(Continued from here. For part 1, see here)
Rama, I write, trying to gather my thoughts.
Rama, I write below and muse: such a simple name. Two syllables, so easy on the tongue, so serene, so right.
Rama, I say the name and close my eyes.
I see a waterfall. The water is pearly, silver, flowing rapid yet calm, echoing in bright sunshine, bouncing off moist brown rocks. In its distinctive serene way, the water blazes its own path—it moves unbound. The trees, the plants grow around the water; and the rocks are no match for its sheer force.
And yet, it flows only one way— downwards. For all its lack of inhibitions, its fundamental direction is externally defined.
Rama, I write again below and think: he is as complex as his name is simple.
“Rama”, said Vashishta, the children’s guide and philosopher, to me once and paused— letting the magic word hang in the still air— he continued “Every time I think I have opened a door to his mind, I find I am faced with another heavier, more safely locked door. The truth is that I do not know Rama. I doubt if anybody does”
I shut my book, unable to write anything about the man who is the reason I am in Ayodhya, but for—
Rama
Rama
Rama
*****
“Have you seen Vashishta?” Bharata asks, absently running his hand through his hair. Worry lines crease his otherwise blameless face.
“He went to see the King in his inner quarters. Come, I’ll take you there” I volunteer and hope he doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t.
Bharata walks briskly taking long, purposeful strides. I struggle to keep pace with him, what will all the wine I have been consuming. In moments, we are at the King’s deserted Entertainment Chambers.
The Entertainment Chambers—once a teeming house of singers and dancers, jokers and jesters, animals and birds, circus artistes and gymnasts—now are empty, even the walls bear no memories of the fun and frolic of old, having been washed clean.
Dasharata chooses now to spend his free time by himself, watching nature play its little games.
“The other day I spent hours watching the most fascinating show” he said once to me when I asked him what he does in those chambers by himself, “The performers were numerous—thousands even. They danced tirelessly, not once complaining. They had the spotlight on them, of course. The very best kind of spotlight—a big ball of fire, thousands of miles away, lighting up everything in its wake. And that day, it being fairly early, we had golden-yellow light, spearing through the windows, through the gap between the curtains. Dark room, yellow spotlight, a thousand performers. And the patterns they produced— the most, delicate intricate patterns, swirling, swimming, curving and dancing”
“You were watching dust?” I ask, incredulous.
“I was watching the entire history of the Universe, told to me by the smallest particles seen to the human eye, in one cosmic swirl”
And so he spends his days: watching light play its games, ants march in neat files, squirrels gracefully speed over branches and trees, monkeys chatter and muse, birds twitter and swoop.
*****
As we enter, Dasharatha lies on the floor, his head resting on his arms, pontificating; Vashishta is listening with a smile, seated on his chair, his legs folded.
“Maharshi” Bharata says as he enters, and touches his own chest as a mark of respect to the great saint. Vashishta nods and smiles back. “Father” he says then, turning to look at Dasharatha and repeats the gesture again.
“Bharata! What brings you here?” asks Dasharatha gaily.
“Oy Teertha!” says Vashishta noticing my presence, and there is genuine heartiness in his voice, “Come, sit with us, discuss. Dasharatha here is telling me how he is finally getting all the time in the world to be lazy—”
He is cut short by Bharata.
“Maharshi, Father, I have not come to discuss life. I have come to tell you something important. Teertha?” he says then, turning to me, “If you’ll excuse us for just a couple of minutes”
“Of course, of course” I say smiling and make to leave when Vashishta stops me:
“Don’t go. What harm can he do, Bharata? In fact, being the wise man that he is, his views on whatever worries you might be useful”
Bharata regards me warily and I am about to offer to leave again, stressing that I do not mind, when he says:
“It’s alright. After all, you’ll be gone in a while and we care two hoots about what the outside world thinks of us”
Dasharatha, meanwhile, sits up, looking earnestly at Bharata, his back using the wall as support, legs stretched out. Orange sunlight streams from the thrown-open windows behind: with his long, white beard, his content, peaceful countenance and the illusion of a halo, he reminds me of a single-headed Brahma, the creator himself.
