Canto XIV: The Restoration of Râma to his Kingdom, and the Divorce of Sîtâ

Then did the Princely Brothers seek the homes
Where dwelt their mothers, sorrow-stricken Queens,
Of husband late bereaved,—like clinging-plants
Forlorn and left of strong protecting trunk.
The Heroes twain, resplendent in their might,
Bent low before the Queens, whose happy eyes
(By tears half-blinded) scarce discerned their forms,
Though each was blessed, as in her mother's arms
She clasped her son. But in the Heroes' eyes
The soothing tear of joy cut sorrow short,
As Jamnâ's torrent rushing from the rocks
Cleaves Gangâ's heated wave. Condolingly
They touched the scarce-healed scars the Demon's wounds
Left on their bodies: nay, the much-prized name,
"Mother of heroes," brought them little joy
Who felt its pains. Then Sîtâ, bending low,
Her Husband's mother greeted, nor transgressed
The line of awful duty, while she said:—
"Lo, here is Sîtâ, fatal to her Lord,
Not worthy your regard!" "Dear Daughter, rise!"
(So said they) "'Twas thy spotless life alone
That brought thy Lord and Lakshmaṇ through their toils
Triumphant." Then with loving words and true
They praised her, worthy Wife of worthy Lord.
Thus with their joyful tears the widowed Queens
Began the sacring,—which with hallowed stream,
From many a sainted river, poured from jars
Of gold unmixed, the Kingdom's Senators
Completed,—of pure Raghu's Hero-son.
From seas and streams and lakes the loyal Chiefs
Of Demons and of Monkeys brought great store
Of water, pouring it on Râma's head,
As rain in torrents falls on Vindhya's peaks
From Autumn-clouds. The splendid robes of state
To Him fresh lustre gave, whose lovely limbs
The ascetic's dress scarce veiled, nor feared reproach
Of over-gorgeousness. Then with his hosts,
His sage advisers, loyal Demons, Apes,
He to his Father's home passed: arches spanned
The roads, and rice from lattices was poured
In welcoming showers. High in his Car of State
The Hero sat, while Lakshmaṇ gently waved
The royal fan, and Bharat screened his head,
Like Kingship's triple powers to Earth come down
Rose from the palaces wind-cloven smoke,
As 'twere the long-bereavèd City's hair,
Its braids unloosing at the King's return.
Next Sîtâ, Râma's Queen, in litter borne,—
Dressed by her husband's kin in glorious robes,—
Ayodhyâ's matrons hailed, with claspèd hands
From palace-windows gazing. She the rare,
Exhaustless unguent, Anasûyâ's gift,
Had deftly used; a halo round her shone;
And doubly pure she beamed, shown by her Lord
From cleansing fires come forth. That King himself,
Deep mine of friendship, to his friends assigned
Well-ordered dwellings; then with tears went in
To that reverèd home, where dwelt his Sire,
His image only left. With claspèd hands,
And loving words, he soothed Kaikeyî's shame,
And hailed her "Mother!" "Well," he said, "thou didst:
To thee we owe it that our Sire held firm,
Nor swerved from truth, and by that truth won Heaven!"
Sugrîva, and Vibhîshaṇ, and the rest,
With splendid courtesies he entertained,
That, though to have they needed but to wish,
Their minds sank overpowered. To Saints Divine,
Come down from Heaven to do him reverence,
He paid due honour they His might extolled,
And told in sacred numbers all the tale
Of His high birth, His acts, and foe subdued.
So like a dream the days uncounted flew,
Till half a month was spent:—the Saints were gone;
Then, richly guerdoned by the Queen's own hand,
The Kings of Apes and Demons home returned.
And Pushpaka, that Flower of Heaven, the Car
A thought could swift recall, which with his life
He wrested from His mighty foe,—no more
Required, back to Kailâsa's Lord He sent.

Then Râma sat at last upon his throne,
Who first obeyed his Father's word, and spent
Long years in banishment;—and now maintained
'Midst Virtue, Wealth, and Love unswerving course,
And ruled his Brothers with an equal love.
