sinister construction upon the passage. So they say that here Rama can only have meant that Sita should choose one of these people as the giver to her of a maintenance allowance, that she might go and reside under the protection of one of these people. ‘That is what Rama meant,’ says the commentator*. Ladies and gentlemen, my opinion is that there is no need to soften the language here. Rama meant harsh things. He was angry. He was dissatisfied. There was trouble in his breast. … … … You may say, ‘Can we ascribe such things to Sri Rama?’ But my whole point if you have followed me these days is that Sri Rama was just a human being and when he was angry he said foolish things. When he was sorry he wept bitter tears. There is no doubt about it. There is no need to soften the language…” (* The commentator referred to here is Govindaraja.)

I concur, my respected sir. The divinity of the avatar not denying, Rama played the role of a human being. He was human in every sense of the word. That is what the poets have been laying stress on, throughout. He was the most ideal human being. But the word ‘most’ does not encompass all that is good and good alone and negates the common human frailties, a hundred per cent. If he was most ideal, yes he was most ideal. But human. Even the very best of this race is not without its shortcomings. And Rama is one among them, though he stands and reigns supreme amongst all by the sheer weight of his character, but for this one incident.

I have been restraining myself from making personal observations – at least not the stronger ones – for now, until the narration of this scene is over. But, let me make just only one observation now. I wonder how this has slipped from the eyes of everyone. At least, I have not seen anyone mentioning this. Look at the Sloka again and take a look again at the scene and the gathering that surrounds the couple. Lakshmana is standing close by. If these words were meant to hit her hard, okay agreed, to chastise her, to extirpate the guilt and hold the balance even against her for the words that she uttered to Lakshmana in the Aranya Kanda, to push him hard to go away from her in search of Rama, then, tell me, is this a ‘chastisement’ – if it was one – of Sita and Sita alone? Is Lakshmana not standing nearby? Would he not have heard these words? ‘Fix your mind on Lakshmana.’ And how these words do you think would have hit that poor fellow!

Let’s come back to that later. Now for the last part of the ‘judgment'

The missile of mistrust

If what we saw in our last post was a shocking outpour, the last statement of Rama that we are about to see, once again leaves us perplexed, wondering whether he is really speaking from his heart or is merely stage-managing the whole show. ‘I am not able to believe that Ravana would have been able to observe restraint, with the bewitching beauty that you are remaining close at hand for a whole year,’ he hurls the last bombshell at her.

na hi tvām rāvano drstvā divyarūpām manoramām |
marsayate    ciram   sīte   svagrhe     parivartinīm ||           

                       (Valmiki Ramayana, Yuddha Kanda, Canto 115, Sloka 24)

“Seeing you, who are endowed with a charming exterior and are (so) soul-ravishing, detained in his abode, Ravana could not have endured your separation for long, O Sita!”

‘You are charming; beautiful. That Ravana was a fickle-minded demon. You were there in his house for such a long time in his prison. How then am I to believe that that beast of a demon could have left you undefiled? ‘

‘Compliment before you criticise,’ is one of the axioms that all the managers of the modern days are familiar with. Rama, the best of administrators, had this quality in him, aplenty. One can see the care that he takes to offer a praise or two before he steps on the gas to admonish. Be it Lakshmana; be it Sugriva; be it Vibishana. That holds good with everyone, and every time. One can see the way in which he silences Lakshmana when the latter takes to the bow, mistaking Bharata’s arrival at the Chitrakuta. (See: Capping the volcano) ‘I know my child that there is no one to withstand your might, if you set your mind on destroying all the seven worlds,’ is how he begins, before pulling Lakshmana back to his senses.

