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The holy one sought only one amendment.
“Perhaps my sons were barking dogs,” he said, “but they were loyal and dedicated to their father, just like young Rama here. Their behavior was only a reflection of the father they had. At heart, they were pure, as most children are. Next time you speak this story, I pray you include this in your portrayal of them.”
The storyteller folded his hands at his chest and bowed. As he left, Rama could see his immense relief. He had told the story without incurring Vishvamitra’s wrath, and Rama sensed that if Vishvamitra had not been present, the tale would have included more anecdotes of that famous temper.
Dasharatha stood up. “I thank you, Vasishta, for your timely intervention. We have been eloquently reminded of Vishvamitra’s stature.”
“I wish to become your son’s mentor,” Vishvamitra said. And Rama thought at once of the arsenal of weapons the holy one possessed. “When you were his age, Great King, you had already fought in the battle of the immortals and gained your name. Give Rama the opportunity to grow. As a son of the Sun dynasty, he is destined to face blood-drinkers in battle. If Rama is ever in danger, I will use any means, as a sage or a warrior, to protect him. As highest truths go, however, Rama needs no protection.”
Father took a deep breath. “Respected Vishvamitra, I resisted your request out of fear for my son’s safety. I am his father, and it is my duty to protect him. I understand the great honor you bestow upon him. I relinquish him to your care. He will leave with you as soon as you require.”
“I wish to depart before the sun sets.”
Hearing this, Lakshmana instinctively leaned toward Rama. Would Rama be going without him? Rama felt his brother’s distress and leaned back toward Lakshmana, steadying him. While Lakshmana’s alarm grew visible, Rama’s poise made him still.
Father needed only to glance at them once to understand. He turned back to face Vishvamitra. “I have one request to make of you, holy one. So far in this life, Rama and his 296
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younger brother, Lakshmana, have never spent a day apart. Will you honor us by allowing Lakshmana to accompany his brother on this quest?”
“As you wish.”
Lakshmana’s relief made him slump in his seat. The brothers looked at each other with growing excitement. It was their first adventure outside Ayodhya, but surely not the last.
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chapter 33
Rama’s Rite of Passage
The preparation for the princes’ departure was minimal. Vishvamitra wanted to walk out of the city as he had come, on foot and incognito, so the usual fanfare was dispensed with. The two princes needed only their bows and quivers. The queens were called to bid them farewell, but Rama melted first into his father’s embrace. He couldn’t understand why Father treated this moment as the final farewell, but he felt his father’s anguish. Father did not release them lightly on this quest, and Rama sensed the seriousness of the situation. Father’s eyes were dry with unshed tears, and he admonished Rama to honor Vishvamitra’s every command.
Mother then invoked Earth’s elements to protect Rama and bless his journey.
Rama felt her love and blessings wrap around him like a cloak.
When it was Kaikeyi’s turn, she embraced Rama tightly. He wondered briefly if she shared Manthara’s desire to put Bharata on the throne. Manthara would be thrilled to hear Rama had left Ayodhya. No doubt she would pray day and night for him never to return. Kaikeyi, however, dispelled all such thoughts, for in her farewell, she used the words she had always reserved for Bharata: “Land nor sea can part you from me.”
Though Rama knew the phrase well, it was the first time Kaikeyi had said the
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words to him, and Rama felt the haunting love in them. He returned his third mother’s love unconditionally.
The four brothers took turns embracing. Whenever the elders were focused elsewhere, Shatrugna croaked into Lakshmana’s ears, saying it meant “Safe journey” or “Spread your wings” in crow talk.
“Finally I’ll be free of you,” Lakshmana said, alternatively hugging and punching his twin.
Rama and Bharata interacted in a more contained manner, neither of them prone to displays of emotion, as the twins were. Rama didn’t exactly feel that the kingship stood between them, because he would joyfully give it to Bharata and Bharata gladly gave it to Rama. Still, Manthara cast a formidable shadow, and it lay there in crooked shades of gray between them.