In equal honour too, as duty claimed,
The Queens,—his own dear mother and the rest,—
He held, as He who leads the hosts of Heaven
His Foster-mothers six loves equally.
A happy world he ruled, that generous King,
Whose arm prevailing curbed ignoble fears:
As father he corrected, like a son
He smoothed all griefs away. The people's weal,
Unwearied, first he sought, and love's delight
At fitting season he with Sîtâ took:—
So fair the Queen, it seemed that Lakshmî's self
Had ta'en her form to know pure marriage-bliss.
And as they tasted all the joys of love
Whene'er they would in gorgeous palaces,
The memory of hardship past, endured
In Daṇḍaka's dark shades, enhanced delight.
Then Sîtâ, softly smiling, now with face
Pale as the yellow reed, all silently
Put forth the signs of fruitfulness, and gave
Her Lord new happiness. He longingly
Pressed to his heart her slender form, and marked
How her ripe breasts assumed a deeper tinge,
And joyfully in whispers craved to know
If aught she longed for. Blushingly she owned
Her strong desire to seek the Hermits' huts
On pure Godâvarî's banks, where Kuça grass
Luxuriant waves, and roaming cattle crop
Unchecked the growing rice, where Saintly maids
Bound in close friendship dwell. The noble King
Consented to her prayer. Then with a squire
He sought the palace-roof, which soared to heaven,
To feast his eyes on fair Ayodhyâ's streets.

He marked the thronged highway, the busy mart,
Sarâyû ploughed by keels, and where the parks,—
Gay with rejoicing crowds,—spread round the walls,
Enraptured at the sight, Then, stainless King,
Most noble Conqueror, most eloquent,
Whose mighty frame vied with the Serpent-King's,
He asked his faithful squire the general mind
And sentence on his life. Reluctantly,
At length that squire made answer:—"O my Lord!
All that thou doest all thy people praise,
Save this one thing,—that thou receivedst back
Thy Queen from Râvaṇ's palace, where she dwelt."
That slanderous word, imputing foul disgrace
To Sîtâ, smote his heart with crushing force,
As falls the smashing weight of iron sledge
On anvil tough. Then doubtfully he mused,—
"Shall I despise this slanderous talk? or yield,
My blameless Spouse divorcing?" Unresolved
He wavered long, his mind in helpless gloom
Swayed like a swing. Deep pondering he resolved
To end the slander in the only way,
Dismissing his pure Queen: exalted souls
Prize Fame above their lives,—far, far beyond
All earthly pleasures. So, his joy eclipsed,
He called his Brethren: they with sorrow marked
The gloom that marred his features, as He told
The stain upon his honour, ending thus:—
"Behold how dark a blot my act has brought
On all the Sun-descended race, so pure,
So flawless in its virtue,—stock of Kings
And famous Saints,—till now by me 'tis soiled,
As zephyrs moist bedim the polished steel.
Such slander spreading wide among my folk,
As spreads a drop of oil o'er troubled waves,
I could not bear,—so hates the elephant
The post and chain that bind him. Therefore I,
Though seeming careless of the seed she bears
Now in her fertile womb, must put away
My well-loved Queen,—as at my Father's word
I sternly put from me sea-girdled Earth.
"The Queen I know is stainless, yet I dread
My people's blaming:—Earth's dark shadow cast
Across the spotless Moon, by vulgar minds
Is held to stain her. So my glorious deeds,
In slaying Giant Râvaṇ, would be vain:
Not only so, my triumph would itself
Let loose fresh springs of hate: not unprovoked
A deadly snake bites at the heel that strikes.
My purpose then is fixed, nor can be swayed
By aught your pitying hearts might urge,—my life
Would wither soon, exposed to slanderous tongues!"
When thus the King declared his stern resolve
Against fair Sîtâ,—silence held them bound,
Who durst not hinder, nor could praise his will.