“It is about my brothers. I don’t like speaking ill of anyone and I do not say things unless I am certain, so please do not dismiss what I say. I have thought about this deeply, questioning the veracity repeatedly, but in the face of continuous evidence, I can’t see how I can be mistaken”
Vashista sits up straight, attentive. Dasharatha has a knowing half-smile planted on his lips.
“Father” says Bharata, turning to him, “I do not know if you have noticed enough and we have fairly different views on this issue, but I think Shatrughna might turn into a huge problem. Nowadays, he spends a considerable period of the day in the company of the—“
“Kollas” Dasharata finishes for him, still smiling.
Bharata is surprised and he doesn’t hide it.
“You know? And you haven’t done anything about it?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Talk to him, at the very least”
“I already have” says Dasharatha, and now he is grinning.
Bharata eyes widen. He runs his hands through his hair, and asks:
“And?”
“And I think we should let him be. I have heard his side of the story—something I am certain none of you has bothered to do. In fact, I had this very discussion with Rama last evening. We agreed to disagree as I am supposing the two of us here will also end up doing. I don’t know if you have noticed, but Shatrughna is a mature adult now. He is not being forced into anything. He is making his choices independently. I have no right to stop him, nor have you or Rama or anybody else”
“But, what about—”
“—Family pride? Dharma?” he finishes the sentence again for Bharata, and smiling, he answers his own question:
“I have you all— you, Rama and Laxmana— upholding the family pride in a commendable manner. Any of you is capable of running this Kingdom, running it far more efficiently than I can do. I am an old man, far past the age for new ideas and different thinking. If Shatrughna wishes to follow his mind, then so be it. This Kingdom is in very safe hands; our legacy is very much intact. As for Kshatriya Dharma, the duty of a Warrior—I honestly think, having spent over seven decades in this world, that it is a load of hogwash. In fact, I am beginning to believe that the concept of Dharma is highly overrated and ill-specified. Of course, I will never publicly state this— you will all declare me senile, the people will panic, there will be anger, chaos—but this is what my opinion is. Dharma is being good to others. Dharma is doing what you think is right, having thought about it in as rational a manner as possible. Anything else being attributed to that term is incorrect”
“But, father” says Bharata exasperated, not knowing what else to say.
“You should have come yesterday, Bharata—your brother Rama put up a far stronger defence of Dharma than ‘But father’. Anyway, my last words on the subject—Dharma is only a tool, a guide, a pointer on how to lead one’s life. It has worked well for us in the past, helped organize a structure for our society, but that doesn’t mean it is always right. Dharma must change with the times, as any society will, while keeping some fundamental ideas the same. In the end, if the same Dharma that helps clear our path pulls us down, then we must not hesitate to discard it”
Bharata is silent and he turns to Vashishta for help, his eyes pleading.
Vashishta laughs and says:
“Your father is a great man at debates. I’d find it hard to raise counter-points. All I’d say is that the concept of Dharma maybe flawed but I am not so certain that it needs an overhaul of the proportions your father suggests. I depend on Dharma for my position, for the respect I have garnered, for the life I have lived. I cannot say much against it”
“I think we are done for the day today, yes?” Dasharatha asks, looking around at our pensive faces, “Too much talking—especially on matters such as philosophy and politics—makes my head hurt”
“Just one more thing, Father” Bharata says, just as we all make to stand up and leave.
“Okay—quickly”
“Um” he says and pauses, trying to find the right words, “It is about Laxmana. Um. Well, it is actually like this. But, no—“
“To the point, Bharata”
“I think Laxmana is a little too fond of Sita” he blurts out and his ears go red. He cannot see any of us in the face.
Like an unwelcome visitor, a distinctly uncomfortable silence descends upon us momentarily. And then they catch each others’ eyes—Dasharatha and Vashishta—and they burst out laughing, their eyes watery, holding their tummies. Bharata is blushing crimson now. Surprisingly, I find myself joining in the laughter too, though I don’t know why. It is Dasharatha who gathers himself first, his eyes twinkling and still a little wet, he says:
“Maybe, just maybe, we should leave that to Rama?” and snorts.
And then they are laughing again.
