of that black-hearted woman shall not be fulfilled. I’ll not let my senses watch this injustice passively. I’ll resist it till I perish.”
“It was my mistake,” said Rama. “I have only myself to blame for accepting my father’s offer of the throne so readily without thinking of the consequences. Your tongue, learned in the recital of Vedas and all the truths of godly life, should not be allowed to utter whatever it likes so irresponsibly. Your charges will not stand the scrutiny of judicious and serene temperaments. You must not utter such bitter remarks about people who after all are none other than your father and mother.” (Rama makes no distinction between mother and stepmother). “Calm yourself. Sometimes a river runs dry, and then it cannot be said to be the fault of the river—it’s dry because the heavens are dry. So also, our father’s change of mind, or the apparent hardheartedness of Kaikeyi, who has been so loving and kind, or Bharatha’s chance of succession. . . . These are really not our own doing, but some higher powers have decreed them. Fate . . .”
“I’ll be the fate to overpower fate itself,” said Lakshmana, with martial arrogance. Rama argued with him further. “I’ll change and alter fate itself, if necessary,” repeated Lakshmana and concluded his sentence with the refrain, “Whoever dares to oppose my aim will be destroyed.
“I know no father and no mother, other than you,” said Lakshmana, still unsoftened. “You are everything to me. And there is no meaning in my existence, and in the possession of my limbs and sense intact, unless I establish you on the throne as your right, irrespective of what a female serpent has tried to do. My blood boils and will not calm down—you will now see what my bow can do. . . .”
At this Rama held his hand back. He said, “I am firmly convinced that our mother Kaikeyi is the one who deserves to inherit this kingdom, having saved our father’s life and being assured of his gratitude; it is Bharatha’s privilege—being the one chosen by Kaikeyi; and my privilege is renunciation and the association of enlightened hermits of the forests. Do you want to let your anger rage until you have vanquished an innocent brother who has no part in this, a mother who has nursed us, and a father who was the greatest ruler on earth? Is that victory worth all this? Is this anger, which seeks to destroy all firm relationships, worth nurturing? Control yourself, and take your hand off your bow.”
Lakshmana relaxed, muttering, “What’s all this strength of my arm worth! Mere burden, if it cannot be employed to destroy evil when I see it; and my anger itself has now proved futile.”
Rama went up with Lakshmana to bid farewell to his stepmother Sumithra. As had happened with the others, Sumithra also bewailed Rama’s exile and tried to stop him. Once again, untiringly, Rama expressed his determination to go and his joy at being able to fulfill his father’s terms. While they were talking, a servant maid sent by Kaikeyi came bearing in her arms garments made of tree barks, a reminder for Rama to change quickly and depart. Lakshmana ordered another set for himself, shed the finery he was wearing, and changed into coarse bark. Presently Rama, dressed like an ascetic or penitent, was ready to leave. At the sight of his departure, the women wept. Rama made one last attempt to leave Lakshmana behind but Lakshmana followed him stubbornly. He then went into Sita’s chamber and found her already dressed in the rough tree fibre—her finery and jewels discarded and laid aside, although she had decorated and dressed herself as befitting a queen a little while ago. Rama, though he had been of so firm a mind for himself, felt disturbed at the sight of her—the change being so sudden. He said, “It was never my father’s intention to send you along with me. This is not the life for you. I have only come to take your leave, not to take you with me. . .
“It was my mistake,” said Rama. “I have only myself to blame for accepting my father’s offer of the throne so readily without thinking of the consequences. Your tongue, learned in the recital of Vedas and all the truths of godly life, should not be allowed to utter whatever it likes so irresponsibly. Your charges will not stand the scrutiny of judicious and serene temperaments. You must not utter such bitter remarks about people who after all are none other than your father and mother.” (Rama makes no distinction between mother and stepmother). “Calm yourself. Sometimes a river runs dry, and then it cannot be said to be the fault of the river—it’s dry because the heavens are dry. So also, our father’s change of mind, or the apparent hardheartedness of Kaikeyi, who has been so loving and kind, or Bharatha’s chance of succession. . . . These are really not our own doing, but some higher powers have decreed them. Fate . . .”
“I’ll be the fate to overpower fate itself,” said Lakshmana, with martial arrogance. Rama argued with him further. “I’ll change and alter fate itself, if necessary,” repeated Lakshmana and concluded his sentence with the refrain, “Whoever dares to oppose my aim will be destroyed.
“I know no father and no mother, other than you,” said Lakshmana, still unsoftened. “You are everything to me. And there is no meaning in my existence, and in the possession of my limbs and sense intact, unless I establish you on the throne as your right, irrespective of what a female serpent has tried to do. My blood boils and will not calm down—you will now see what my bow can do. . . .”
At this Rama held his hand back. He said, “I am firmly convinced that our mother Kaikeyi is the one who deserves to inherit this kingdom, having saved our father’s life and being assured of his gratitude; it is Bharatha’s privilege—being the one chosen by Kaikeyi; and my privilege is renunciation and the association of enlightened hermits of the forests. Do you want to let your anger rage until you have vanquished an innocent brother who has no part in this, a mother who has nursed us, and a father who was the greatest ruler on earth? Is that victory worth all this? Is this anger, which seeks to destroy all firm relationships, worth nurturing? Control yourself, and take your hand off your bow.”
Lakshmana relaxed, muttering, “What’s all this strength of my arm worth! Mere burden, if it cannot be employed to destroy evil when I see it; and my anger itself has now proved futile.”
Rama went up with Lakshmana to bid farewell to his stepmother Sumithra. As had happened with the others, Sumithra also bewailed Rama’s exile and tried to stop him. Once again, untiringly, Rama expressed his determination to go and his joy at being able to fulfill his father’s terms. While they were talking, a servant maid sent by Kaikeyi came bearing in her arms garments made of tree barks, a reminder for Rama to change quickly and depart. Lakshmana ordered another set for himself, shed the finery he was wearing, and changed into coarse bark. Presently Rama, dressed like an ascetic or penitent, was ready to leave. At the sight of his departure, the women wept. Rama made one last attempt to leave Lakshmana behind but Lakshmana followed him stubbornly. He then went into Sita’s chamber and found her already dressed in the rough tree fibre—her finery and jewels discarded and laid aside, although she had decorated and dressed herself as befitting a queen a little while ago. Rama, though he had been of so firm a mind for himself, felt disturbed at the sight of her—the change being so sudden. He said, “It was never my father’s intention to send you along with me. This is not the life for you. I have only come to take your leave, not to take you with me. . .
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