Then called he Lakshmaṇ, famous through the worlds,
To all his will obedient, telling him
In secret conference, wise and eloquent,
His weighty purpose, saying:—"Brother dear,
My Spouse, my Sîtâ, coyly has made known
Her strong desire to seek the penance-groves:
Now therefore, this pretending, drive with her
In thy swift chariot to Vâlmîki's home,
And leave her there!" Devoted Lakshmaṇ knew
That at his Sire's command dread Bhṛigu's son
Had slain his mother: Râma's high behests
Unquestioning, though reluctant, he received:
A Monarch's mandates must be aye obeyed.
Fair Sîtâ, much rejoiced to have her wish,
He lifted to the car, by staunch steeds drawn,
And driven by Sumantra. Sîtâ praised
The pleasing prospects by the way, and thought
Within her loving heart, "My dearest Lord
Does all to please me!" Knowing not the truth,—
Her Tree of Life to deadly Upas turned.
Yet as she journeyed, though kind Lakshmaṇ hid
The heavy grief appointed,—banishment
For ever from her husband's face, a chill
Ran through her as she felt her right eye throb,—
Dread omen of ill fate, In fear and doubt,
At once her lotus-face grew deadly pale,
And to herself she murmured loving prayers
Both for her Lord and for his Brethren three.
But when, fulfilling his high King's command,
He thought to leave chaste Sîtâ, Gangâ's self—
The Holy River—raised protesting waves,
And stayed his course. Yet faithful to his vow,
He checked the car, then helped the Queen to alight,
And in a shallop crossed the mighty stream:
No barrier stops a trusty envoy's way!
Then scarce his voice controlling for the sobs
That choked his utterance, Lakshmaṇ—like a cloud
That looses from its womb a rain of stones,
Portentous,—told her Râma's fatal will.
With sudden terror smitten, Sîtâ fell
To Earth, her own dear Mother,—fell, as falls
A creeper torn by rushing blast of wind
From its supporting trunk, and shed her gauds
Like withered blossoms. But boon Earth denied
Her Daughter refuge, nor believed it true,—
That, save for some dark stain, her Hero-lord,
The Glory of his race, had put away
His darling Queen. She for a moment's space
Swooned, and forgot her woes; but sense returned,
And with it gnawing grief, when Lakshmaṇ's care
To life recalled her, bitterer far than death.
Yet no reproachful word that noble Queen
Breathed 'gainst her Lord, who so unjustly drove
Her sinless from him: all the guilt she laid
Upon herself, foredoomed to endless grief
For sins of former lives. With tender words
Consoling her, pure Wife, great Lakshmaṇ led
To where Vâlmîki dwelt; then humbly sued
For pardon, pleading,—"O my Queen! forgive
The wrong I do thee. 'Tis thy Lord's command,
I but his minister!" She raised him up,
With gracious answer:—"Brother, Sîtâ's heart
Is glad that so thou servest her dear Lord,
As Vishnu's self served Indra, elder-born,
Unquestioning: live many happy years!
Greet well the Queens from me, and say to them,
Each in her order,—Sîtâ bids you pray
For Râma's seed, which in her womb she bears.
Next to the King my message thus convey:—
'Thyself hast seen me purified by Fire,
Yet now forsakest, fearing scandal's breath,—
Mere words: does this beseem Thy noble race?
Or shall I think it was no willing deed,
But forced upon thee, O most glorious King,—
A fate inexorable, by my sins
Drawn down from former lives? It must be so:
For once, Beloved! thou didst rather choose
Exile with me than Lakshmî's offered charms:
I ousted her, abiding in thy home:
Her jealous fury triumphs o'er me now!
"'Befits it me, who through thy favour late
Myself was styled Protectress of my sex,
When Demons plagued their husbands, now forlorn
To seek protection at a stranger's hand,
While Thou still reignest glorious? Thinkest Thou
That I would longer bear this maimèd life,
All empty now that Thou hast cast me off,
Did not I bear in me thy precious seed,—
Which bids me live? But, once Thy son is born,
Unswerving I shall fix my weary eyes
On yon bright Sun, and by severest modes
Of penance strive that in some future life
Thou only be my Lord,—my Lord for aye!
