Sumantra Returns to a Grieving Ayodhya
Ayodhyakanda - Sarga 57
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Ayodhyakanda - Sarga 57
Experience the anguish of Ayodhya as Sumantra returns without Rama. Witness King Dasaratha's collapse, Queen Kausalya's lament, and a kingdom united in grief in this poignant Ramayana excerpt.
As Rama reached the southern bank of the river Ganga, Guha, the chieftain of the Nishadas, found himself engulfed in a cloud of sorrow. He had spent long hours in conversation with Sumantra, the loyal charioteer, his heart heavy with the weight of recent events. With a final glance at the departing prince, Guha turned away, his steps slow and measured as he made his way back to his dwelling.
Meanwhile, Sumantra, having received Rama's permission to depart, prepared for his own journey. His hands moved mechanically as he harnessed the finest horses to his chariot, his mind still reeling from the painful farewell. With a heavy heart that seemed to anchor him to the spot, he finally urged the horses forward, setting out for Ayodhya, the once-joyous city that now awaited news of its beloved prince.
As Sumantra's chariot sped along, the landscape blurred past him in a tapestry of beauty that he could scarcely appreciate. Fragrant forests, their trees laden with blossoms, whispered secrets of the earth. Rivers and lakes, their waters sparkling under the sun's gaze, reflected the vast sky above. Villages and towns dotted the path, each a microcosm of life continuing its course, unaware of the profound change that had occurred in the royal family.
Yet, for all the beauty that surrounded him, Sumantra's thoughts remained fixed on the task that lay ahead. He pushed the horses to their limit, urging them to eat up the miles that separated him from Ayodhya. Time seemed to both crawl and fly, the journey a strange mixture of endless roads and fleeting moments.
As the sun began its descent on the third day, casting long shadows across the land, Sumantra finally approached the outskirts of Ayodhya. The familiar silhouette of the city's walls and towers rose before him, a sight that would normally fill him with joy. But as he drew closer, a palpable change in the air made him pause.
The usual bustle and vibrancy that characterized Ayodhya were conspicuously absent. An eerie silence hung over the city, broken only by the occasional muffled sob or whispered lament. It was as if a dark cloud had descended upon the once-cheerful metropolis, draining it of all life and color.
Sumantra's heart sank as he realized the depth of despair that had gripped Ayodhya in Rama's absence. The city, which had always pulsed with energy and laughter, now seemed like a mere shell of its former self. As he guided his chariot through the deserted streets, Sumantra braced himself for the difficult task that lay ahead – facing the king and queen with news that would only deepen their sorrow.
As Sumantra guided his chariot through the gates of Ayodhya, the weight of silence pressed upon him. The once-bustling city streets, usually alive with the rhythms of daily life, now lay eerily quiet. The faithful charioteer, his mind clouded with sorrow, found himself questioning the very reality before him.
"Could it be," he pondered, his thoughts racing, "that the entire city—its majestic elephants, swift horses, loyal subjects, and even our noble king—has been consumed by the fire of grief for Rama?" The notion, though extreme, didn't seem entirely implausible given the deathly stillness that enveloped Ayodhya.
Lost in his somber musings, Sumantra barely noticed as his horses, responding to years of habit, carried the chariot swiftly towards the heart of the city. It was only when he approached the city center that the silence was suddenly shattered.
As if awakened from a collective trance, the citizens of Ayodhya surged forward, their voices rising in a cacophony of anguish and inquiry. "Where is Rama?" they cried out, their words tinged with desperation. The crowd swelled around Sumantra's chariot, hundreds, then thousands strong, each face etched with the same burning question.
Overwhelmed by the sea of grieving faces, Sumantra struggled to find his voice. When he finally spoke, his words came out heavy with emotion. "I... I took leave of the righteous and great-souled Rama on the banks of the Ganga," he managed to say, his voice barely audible above the crowd's laments.
The impact of his words was immediate and devastating. As understanding dawned, a wave of anguish swept through the assembled throng. Men and women alike raised their tear-streaked faces to the sky, their cries of "Alas! Alas!" and "Oh, Rama!" echoing off the city walls.
Sumantra watched as groups formed among the citizens, their voices lowered to pained whispers. "We are truly lost," he heard them say, "for we will no longer see Rama in our midst." The charioteer's heart ached as he listened to their lamentations, each word a testament to the profound love the people held for their prince.
"Never again will we witness Rama's presence at our sacrifices, our weddings, our great assemblies," one group mourned. Another praised Rama's governance, recalling how he had cared for the city as a father tends to his children, always considering what would bring his people joy and comfort.
As Sumantra's chariot inched forward, he became acutely aware of the sorrow that permeated every corner of Ayodhya. From the windows of grand mansions, he could hear the muffled sobs of noblewomen. In the marketplaces, usually vibrant with trade and gossip, only whispers of grief could be heard.
The charioteer's own anguish deepened with each passing moment. He had returned to a city transformed—no longer the jewel of the kingdom, but a place of profound mourning. As he made his way towards the royal palace, Sumantra steeled himself for what lay ahead, knowing that the pain he had witnessed in the streets was but a prelude to the sorrow that awaited him within the royal chambers.
With a heavy heart, Sumantra guided his chariot towards the royal palace. The grand structure, once a symbol of power and joy, now loomed before him like a monument to sorrow. As he approached, he could hear the faint echoes of lamentation drifting from within its walls.
Steeling himself for what lay ahead, Sumantra dismounted from his chariot. His face, usually composed, was now drawn with grief. He covered it partially, a gesture that spoke volumes about the news he carried. With measured steps, he made his way along the royal highway, each step bringing him closer to the heart of Ayodhya's anguish.
