HINDU PHILOSOPHY regards deep sleep as an undying source of serenity. In deep sleep, we are happily reposing within ourselves and have no desires. No desire implies no activity, and no activity means no exertion. This state of deep sleep must not be mistaken for a state of sloth. On the contrary, it is pleasant and refreshing. However, the joy we experience in sleep disappears when we wake up.
From time immemorial, our Rishis and seers and philosophers devised various methods to attain this state of joy even in the wakeful state. Enjoyment of the Arts – poetry, literature, painting, music, dance, sculpture, etc., – was not only one such method, it was also the most accessible.
The joy that we experience while savouring the Arts is rasa. Rasa refines our emotions by freeing them from the fetters of self-interest and mundane preoccupations. Emotions thus refined assist us in turning inward and knowing ourselves better.
For the longest time, any mention of poetry typically evoked the Rāmāyaṇa, renowned as the ādi-kāvya (the First Poem). Vālmīki Muni, the forerunner of poets, has created a magnificent world of characters and episodes that enthralls as well as instructs. He has also gently led us on the path of leading a fulfilling life. This path contains two main lanes: daivī (divine, virtuous) and āsurī (demonic, basal). These are the two dominant traits enunciated in the Bhagavadgītā. In the Ramayana, they are represented primarily by Rāma and Rāvaṇa. The idea is to take the first lane and avoid the second as much as possible.
Rāvaṇa was a person of immense strength and resources who didn’t use them for the greater good. Even worse, he did not use them for his own welfare, for his own enlightenment. He relentlessly chased artha (wealth) and kāma (sensual pleasures) and was ultimately ensnared in the vortex of vices. Rāvaṇa was disdainful by nature, and used his strength to torment others. Consumed by avarice, he sought to own everything valuable in the world. He could not tolerate the sight of another person possessing anything worthy or beautiful. In his mad quest for hoarding, he terrorized all living beings and seized their precious possessions – from wealth to wife. Ultimately, Rāvaṇa fell prey to ariṣaḍvarga, the sextet of internal enemies: kāma (lust), krodha (anger), lobha (greed), moha (delusion), mada (arrogance) and mātsarya (envy). At the core of this downward spiral lay avarice and lust, raw and untrammeled.
Rāma emerged to put an end to Rāvaṇa. While Rāvaṇa represents an unmitigated pursuit of artha and kāma. Rāma, the emblem of dharma, eliminated the excesses in this pursuit and made it balanced and wholesome. Two examples suffice to illustrate this point: Though he killed Vālī and Rāvaṇa, he did not appropriate Kiṣkindhā and Laṅkā with a view to extend his dominions. Instead, he installed their brothers, Sugrīva and Vibhīṣaṇa on the throne. After losing Sītā, he did not marry again but lived in the company of her golden image. In this manner, Rāma’s victory over Rāvaṇa symbolizes the victory of dharma over ariṣaḍvarga, to achieve personal and collective welfare. This is the ideal of Rāmarājya.
Dharma is what upholds and sustains the world and the individuals in it. It manifests as various qualities and characteristic features. For instance, to flow is the characteristic feature of water. Human beings are endowed with numerous qualities such as courage, forbearance, cleanliness and truthfulness. Every person possesses these qualities in different measures, and it would be a cause of ceaseless wonder if all qualities were to converge in a person.
The Rāmāyaṇa opens with this question: Is there a man in whom all qualities converge? It is one of the greatest openings in the world of epic literature.Vālmīki Muni was curious to learn the answer, and asked Nārada:
“Is there a person among us who is powerful and wise? He should have a lively sense of virtue and gratitude. His speech must be truthful and his resolve, firm. His conduct should be unblemished, and he should have the good of all beings at heart. Is he erudite and capable? Does he charm people at first sight? He should be brave and shouldn’t allow anger to overtake him. Is his appearance radiant? Is he free from envy? The deities themselves must dread him if he is angered on the battlefield. If there is such a man, you, great sage, would surely know.” (1.1.2–5)
Nārada gave a one-word answer to this wide-ranging question: Rāma.
