The Ramayana by Ramesh Menon Read Free Book Online Page B

throughout that forest when Tataka died: a light of the Devas. An unearthly voice, an asariri, spoke to Viswamitra. “We bless you, Brahmarishi, for bringing Dasaratha’s brilliant sons to make this place clean again. Fare you well on your journey. And fare you well on all your journeys, Rama, for there are many before you.”
    The light was gone. Viswamitra said quietly, “Indra.”
    The rishi saw the youths had knelt at his feet for his blessing. He raised them up gently and, now, proudly as well. Though he had always known who these princes were, where was the proof of their stunning valor before they killed Tataka? In some satisfaction, Viswamitra settled for the night in the heart of that jungle, with Rama and Lakshmana beside him. As they slept they felt an uncommon breeze flow in sweet currents through the trees above them, as if those ancients were being awakened from a long nightmare. The princes drifted off along the river of dreams, and they fancied they felt the hearts of the old trees respond to that fresh draft in a thousand springs they had suppressed from Tataka’s overweening evil.
    *   *   *
    When they awoke, to the joyful songs of birds in the trees above them, they saw their dream had been just a shade of the truth. All around them was the gushing outflow of a long-withheld spring! A riot of flowers of ten vasanthas hung from the trees in every imaginable color: champaka, asoka, punnaga, and delicate mallika blossomed overnight at Tataka’s death. The air was no longer dank and purulent, but crisp and sweet with a thousand ineffable scents.
    Birds gave excited throat to their deliverance. Deer walked shyly up to the princes and the rishi, and nuzzled their faces in their hands. They saw the canopy above was, in fact, far from opaque; today fingers of sunlight reached down to the floor of the forest. While the rakshasi was alive, even the sun had avoided her lair. The mango trees, palasas, and palms were heavy with fruit, ripened in a night, in supernatural abundance. The jungle celebrated more than the death of Tataka. It was ecstatic at the advent of Rama, who had slept under its branches.
    As the princes went on their way, they saw the vana was strewn with a richness of clear pools and forest streams chatting through curving aisles of trees, and jungle paths revealed. Life had returned to the province of death, and celebration was everywhere. Even Viswamitra seemed moved. His eyes strayed from Rama’s face to the miracle in the jungle around them, and then back to the prince’s dark features. Abruptly, he raised a hand for them to stop. He said, “I am so pleased, I must give you a gift today.”
    Rama said, “But you have already blessed us; what gift could be greater than that?”
    Viswamitra replied, “For two young kshatriyas on the threshold of life, the gift of devastras. They will help you someday against enemies far greater than Tataka. These are weapons only the restrained should have, and you, Rama, are born so. Now I am sure of who you are; no one else could have killed Tataka. Come, sit here with me.”
    When Rama sat, facing the east, Viswamitra taught him the mantras to summon the occult weapons. The rishi himself had the astras from Siva, long ago, when he was still a king and had need of them. When Rama spoke the secret mantras, the lords of the astras appeared before him. They were neither in this world nor yet in the next: they stood between realms, their bodies of pristine light. The eyes of some were turquoise flames; others had locks of green tongues of fire.
    They said to Rama, “Now we are your slaves; we will do your bidding, whenever you want.”
    Rama said to them, “Dwell in my mind, until I have need of you.”
    They melted into him, and he glowed more than ever. Viswamitra said to Rama, “To teach what you have learned is to learn it twice over. Even if your brother had none of the