And, now we hear him complimenting. ‘divyarūpām manoramām’. ‘You are beautiful; charming; bewitching.’ What for! What for is this compliment! Just to yank the carpet from under her feet? My god! Does he not have the most dependable information from the most trusted of his messengers, Hanuman, about what happened in the Asoka Vana? Did he not listen to him when Hanuman reported –

“The virtuous and lovely Sita was seen by me living in the pleasance of Ravana in that city, having centred her heart’s desire on you, O Rama! (Nay) <i>she was seen by me <i/>in the midst of ogresses, guarded in a pleasance and closely guarded by ogresses and <i>being threatened again and again.</i> Detained in the pleasance of Ravana and closely guarded by ogresses, the godlike lady, who deserves to live happily with you, O valiant prince, has been reduced to straits. She wears a single pleat of hair (as a mark of desolation), is forlorn and <i>remains absorbed in your thought (alone) </i>. She stretches herself on the (bare) ground, is pale of limbs like a lotus plant at the approach of winter, <i><em>has utterly refused to have anything to do with Ravana, and is determined to die (rather than submit to Ravana). </i></em> (Valmiki Ramayana, Sundara Kanda, Canto 65, Sloka 10 – 15)

And, how did Rama react to the report? How did he feel and what did he say and how did he beg for more and more of those words from her through Hanuman?

kim āha sītā vaidehī brūhi saumya punah punah |
parāsum      iva    toyena   sincantī  vākyavārinā ||
                                                  (Ibid, Canto 66, Sloka 8)

“Please repeat, O gentle one, again and again, what Sita, a princess of the Videha territory said (to you), sprinkling me, unconscious as I am, with water in the form of her speech as it were.”

‘Repeat her words to me ‘punah punah’ again and again. Sprinkle, O please, with the vākyavārinā water of her words on my withered soul.’ Those words filled his soul with nectar, in the Sundara Kanda and of course, till moments before this drama commenced.

As Rt. Hon’ble Srinivasa Sastriyar observes, “Now, mind you, Rama has received the most unimpeachable testimony to her conduct in the Asoka Vana; his own trusted messenger, Hanuman had seen her and brought him reports how she resisted Ravana and his advances, how she defied him and how she always took his (Rama’s) name in reverence and begged Hanuman to tell him of her*.” Rama has ‘the most unimpeachable testimony,’ indeed. (*See: One for the Self and Eyes of inference, for a description from Valmiki and Kamban on how she pleads with Hanuman.)

If, having heard her words and the condition in which she was spending her days from none other than Hanuman himself, Rama chooses to fire the missile of mistrust at her, what could it mean! And tell me again, if his last remark would have slapped across the face of Lakshmana too while hitting her hard, would this not have shaken Hanuman to the core, along with Vaidehi? Is this a suspicion expressed on her integrity or on the dependability of Hanuman and his report? My gut feeling is, neither.

Let’s now turn to the parallel scene in Kamban’s drama.

A worm in the slush

We have gone into the arguments of Rama as presented in Valmiki Ramayana. When we turn to Kamban, we have to keep in mind that the poet has precluded Rama from making such accusations as, ‘You were seen in the hands of the demon,’ (See: Touch… and go) because of the major change that he has brought about in the drama of abduction. As we have seen, Ravana in Kamba Ramayana did not touch her person, but dug the hermitage up and took her along with it. This point is stressed again and again by Janaki to Hanuman in the Sundara Kanda and by Hanuman to Rama, when he reports back. Therefore, Kamban’s Rama – so to say – is deprived of a very strong weapon to hit her with.

Kamban’s Rama, like Valmiki’s, declares that this great effort of war with the demon – crossing the ocean with the bridge built across – was not undertaken for the sake of his love for her; but to save his own fair name from getting tarnished. We discussed the way he commenced his arguments before we came back to Valmiki. (See: Dead, you should have been and It was not for your sake)

Between the two versions, I should say, the speech of Rama is a bit less harsh in that, two major accusations – the question of touch and the suggestion to choose Lakshmana, Bharata etc. – are eliminated. Nonetheless, Rama does sound very harsh indeed. His repudiation, as we observed earlier, goes in full throttle right from word one, in Kamban.