*****
(In all likelihood, the last Part will be out in three days)
Rama, I write, trying to gather my thoughts.
Rama, I write below and muse: such a simple name. Two syllables, so easy on the tongue, so serene, so right.
Rama, I say the name and close my eyes.
I see a waterfall. The water is pearly, silver, flowing rapid yet calm, echoing in bright sunshine, bouncing off moist brown rocks. In its distinctive serene way, the water blazes its own path—it moves unbound. The trees, the plants grow around the water; and the rocks are no match for its sheer force.
And yet, it flows only one way— downwards. For all its lack of inhibitions, its fundamental direction is externally defined.
Rama, I write again below and think: he is as complex as his name is simple.
“Rama”, said Vashishta, the children’s guide and philosopher, to me once and paused— letting the magic word hang in the still air— he continued “Every time I think I have opened a door to his mind, I find I am faced with another heavier, more safely locked door. The truth is that I do not know Rama. I doubt if anybody does”
I shut my book, unable to write anything about the man who is the reason I am in Ayodhya, but for—
Rama
Rama
Rama
*****
“Have you seen Vashishta?” Bharata asks, absently running his hand through his hair. Worry lines crease his otherwise blameless face.
“He went to see the King in his inner quarters. Come, I’ll take you there” I volunteer and hope he doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t.
Bharata walks briskly taking long, purposeful strides. I struggle to keep pace with him, what will all the wine I have been consuming. In moments, we are at the King’s deserted Entertainment Chambers.
The Entertainment Chambers—once a teeming house of singers and dancers, jokers and jesters, animals and birds, circus artistes and gymnasts—now are empty, even the walls bear no memories of the fun and frolic of old, having been washed clean.
Dasharata chooses now to spend his free time by himself, watching nature play its little games.
“The other day I spent hours watching the most fascinating show” he said once to me when I asked him what he does in those chambers by himself, “The performers were numerous—thousands even. They danced tirelessly, not once complaining. They had the spotlight on them, of course. The very best kind of spotlight—a big ball of fire, thousands of miles away, lighting up everything in its wake. And that day, it being fairly early, we had golden-yellow light, spearing through the windows, through the gap between the curtains. Dark room, yellow spotlight, a thousand performers. And the patterns they produced— the most, delicate intricate patterns, swirling, swimming, curving and dancing”
“You were watching dust?” I ask, incredulous.
“I was watching the entire history of the Universe, told to me by the smallest particles seen to the human eye, in one cosmic swirl”
And so he spends his days: watching light play its games, ants march in neat files, squirrels gracefully speed over branches and trees, monkeys chatter and muse, birds twitter and swoop.
*****
As we enter, Dasharatha lies on the floor, his head resting on his arms, pontificating; Vashishta is listening with a smile, seated on his chair, his legs folded.
“Maharshi” Bharata says as he enters, and touches his own chest as a mark of respect to the great saint. Vashishta nods and smiles back. “Father” he says then, turning to look at Dasharatha and repeats the gesture again.
“Bharata! What brings you here?” asks Dasharatha gaily.
“Oy Teertha!” says Vashishta noticing my presence, and there is genuine heartiness in his voice, “Come, sit with us, discuss. Dasharatha here is telling me how he is finally getting all the time in the world to be lazy—”
He is cut short by Bharata.
“Maharshi, Father, I have not come to discuss life. I have come to tell you something important. Teertha?” he says then, turning to me, “If you’ll excuse us for just a couple of minutes”
“Of course, of course” I say smiling and make to leave when Vashishta stops me:
“Don’t go. What harm can he do, Bharata? In fact, being the wise man that he is, his views on whatever worries you might be useful”
Bharata regards me warily and I am about to offer to leave again, stressing that I do not mind, when he says:
“It’s alright. After all, you’ll be gone in a while and we care two hoots about what the outside world thinks of us”
Dasharatha, meanwhile, sits up, looking earnestly at Bharata, his back using the wall as support, legs stretched out. Orange sunlight streams from the thrown-open windows behind: with his long, white beard, his content, peaceful countenance and the illusion of a halo, he reminds me of a single-headed Brahma, the creator himself.