Sumitra placed the red saffron powder on Rama’s forehead, a symbol of victory, and then on Lakshmana’s. It was the only formality the king insisted on. If Lakshmana wasn’t right beside him, Rama knew the leave taking would have felt more poignant. Indeed, Rama could not imagine what the separation from Lakshmana would feel like. He did not want to imagine it.
Vishvamitra was patient while the royal family took their farewells.
“I will return your sons within ten days,” he repeatedly promised.
As they walked out of Ayodhya, Rama did not go unnoticed. The people of Ayodhya stopped whatever they were doing to behold Rama as he walked by. He felt their desire to rush toward him and receive his attention, but one and all remained respectfully distant.
Rama smiled at as many of them as he could but did not wave, for he was Vishvamitra’s pupil now. The holy one walked with bold strides looking neither left nor right. Rama felt a deep and instinctive trust toward him. It was like being with someone like Vasishta but who also cared for weapons and military arts as Rama did.
Vishvamitra walked in front as their guide, and the two boys followed in silence. They left the city and marched along the river Sarayu, resting only as night fell. Though not accustomed to walking long distances on foot, the princes were strong from hours of martial arts training and did not tire.
As night fell, they took shelter under a tree. Rama and Lakshmana had never slept on the bare earth before, with only their arms as pillows. Consumed by the newness of it all, neither youth could sleep. Rama had felt torn while leaving his father, but the feeling had started to vanish. He wondered whether his father also lay sleepless this night. Rama and Lakshmana whispered to one another, comparing experiences, until at last sleep overtook them.
The next morning they crossed the holy river Ganga. Vishvamitra had pointed out the beautiful landmarks they had passed, but on this day on the southern bank of the Ganga there was scarcely anything to see. A scorching heat engulfed the trio. The sun blazed angrily, and the hot sand seared their every step. There was no more greenery, and the desert stretched for miles around them. Gusts of hot air hit Rama’s face repeatedly. The wind flung the sand mercilessly about, stinging the travelers’ skin. A solitary vulture was the only 300
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form of life they saw; heaps of bones were scattered about the dry landscape. Animal skeletons offered the only variation in the landscape, an unending expanse of dunes and plateaus.
“There was a time,” their guide said, “when this area was lush and teeming with many animals. Now the only trace of animals you will see is that.” He pointed to elephant tusks reaching up through the sand like giant white thorns. “The red gems you see sparkling in the sand have been spit out by venomous serpents.”
Grimly, they walked on. Vishvamitra showed no signs of tiring, although the sun was burning like fire, so the princes followed his example without complaining. Sweat trickled from every pore, and it was not until both Rama and Lakshmana were soaked in their own salty perspiration that their guide turned and stopped.
“These austere conditions must be foreign to both of you.”
“Yes, they are,” Lakshmana admitted. “But we don’t mind.”
“You have borne the discomforts so far without a word of complaint,” Vishvamitra remarked.
“No one knows what trials life may bring,” Rama said. “To bear nature’s affliction is a small test of endurance.”
“True words, Rama,” his mentor said, “but if we can avoid needless discomfort, why not? Also, this climate generates illness. Even great heroes are helpless against nature.”
Then Rama and Lakshmana experienced the power of Vishvamitra, for he muttered a mantra swiftly, like a magical invocation. “You will remain unaffected by any climate that surrounds you,” he promised.
No sooner had he said the words than a cooling breeze settled around them. They resumed their passage, but now less grimly, without feeling the onslaught of the wind and sun.
The boys looked at each other and did nothing to hide the fact that they were impressed by this trick. The sun began to feel comfortably warm, and they had the sensation of rambling through a pleasant park. The spell, however, couldn’t blind them to the surrounding sights; the place became nastier with each step, oppressive with the sight of the skeleton-filled grounds. Rama could sense that the place was home to some unknown evil, but he did not yet know Vishvamitra well enough to simply express his instincts.