When we left him Kamban’s Rama last, we heard him accusing her, ‘You relished flesh and guzzled liquor in the house of the demon.’ The particular verse in question (discussed in It was not for your sake) has been misunderstood by many. The words ‘verumai nInginaai,’ have been thought by some to mean ‘you abandoned us.’ One such interpretation can be found in David Shulman’s article, (which forms part of the book by name ‘Many Ramayanas’) (<a href="http://texts.cdlib.org/xtf/view?docId=ft3j49n8h7&chunk.id=d0e5351”> <i>Fire and Flood: The Testing of Sita in Kampan's Iramavataram, </i></a> The word ‘ninginaai’ (left from, abandon) seems to have given room for the conclusion that Rama accused her of ‘abandoning’ him. It is not really so. The verse speaks of ‘verumai nInginaai.’ The words are to be read together and understood. ‘verumai nInginaai,’ again sounds like the Freudian slip with a positive tinge that we have been mentioning earlier. We do not have the time to go into intricacies now. I am just taking the opportunity mention this much now, to discuss in detail later.

‘You, after all, were born like a worm in the slush,’ Rama continues. This is going to be one of the important counter-arguments from Sita in Valmiki Ramayana. Kamban’s Rama gives a twist to what she is going to say in Valmiki. ‘kalatthinil pirandha maa maNiyin kaandhuru nalatthin nin pirandhana, nadandhana,’ he says. All the good qualities, dazzling as they are like the gems studded in an ornament, have moved away from you; have deserted you. You are void of all good-qualities and your character now. ‘kulatthinil pirandhu ilai.’ You were not born – like any of us – in a good family. Janaka did not beget you. He simply found you in the plough-share. ‘kIdam pOl nilatthil pirandhamai nirappinaai.’ You conducted yourself like the worm you were, born on the soil. ‘Madam, you were not born of Janaka. You were just rolling in the slush when he picked you up.’

Words of anger. They make no sense. Does Rama not know that the retort would be, ‘Did it take twenty-five years for you to realise that?’ He knows. As we quoted from Srinivasa Sastriyar earlier, “But my whole point if you have followed me these days is that Sri Rama was just a human being and when he was angry he said foolish things. When he was sorry he wept bitter tears. There is no doubt about it. There is no need to soften the language…”

They make no sense. Agreed. But they make no sense on reflection; not when they are spoken. They singe as they slip down especially from the lips of a person who is celebrated as ‘madhurabhashi,’ sweet-spoken. Here is Rama, repeating his earlier suggestion of death, telling her how the world has become void of every good-quality of womanhood, with her birth.

The insinuation

We mentioned earlier that unlike many other major events in the epic, where Kamban turns, mends and even recreates events of his own, yet remaining well within the blueprint of Valmiki, he sticks to the version of his predecessor, mostly, in this particular scene, with very few exceptions. (See: Calm before the storm) However, we saw the major shift in the material that forms the basis of Rama’s reasons for repudiation of Sita.

He upholds vegetarian values – unlike the Kshatriya that he has been portrayed in Valmiki, going a-hunting in the Aranya Kanda (See: Dharma or no dharma?) This may of course be in keeping with the ideals to be practised by him during exile. But Kamban specifically makes the ideals of vegetarianism and abstinence from consumption of liquor, and upholds them as virtues, be it with Sugriva or be it with Vibishana. Scholars like Prof. A S Gnanasambandhan trace the emphasis that Kamban places on such virtues to the demands of the times of Kamban. That of course, can be gone into later.

But for now, we saw that Sita was accused with relishing meat and drinking. And then she was lashed out at with the accusation that she conducted herself ‘as the worm’ that she was. ‘All the glittering qualities that a good woman adorns have moved away from you,’ we heard him say. He moves a step up in the ladder – or does he go down, for that matter – and tell her that such qualities are obliterated from the face of the earth, the moment she was born.

‘peNmayum,’ All the good qualities that adorn womanhood, ‘perumayum,’ greatness, ‘pirappum,’ the qualities that are acquired from a good family, by birth, ‘karppu enum thiNmayum,’ the steadfast adherence to purity of wedlock, ‘ozukkamum’ good conduct, ‘theLivum,’ clarity, ‘sIrmayum’ excellence, ‘uNmayum’ and Truth, ‘nI orutthi thOndralaal,’ with your birth, your birth alone, ‘vaNmai il mannan pugazil maaindhavaal,’ were erased from the face of the earth, like the renown of a king who is not benevolent; who does not practice philanthropy.