And since all ranks and classes claim the care
(For so the Law ordains) of virtuous Kings,
So in my banishment I claim Thy care,
No less than Holy men with whom I dwell!'"

So Lakshman promised to fulfil her hest,
And left her presence: then, by grief o'erborne,
With straining throat she wailed like stricken hind.
In sympathy gay peacocks ceased their dance,
Trees shed their blossoms, deer the fragrant grass
They scarce had cropped: through all the forest passed
A moan unending. Guided by the sound,
The Poet-Saint, whose sympathetic grief—
When he beheld the bird so ruthlessly
Slain by a huntsman,—found heroic verse,
Came to her from his quest of fragrant grass
And altar-fuel. Sîtâ reverently
Saluted him, restraining her lament,
And driving back hot tears that dimmed her eyes:
To whom the Saint, who marked her fruitful womb,
Gave blessing for her offspring:—then he spake:—
"By Holy intuition well I know,
My daughter, that thy Lord, by slander moved,
Put thee away though guiltless: grieve not then,
Fair Princess of Videha! Thou shalt reach
Thy father's home, not distant from these groves.
Thy glorious Husband, well I know, has drawn
The barb of sorrow from this Triple World,
Is faithful to his word, all boasting hates,—
Yet for his cruel dealing with thee, Queen,
I greatly blame him! His renownèd Sire
Claimed me as friend; thy father saves from tears
All pious Hermits; 'midst true, loyal wives
Thou hast chief place:—all this my heart constrains
To pity and to shield thee. Dwell secure
Here in the Sacred grove, where savage beasts
With us consorting milder moods assume!
Here shall thy cleansing be, when thou shalt bear
Unblemished offspring. Here in Tamasâ,
Whose waves dispel the gloom of ignorance,
Whose banks with Hermits' huts are thronged, whose isles
Smoke ever with the fragrant sacrifice,
Thou day by day shall bathe, till peace return
To bless thy spirit. Munis' daughters here,
With offerings in their time of flowers or fruit,
Soft-voiced, who for the altar gather grain
From land untilled,—will charm thy grief away.
And, fostering the nurslings of the grove
With slender water-jars, as suits thy strength,
Doubt not that, ere thine own dear Son be born,
Thou'lt know a mother's joy!"
Most gratefully
His kindness she received: the Poet-Sage,
Whose heart for pity melted, led her home
To where around his hut-door tamed wild beasts
And timid deer were clustered. There the Queen,
Bowed down with sorrow, he to the Saints' pure wives
Gave in strict trust, well-pleased that she was come:—
So, when the Moon's sweet essence has been drunk
By Saints Divine, she to the moon-plants yields
Her latest light,—and straight begins to wax.
When night drew on, to crown his welcoming,
They gave a hut to dwell in, where was spread
A couch of hallowed skins; and light shone soft
From well-trimmed lamp, with fragrant oil new-filled.
There dwelt She, set apart by holy chrism,
By all who came high-honoured, clad in bark,—
And throve on rustic fare, till at full time
She bore her noble Husband offspring pure.

But Lakshman bore her message to the King,—
And hoped that when He heard her sad reproach
Remorse might move him to recall the doom.
Then Râma fell a-weeping, as the Moon
In winter showers down snow;—by slander stung,
He thrust his Sîtâ from his home, yet still
Alone she ruled his heart. By strength of will
And wisdom's lessons He restrained his grief,
Gave all his mind to guard the tribes of men,
And—freed from passion's sway—his people ruled,
Not more enriched than others. Brighter shone
The Kingdom's Fortune, reigning now sole Queen,
Sole mistress of the King, who, moved by fear
Of slanderous tongues, had banished his dear Wife.
But Sîtâ, when she knew her mighty Lord,
Dread Râvaṇ's victor, took no second spouse,
But—worshipping her image—spent his days
In sacrifice, was greatly comforted,
And much endured, nor sank beneath the weight
Of grief for severance from her loyal Lord.