The evil did not remain unknown for long, as one of the mountains in front of them suddenly began to move. Although startled, Rama and Lakshmana continued to walk; Vishvamitra had not slowed his pace. He seemed, in fact, to be heading straight for that big lump of a mountain, which was strangely shaped with a cloud of black misting its peak.
Rama strained his neck as he stared up at it and saw something alarming: two huge red hollows that rimmed two black circles. Were they bizarre caves? The black circles were rolling back and forth. Then another “cave” abruptly materialized under the hollows, and Rama gasped.
“It’s alive!”
The cave, which had opened, now grimaced, widely displaying its sharp fangs. “It’s 302
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alive,” it mimicked in a voice that sounded like the croak of fifty thirsty buffaloes. “Have you come here only to insult me? Or are you simply fond of meeting your own death?”
Though Rama had known something terrible lurked here, he had not been prepared for this monstrosity, a talking mountain with fangs. He had never seen anything as appalling as this. This humanoid mountain could speak; it had eyes, a nose, and a mouth; and on closer scrutiny, seemed to have other humanlike body parts as well. The nose was so large and mal-formed that it could easily be mistaken for a rocky cliff. The hair that covered its head had invaded the creature’s nose and arms. The hair was coated with dirt and therefore appeared to be some sort of hardy bush or plant—surviving despite the harsh conditions.
There was little time to scrutinize it, however, for the monster was coming toward them, its arms waving furiously.
“Rama, kill it,” Vishvamitra barked, offering no further explanation.
Rama immediately pulled his bow from his shoulder and shot the monster between the eyebrows. It shrieked angrily, and Rama, who was about to shoot another arrow, gasped.
Something about the high-pitched wail chilled him.
“It’s a lady!” he yelled, horror stricken.
Lakshmana and Rama stared at one another, wide-eyed. So far in their worldview, women were beautiful and dignified. The only unpleasant woman in their life was Manthara, and she was an angel compared to this creature.
“Ha! You can hardly call that thing a lady,” Vishvamitra said forcefully. “She does not even deserve to be called a woman.”
“But how can I attack her?” Rama asked, his resistance to the idea written all over his face. But reflex made him fire five sharp missiles directly at her, for she was about to snatch Lakshmana into her gaping mouth.
“More than anything else, this creature is a monster,” Vishvamitra said urgently. “I have brought you to this desert for the sole purpose of killing her.”
Though chivalry toward women was ingrained in him, Rama had no choice but to keep hurling arrows at the demoness in self-defense.
She was throwing large rocks at them and bellowing, “I will eat you. I will eat you!”
Her concave eye sockets widened and squinted rapidly as she sought the next boulder to hurl. Rama’s arrows covered her arms and neck like pins, but since the injuries were not life threatening, they did little to stop her onslaught. She ran madly around Rama and Lakshmana and created such a dust storm that Rama no longer knew where to direct his bow.
She laughed loudly and screamed, “No one can overpower Tataka!”
Hearing her shriek, Rama knew her exact location. He skillfully fired a torrent of arrows into her mouth, which rendered all further speech incomprehensible, although no less audible. She shouted at such a volume that the Earth seemed to shake and Rama’s and Lakshmana’s ears rang. Lakshmana plugged his ears for relief. He seemed content to watch what Rama was doing, as if it was a game. Rama was going to have a word with his brother later about this.
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In this way, the young prince and the she-monster dueled for some time. Tataka lost an arm, then the other, yet still lived.
Rama was still ambivalent about killing a woman, and when the demoness seemed momentarily lost in her own sandstorm, Vishvamitra took the opportunity to speak.
“Her name is indeed Tataka,” he said. “She is the mother of the two blood-drinkers who have continually spoiled my fire sacrifices. As you have seen, she has terrorized this region, which was once a lush forest. She became what you see today through her own evil conduct: a curse made her into a man-eating creature of the night. She is beyond redemption.”