How does the renown of a king grow if, despite all his other qualities, he does not practice philanthropy, if he is not generous, if he is not benevolent? That would put an end to all his reputation and bring about the death of his fame. Like your birth has brought about the death of every good quality that has been practised, adorned and nurtured by generations of women before you.

And then Rama goes to define the ideal woman. ‘adaipparaam pulangaLai.’ They who live away from their husbands guard their senses. They bolt them and keep them locked. ‘ozukkam aaNiya, sadaippar.’ They would consider good conduct as the very root of their being. They would wear a matted hair. (They would not decorate themselves.) ‘am thagaindhadhu Or maa thavam padaippar.’ They would live in great penance, adhering to the most exacting demands of conduct, living on the bare minimum requirements.

Raghava, she was living that way. She wanted to come to your presence that way. Hanuman had informed of the way she was spending her days without a second saree to change. And how she was wearing a single pleat. It was you who asked to get her decorated, and got her up in bridal makeup before she was brought to your presence. Knowing full well that she was living just the way you are speaking about, why should you issue orders to the contrary to Vibishana and made her appear before you and the multitudes in a grand manner! Apparently, to make it easy for you to make this last line, this last statement, this veiled implication –

‘idai oru pazhi vandhaal adhu thudaippar tham uyirodum, kulatthin thOgaimaar.’ Such women of good birth, proper brought up and good conduct, would wipe the disgrace that comes their way, if it comes, with their lives. In short, ‘A good woman does not live after she is the subject of disgrace.’

This is a suggestion that is not found in Valmiki. Valmiki’s Rama throws the ten directions open to her. And of course there were other harsh suggestions. Kamban joins Valmiki back on the point of throwing the directions open to her. ‘yaadhu yaan iyambuvadhu?’ he asks. What is there for me to say any further? (Why are you still standing before me? What are you waiting for!) ‘uNarivai vEr ara chEdhiyaa nindradhu un ozukkach cheydhi.’ The news of your conduct has laid the axe on the roots of all my senses. ‘saadhiyaal.’ Go and seek your death. ‘andru enin,’ if not, ‘thakkadhu oru neri pOdhiyaal,’ Choose the direction in which you want to go. You are free to go anywhere.

The entire surrounding was shocked. They bemoaned, they shed tears, lamenting loudly, says the poet.

A moment lasts the mood

The shock generated by the words of Rama is so much that people going through this portion quickly leaf through or skip the lines in a hurry, unable to stand the sense of uneasiness that spreads through and fills their minds, until they are stopped by the next great shock of Janaki getting prepared to jump into the pyre, prepared by Lakshmana. That probably is one of the reasons why many commentators and critics going through this scene do not pay sufficient attention to the way in which Janaki faces the situation. The majestic way in which she holds herself in face of the utter shame of being repudiated by the one who forms the very core of her heart, in the presence of such a large gathering, is something not to be missed.

One can easily visualise – even if the poet may or may not come to our aid – the effect of these painful words on her. When people going through this portion at this distance of time, through the written word that remains frozen there, find it difficult to bear, it is not that difficult to perceive how hard she would have been hit by the sledgehammer of these words. But there is a wonderful part of Janaki that comes to the fore, in the face of this excruciating experience of being humbled and insulted in public. Where she excels is the way in which she collects herself and questions Rama – not the king; but her husband.

It would have very clearly been seen from what we have been narrating all this long while, that there is a certain aloofness in the stance of Rama that has not been seen anywhere in the epic till now, in her presence. One would not have forgotten how Rama could not contain his grief in the presence of Sita, when breaking the news of exile, whereas he accepted the order and conveyed it to Kausalya with no apparent remorse. (See: Bid me good-bye, would you?) She has always been the asylum of all his emotions, all these long number of years. That’s how the poets, more especially Valmiki, have shown us. Kamban’s Rama stands a wee bit above emotions and we are not able to see such sentiments there.