“It is about my brothers. I don’t like speaking ill of anyone and I do not say things unless I am certain, so please do not dismiss what I say. I have thought about this deeply, questioning the veracity repeatedly, but in the face of continuous evidence, I can’t see how I can be mistaken”
Vashista sits up straight, attentive. Dasharatha has a knowing half-smile planted on his lips.
“Father” says Bharata, turning to him, “I do not know if you have noticed enough and we have fairly different views on this issue, but I think Shatrughna might turn into a huge problem. Nowadays, he spends a considerable period of the day in the company of the—“
“Kollas” Dasharata finishes for him, still smiling.
Bharata is surprised and he doesn’t hide it.
“You know? And you haven’t done anything about it?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Talk to him, at the very least”
“I already have” says Dasharatha, and now he is grinning.
Bharata eyes widen. He runs his hands through his hair, and asks:
“And?”
“And I think we should let him be. I have heard his side of the story—something I am certain none of you has bothered to do. In fact, I had this very discussion with Rama last evening. We agreed to disagree as I am supposing the two of us here will also end up doing. I don’t know if you have noticed, but Shatrughna is a mature adult now. He is not being forced into anything. He is making his choices independently. I have no right to stop him, nor have you or Rama or anybody else”
“But, what about—”
“—Family pride? Dharma?” he finishes the sentence again for Bharata, and smiling, he answers his own question:
“I have you all— you, Rama and Laxmana— upholding the family pride in a commendable manner. Any of you is capable of running this Kingdom, running it far more efficiently than I can do. I am an old man, far past the age for new ideas and different thinking. If Shatrughna wishes to follow his mind, then so be it. This Kingdom is in very safe hands; our legacy is very much intact. As for Kshatriya Dharma, the duty of a Warrior—I honestly think, having spent over seven decades in this world, that it is a load of hogwash. In fact, I am beginning to believe that the concept of Dharma is highly overrated and ill-specified. Of course, I will never publicly state this— you will all declare me senile, the people will panic, there will be anger, chaos—but this is what my opinion is. Dharma is being good to others. Dharma is doing what you think is right, having thought about it in as rational a manner as possible. Anything else being attributed to that term is incorrect”
“But, father” says Bharata exasperated, not knowing what else to say.
“You should have come yesterday, Bharata—your brother Rama put up a far stronger defence of Dharma than ‘But father’. Anyway, my last words on the subject—Dharma is only a tool, a guide, a pointer on how to lead one’s life. It has worked well for us in the past, helped organize a structure for our society, but that doesn’t mean it is always right. Dharma must change with the times, as any society will, while keeping some fundamental ideas the same. In the end, if the same Dharma that helps clear our path pulls us down, then we must not hesitate to discard it”
Bharata is silent and he turns to Vashishta for help, his eyes pleading.
Vashishta laughs and says:
“Your father is a great man at debates. I’d find it hard to raise counter-points. All I’d say is that the concept of Dharma maybe flawed but I am not so certain that it needs an overhaul of the proportions your father suggests. I depend on Dharma for my position, for the respect I have garnered, for the life I have lived. I cannot say much against it”
“I think we are done for the day today, yes?” Dasharatha asks, looking around at our pensive faces, “Too much talking—especially on matters such as philosophy and politics—makes my head hurt”
“Just one more thing, Father” Bharata says, just as we all make to stand up and leave.
“Okay—quickly”
“Um” he says and pauses, trying to find the right words, “It is about Laxmana. Um. Well, it is actually like this. But, no—“
“To the point, Bharata”
“I think Laxmana is a little too fond of Sita” he blurts out and his ears go red. He cannot see any of us in the face.
Like an unwelcome visitor, a distinctly uncomfortable silence descends upon us momentarily. And then they catch each others’ eyes—Dasharatha and Vashishta—and they burst out laughing, their eyes watery, holding their tummies. Bharata is blushing crimson now. Surprisingly, I find myself joining in the laughter too, though I don’t know why. It is Dasharatha who gathers himself first, his eyes twinkling and still a little wet, he says:
“Maybe, just maybe, we should leave that to Rama?” and snorts.
And then they are laughing again.
*****
(In all likelihood, the last Part will be out in three days)