The palace, typically a hive of activity, was unnaturally still. As Sumantra entered, he found himself navigating through seven courtyards, each more crowded than the last. The usual bustle of courtiers and attendants had been replaced by a somber gathering of worried faces, all turned expectantly towards him.
From the upper floors of the palace, Sumantra could feel the weight of countless eyes upon him. Women peered down from ornate balconies and windows, their faces etched with sorrow. As they caught sight of him, a chorus of "Alas, alas!" rose into the air, the sound piercing through the heavy silence.
These were no ordinary lamentations. Sumantra recognized the voices of King Dasaratha's wives, their grief palpable even from a distance. Their cries spoke of a deep anguish, born from the absence of their beloved Rama. Sumantra's own heart constricted at the sound, knowing that his news would only deepen their sorrow.
As he pressed on, Sumantra overheard fragments of conversation drifting from various parts of the palace. The words of the royal wives reached his ears, their whispers laden with pain:
"The charioteer left with Rama but returns without him. What words can he possibly offer to console the grieving Kausalya?"
"How can Kausalya endure this separation from her son? It seems an impossible burden to bear."
Their words, so full of truth and anguish, felt like physical blows to Sumantra. The weight of his responsibility – to deliver news that would only compound this suffering – seemed to grow with each step.
Finally, Sumantra reached the eighth and innermost courtyard. Here, in a chamber as pale and lifeless as moonlight, he found King Dasaratha. The sight that greeted him was one of utter desolation.
The great king, once the very picture of regal bearing, sat slumped in his seat. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow, reflecting the profound sorrow that had taken root in his heart. It was clear that the pain of separation from Rama had already begun to take its toll, withering the once-mighty monarch.
Gathering his courage, Sumantra approached the king. He bowed low, paying his respects, before slowly straightening to meet Dasaratha's gaze. With a voice that threatened to break at any moment, Sumantra began to relay Rama's message, repeating the prince's words exactly as they had been spoken.
As Sumantra spoke, he watched the king intently. Dasaratha remained silent, his face a mask of pain. Then, as the full weight of Rama's words settled upon him, the king's composure crumbled entirely. With a heart-wrenching cry, Dasaratha collapsed, falling unconscious to the ground.
The sight of their beloved king falling sent shockwaves through the assembled court. In an instant, the room erupted into chaos, the silence shattered by cries of alarm and distress. Sumantra stood frozen, the enormity of the situation washing over him like a tidal wave.
In that moment, surrounded by the outcry of the court and facing the fallen form of the king, Sumantra realized that his return to Ayodhya marked not just the end of a journey, but the beginning of a period of profound change and sorrow for the entire kingdom.
The moment King Dasaratha collapsed to the ground, a wave of anguish swept through the inner chambers of the palace. The women of the royal household, their hearts already heavy with sorrow, let out a collective cry of distress. Their voices, usually melodious and controlled, now rose in a cacophony of grief, filling the air with lamentations.
Queen Kausalya, Rama's mother, rushed forward with Queen Sumitra at her side. Despite her own overwhelming sorrow, Kausalya summoned the strength to tend to her fallen husband. With gentle yet trembling hands, they lifted the unconscious king, their touch a mixture of reverence and desperation.
As they cradled the king, Kausalya's voice, thick with emotion, broke the tense silence. Her words, though addressed to Dasaratha, seemed to echo the sentiments of all those present:
"My lord, why do you lie silent? Before you is the messenger who has returned from our son, who has undertaken this arduous task of exile. Why do you not speak to him? Rise, O king! Let not your sorrow overcome you so."
Her voice grew stronger, tinged with a hint of reproach born from her own pain:
"Have you now become hesitant, O Raghu descendant, after committing this unjust act? Stand up! If you remain consumed by grief, who will come to our aid?"
Then, her tone softened, a note of bitter understanding creeping in:
"My lord, is it fear of Kaikeyi that prevents you from inquiring about Rama from the charioteer? Fear not, for she is not here now. Speak freely, without restraint."
As these words left Kausalya's lips, her composure finally shattered. The weight of her grief, momentarily held at bay by concern for her husband, came crashing down upon her. With a heart-wrenching cry, she collapsed to the ground beside the king, her body wracked with sobs.
The sight of both King Dasaratha and Queen Kausalya lying prostrate on the floor sent shockwaves through the assembled women. Their cries of anguish redoubled, filling the palace with a symphony of sorrow. Ladies-in-waiting, attendants, and other queens alike joined in the lamentation, their grief knowing no bounds of rank or status.
The sound of their collective mourning echoed through the corridors and chambers of the vast palace, spilling out into the city beyond. As the people of Ayodhya heard the renewed cries from the royal residence, a fresh wave of sorrow swept through the streets.
Men and women, young and old, found themselves drawn towards the palace, their own grief magnified by the palpable anguish emanating from the royal household. The city, which had briefly fallen into an uneasy quiet, once again filled with the sounds of mourning.
In that moment, the personal tragedy of the royal family became irrevocably intertwined with the collective sorrow of Ayodhya. The absence of Rama, the collapse of the king, and the heart-wrenching cries of Kausalya became symbols of a profound loss that touched every corner of the kingdom.
As night began to fall, casting long shadows across the grief-stricken city, it was clear that Ayodhya had been fundamentally changed. The joyous, prosperous capital had transformed into a place of mourning, its future uncertain in the wake of Rama's departure and the king's incapacitation.
The lamentations continued long into the night, a testament to the deep love the people held for Rama and the profound impact his exile had on every level of society. From the highest chambers of the palace to the humblest dwellings in the city, Ayodhya was united in its grief, facing an uncertain future without its beloved prince.
This concludes the fifty seventh chapter (sarga) of Ayodhyakanda, the second book of the Ramayana, the great epic composed by the sage Valmiki.