Yes. As we have seen, Rama has been addressing her all this while from the unseen pedestal of a king. He has not been speaking to her, as she would have half-expected. He was actually addressing, nay, delivering his judgement with all sternness of a magistrate. “He knits his brows with the severity of a magistrate,” is what Srinivasa Sastriyar observes here. It was a situation which she had half-expected, but was not fully prepared for mentally, because the turn of events had given her a kind of hope. A trust that she has been accepted, she is going back to the same old person whom she last saw in the Aranya Kanda, running behind the deer, for her sake.

Valmiki mentions her reaction. tatah priyārhasvaranā tad apriyam; priyād upasrutya cirasya maithili| mumoca bāspam subhrsam pravepitā; gajendrahastābhihateva vallarī|| “Hearing that unpalatable speech from (the mouth of) her beloved lord, the proud lady, who had been used to hearing pleasing words (alone) thereupon shed tears for long on the occasion, weeping bitterly and looking like a creeper struck down by the proboscis of a lordly elephant.” (Valmiki Ramayana, Yuddha Kanda, Canto 115, Sloka 25)

She was not used to hearing such harsh words from Rama. That is to say, this is the first time in their life that Rama is speaking to her in this strange manner. She was crushed like a creeper that was hit by the trunk of an elephant.

‘She was like a deer that was running for long in a desert, seeking to quench its thirst,’ one can almost feel the moist eyes of Kamban as he says this. ‘parundhu adar surathidai, parugu nIr nasai varundhum arum thuyarinaal maaLal utra maan,’ She was like a deer in a desert full of vultures, which was almost dying of thirst. The poor deer had no time to stand for a while. On the one side it had to find its water; and on the other, it was being pursued by vultures. And finally, ‘irun thadam kaNdu adhin eydhuraavagai perum thadai utru enap pEdhu utraaL,’ she lost her senses like that deer which finally arrived at the watercourse but was blocked before it could slake its thirst.

That lasted for a few moments. It could not have been more than that. She collected herself. She was her own confident self again. When she decided to walk into the flames, it was her own decision. She neither was told to prove herself by throwing herself into Agni nor did she say that she would do so. It was not an ordeal in the real sense of the word, though people tend to call it ‘fire ordeal.’ Many call it Agni Pariksha. I prefer to call it – following the footsteps of many a scholar – Agni Pravesa.

Now, let’s hear what she has to say. Let’s watch the way Rama is rendered speechless by her words, before we go into the intricacies of naming the event.

In your keeping is my honour

‘She shrank into her limbs out of shame, and stood shedding tears,’ Valmiki says. So does Kamban portray, depicting her muttering to herself, ‘itradhu pOlum yaan irundhu petra pEru.’ ‘So? This is what all it has come to. This is what I spent all my time for, living in penance to be blessed with these curses.’ ‘tato bāspapariklistam pramārjanti svam ānanam,’ She wiped her face which was bathed in tears, clean. ‘sanair gadgadayā,’ Her voice choked and trembling, she spoke to Rama.

“I now come to the most impressive and solemn scene of all in the six Kandas,” observes Srinivasa Sastriyar, “where Rama accuses Sita of infidelity and tells her that he cannot take her back and that she is free to choose a protector anywhere. The world was open to her. Sita’s answer I shall give, noble words. A woman driven on her own resources, deprived of the hope she had entertained for twelve long months, accused in cruel fashion, and not knowing what to do, still speaks in complete self-possession, while all the world were looking at her.” She was left to herself. Who was there to speak for her? She had to play her own advocate. She had to argue her case for her own self. A strange crowd. Not a single familiar face, excepting that of Lakshmana, Hanuman and of course her own husband, who plays the accuser. She knows that the other two cannot do anything now. If that was the case with Hanuman and Lakshmana, there is not much left for Sugriva or Vibishana either. This was her case, for her to argue. And the judgement, strangely, was hers too.