When Rama remained indecisive, Vishvamitra said sternly, “To kill a woman pure at heart is indeed the greatest sin, but to think of this monster as a woman is sheer folly and cowardice. A monster has no gender; it is an abomination. This creature is guilty of every sinful act ever conceived. To be patient with her is not a virtue. Keeping these facts in mind and to unburden the Earth, I order you to kill her.”
Rama had listened intently while remaining alert to Tataka’s advances. With the same speed that he shot his arrows, he weighed the arguments and instantly accepted their judiciousness.
“Your command is like my father’s,” he said. “Obeying you is a virtue in itself.”
A steely resolve became visible on his face as Rama prepared himself to kill Tataka.
The prince began to release arrows at such a speed that it was impossible to know when he shot one arrow and when he reached for another. When Tataka remained out of sight, Rama took out a long arrow and aimed at the sound he heard. The sharp arrow flew straight into Tataka’s black heart. She fell to the ground with a crash and a final scream as her life escaped her hideous body. Blood flowed copiously from all her wounds, including her mouth, turning the desert red. A shower of flowers rained down on them.
The trio left the place covered in heavenly flowers.
Rama had never before taken a life. The lethal weapon, his aloe-wood bow, fragrant with saffron, now again rested quietly on his shoulders as his feet, smeared with Tataka’s blood, left red footprints behind him. With the first arrow that pricked Tataka’s leathered skin, what had once been a toy used to show off his marksmanship had become a lethal weapon.
Rama felt an urgent need to speak to his brother in private and slowed down, pulling Lakshmana aside.
“Why did you just stand and watch while I had to defend us from that creature?” Rama demanded, still not wanting to think of Tataka as a “she.”
“Vishvamitra told you to kill her,” Lakshmana immediately said. “I was following instructions.”
But Rama could tell that wasn’t the complete reason and simply kept looking at his brother, demanding more. “And you are so much better with your bow than I am,” Lakshmana added.
“And?”
“And I would have insulted your prowess by joining in, as if it wasn’t easy enough for you,” he concluded.
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“Insulted my prowess,” Rama said, repeating Lakshmana’s phrase. “Do you really think it was easy for me to kill her?”
“Rama, my brother,” Lakshmana said, slinging his arm around Rama’s shoulder, “you are too thoughtful sometimes. I agree with Vishvamitra. She was not a lady! You did nothing wrong in killing her.”
Rama took a deep breath that came out like a sigh.
“And, no, I don’t think it was easy for you to kill her,” Lakshmana said. “But for your arrows, it was. Admit it. You were just playing. She never really was a threat to us.”
Rama smiled a bit. “Well, she was really, really huge. Bigger than anything I’ve ever encountered.”
“A larger target then,” Lakshmana said confidently.
Again, Rama let out an exasperated sigh, but he wasn’t affronted by his brother anymore.
He knew his brother would face and overcome the same hurdle in his own time. Despite Vishvamitra’s and Lakshmana’s assurances, it was Rama who had today killed a woman, a monster, a creature, a blood-drinker. Whatever she was, she had been alive, and now she was in the land of Yama because of Rama. So this is what it feels like to be a killer, he thought.
He had always known this day would come. Destroying his enemy was the clear goal of all his training since his first school day.
Unable to stop his pensive thoughts, Rama let the remorse wash through him. Once it filled his being completely, it was gone. And Rama knew he could bear the burden of what he had done.
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chapter 34
Revenge and Enlightenment
he next morning they rose before the sun did and, clad only in loincloths, dipped Tinto the chilly water of the Ganga. Rama marveled at all these new sensations of sleeping on the bare earth and bathing unattended by servants. They sat on the ground, cross-legged, saying their prayers to the sun and the thirty gods. Soon the morning rays warmed their skin, drying their loincloths.
As their morning prayers concluded, Vishvamitra told them, “Though I had many unforgivable faults as a king, I was completely dedicated to weapon lore. Over the millennia of my life, I’ve perfected many of the mantras that invoke supernatural missiles. Aside from Parashuram, who notoriously hates warriors, I’m the only person who possesses this extensive knowledge on this subject.”