Two aspects of Vālmīki’s question stand out: he wanted to know about a human and not a deity; a human who is his contemporary and not one from a different age. The ways and mores of the deities are beyond the grasp of humans. On the other hand, the traits of a human being, however lofty, serve as models to emulate. A living person can inspire another by the sheer force of his personal conduct. The energy of a talented, competent and dedicated individual can achieve what institutionalized efforts cannot. It is for these reasons that Vālmīki Muni wanted to learn of such a human. He found his man in Rāma. The poet made this Rama’s life into a poem and immortalized it, for an epic never fossilizes.
At the beginning of Ayodhyākāṇḍa, Vālmīki Muni enumerates Rāma’s choicest traits. We can examine a few:
“He was ever serene and gentle in speech. Even if spoken to harshly, he wouldn’t retort rashly. He was immensely pleased by even a small help but, magnanimous by nature, he wouldn’t nurse the memory of a thousand offences. He was wise and intelligent. He was always the first to speak, and his words were pleasing and kind. His might was immense, yet it sat lightly on his shoulders. He was truthful, erudite and respectful. He loved his subjects, and the subjects loved him. His heart went out to the poor and helpless. He thought highly of kṣattra (valour) as it was the natural code of life for his clan. Uninterested in ignoble activities, he shunned frivolous and profane talk. He could marshal logical arguments one after another like Bṛhaspati, the Lord of Speech. He was a keen judge of people. He knew the heart of dharma and artha. He was talented and had a prodigious memory. He was as conversant with worldly affairs as with customs and traditions. He was modest, and never expressed pleasure or pain overtly. Assisted by able ministers, he guarded royal secrets with caution. Neither his joy nor anger was futile; it always bore the apt consequence. He knew when to give and when to withhold. Ever active and vigilant, he knew his own faults as well as those of others. He knew how to make good friends and how to quell evil. He was a connoisseur of the arts. He never derided anything or anybody, and he was not a slave of circumstances.” (2.1.10–31)
Rāma’s entire life is a mirror of these traits.
He was slated for coronation but had to leave for the forest exile the next day. This cruel twist of fate had no effect on him. He corrected the blunders committed by his parents but never for a moment behaved superciliously. He did not accept the kingdom when Bharata himself offered it. Even after the passage of fourteen years, he nobly declared: If Bharata has developed interest in the kingdom after ruling it for so many years, may it be his. He forgave Kaikeyī whose evil machinations brought unspeakable distress upon him. What’s more, he counseled Bharata to look after her well. When Vibhīṣaṇa sought refuge in him, he resolved to protect him without a moment’s suspicion. After killing Rāvaṇa, he prevailed upon Vibhīṣaṇa to perform his last rites and came to be known as “the friend of foes.”
Rāma was peerless in strength. Mārīca, who was battered by Rāma when the latter was a mere boy, shuddered at the mere sound of the letter r. Even Paraśurāma, the extinguisher of kṣattriyas, had to back down. When the ocean refused to budge even after Rāma requested it to make way, he thundered: Lakṣmaṇa, bring my bow and snake-like arrows. I shall dry up the ocean – may the monkeys cross it on foot! From vanquishing Subāhu and Mārīca to protect the yajña to killing Kumbhakarṇa and Rāvaṇa to win back his wife, Rāma used his power only to uphold dharma.
Rāma was an embodiment of friendship and love. Considerations of clan, status and species meant little to him. No wonder he considered Guha, Sugrīva and Vibhīṣaṇa as his own brothers. He embraced Hanūmān warmly, describing the gesture as the best gift he could offer. Sita meant the world for him. When a mere crow troubled her in the forest, he used the best weapon in his armour—the brahmāstra—against it. He loved his parents, Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, Bharata and Śatrughna deeply. At several instances in the epic, he has addressed these poignant words to them: You make my life meaningful. I accept the kingdom and all its riches only for you. Indeed, I live for you.
The bond between Rāma and his subjects was truly poetic. The epic unambiguously says,“One who doesn’t look at Rāma and one whom Rāma doesn’t look at was looked down by all the world; their own soul chastised them!” In this backdrop, it is not surprising that when Rāma left for the forest, the whole city wept, and a mother did not celebrate the birth of her newborn son. Ruling the kingdom was an upāsana – a sacred vocation -- for Rāma.. The reason for this was his unconditional dedication to dharma.
Small wonder that Rama became and remains perhaps the greatest unifier of India, transcending space and time. He more than any other deity has sculpted our national character and forged our culture. He was all too human and through his life, showed the summit to which humans could actually scale.
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