‘You are not a common man and I am no common woman. Why then do you address me in such a manner! These are not sentiments for exalted souls to express! Ordinary folks do so. Not the evolved ones.’

kim mām asadrsam vākyam idrsam srotradārunam |
rūksam    srāvayase   vira   prākrtah   prākrtām  iva ||
                                     (Valmiki Ramayana, Yuddha Kanda, Canto 116, Sloka 5)

“Why do you, like a common man, address to me, O hero, such unkind and unbecoming words, which are (so) jarring to the ear, as a common man would do to an ordinary woman?”

You are not an ordinary man to express such unworthy sentiments, causing disgrace to me, who is again not an ordinary – or common – woman and that too in public. Besides being unkindly, these words do not befit you. Most unbecoming of you. You cannot talk like this! ‘pratyayam gaccha me svena cāritrenaiva te sape.’ ‘Be restored to confidence about me. I swear to you by my own character.’ Just take a look at the strength of will of this woman! When she swears, she does not swear in the name of God, or in the name of one’s parents or something or someone else as one normally does in such circumstances. She swears on the strength of her honour, her character, which has become the sole reason for her repudiation in public. ‘svena,’ my own.

‘You seem to judge me by the conduct of a few women who slipped in their ways. I do agree that there have been women in the past and in the present who swerved. But it is not fair to judge the entire womanhood on the basis of those few. You cannot do this. ‘prthak strinām pracārena jātim’ You cannot tar the entire womanhood with the same brush. You cannot come to judgement about the entire race of women, on the basis of the detestable conduct of some. No. This is not fair. Shake off this mistrust.

Moreover, you expressed very strong views about my being carried off in the hands of the demon. Tell me, what do you think I could have done in the circumstances? You say that I was held by Ravana; that I was held closely by him. Do you not know that I was not in my control? ‘yady aham gātrasamsparsam gatāsmi vivasā prabho.’ My Lord, these limbs of mine were overpowered. vi-vasha, I was. I was not in my vasha, control. It may be remembered that this is the third time in the epic that she mentions this point of ‘vivasha’. (See: Helpless I am, This is what she has to say Part I and Part II, for a description of the earlier two occasions.)

What could I have done against a demon, with twenty valiant hands (that lifted the Mount Kailash?) If he held me close to him, was that because of my seeking? Absolutely not. Neither was it due to my seeking, nor was it to my liking, nor was it something that I tolerated. (More over, you know that he could not have done anything to me more than holding me for carrying me off. You have heard about the curse on that scum.)

‘Do not get confused unnecessarily on the question of touch. If at all he touched me, it was for the sake of carrying me off and nothing more than that. Tell me something. Where do you think my heart was lying all these days? Does it not belong to you? Has it not been with you and you alone?

madadhinam tu yat tan me hrdayam tvayi vartate |
parādhinesu   gātresu    kim  karisyāmy anisvarā ||
                                                        (Ibid, Sloka 9)

“That which is under my control, viz., my heart, (ever) abides in you. What could I do, helpless as I was, with regard to my limbs, which had fallen under the sway of another?”

He might have carried me off physically, holding me close to him. But my heart has always been with you. Okay. Let that be set aside. Let me not tell you where my heart has been all these days and is now. Answer me. Do you not know me? Have we not been united in wedlock when you were a boy and I was a small girl? Have we not grown up together?

sahasamvrddhabhāvāc ca samsargera ca mānada |
yady  aham  te  na vijnātā hatā tenāsmi sāsvatam ||
                                                               (Ibid, Sloka 10)

“If I could not be fully known to you, O bestower of honour (on others) in spite of our love (for each other) having simultaneously grown and despite our having lived together (for so many years), I am undone for good, thanks to such ignorance.”

You are said to be – nay, I know you ARE – the protector honour of others. You do not hesitate to guard the honour of others. Is my honour not in your keeping? If, despite knowing me, having grown up together and lived together for so many years, you still do not know where my heart lies and to whom it belongs to, I am lost. I am lost beyond redemption.

Hari Krishnan

Sita XXI

Sita XXIII