Rama - The story of a history
Poetry is born
She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine
--John Keats, Ode on Melancholy
Poetry has its subtleties and nuances, which every poet, particularly the epic-poet, employs skilfully to give a foretaste of events that are to follow. The epic, Ramayana, which is set on its rails from the birth of first poetry, the Poet being the
‘adi kavi’ or the first of all poets, is born of an event so poignant and moving, probably indicating the ultimate turn that the story is going to take. This poetry was born from a kill; from the pain caused by the sight of separation; from melancholy and from tears of anguish. Yes Mr Keats, as you said so elegantly well, Melancholy does have her sovereign shrine, her altar, in the temple of Delight.
After the departure of Narada, from whom Valmiki sought to know the story of a man ‘of the present times’ a living example of one who treads the path of truth, stands for the protection of righteousness, who has controlled his senses and anger, and who is dreaded by even the gods in battle, Valmiki goes to the banks of the river Tamasä , to have his bath along with his pupil, Bharadwäja, asks him to stay at the bank, holding the tree bark, for him to wear after his bath.
At that time, a Nisada, hunter, was looking for his prey and found a pair of Kraunca birds – cranes – moving about the place where Valmiki was about to take a dip. Now, the Kraunca birds are known to remain paired for life. Unlike most of the other birds they do not part after mating and remaining together until the fledglings grow. They remain in love, paired for life. The hunter aimed his arrow at the male bird and struck it. “Seeing it mortally wounded and tossing about on the ground with its limbs smeared all over with blood, the female bird, that was endowed with a coppery crest, was inflamed with passion, (nay) sexually united with her and (as such) had distended its wings.” (Valmiki Ramayana, Bala Kanda, Canto 2, Sloka 11 and 12)
Valmiki had just heard the story of Rama from the lips of Narada. The story as narrated to him does not speak about what is to come in the life of the inseparable and most loving pair divine, Rama and Sita. It gives an account of Rama’s story until he ascended the throne and just predicts that ‘people would live happily for a long time under the rule of Rama,’ and no more. (See:
A legend that lived
then) Therefore, Valmiki could probably have not intended this at that moment. Or, he might have, endowed as he was with clairvoyance. We do not know.
But tell me here, at this point, do we not see a picture of Rama, standing there with a heart bleeding from the wound of the arrow of public opinion, ordering the separation of his endeared wife who bore a four months old ‘promise of love’ of Rama in her, as the crane falls down, struck by the arrow of the hunter and lies on the ground, bleeding! Does this separation of the Kraunca birds not foretell us of what the fag-end of the epic holds for us! The bird shot at, falling on the ground bleeding and in the throes of death, when they were mating, and the divine pair separated at the most joyful moment of their lives! Most moving indeed.
Valmiki was anguished at this sight. And he cursed the hunter. But strangely, that spontaneous outflow of his pain took the shape of poetry, so very naturally, without the poet realising what he is composing, and as it is said, like all good poetry, ‘gave birth to itself.’
ma nisada pratistham tvam agamah sasvatim samah
yat krauncamithunad ekam avadhih kamamohitam
“May you not have peace of mind for endless years, O fowler, since you killed one of the pair of cranes infatuated with passion.” (Ibid, Sloka 15)
He cursed. But repented immediately for having cursed the hunter. It was at that time that his mind worked on what he uttered, the order of the words, the rhythm and the way it offered itself to be sung with the accompaniment of a lute. He turned to his disciple, Bharadwäja, and told him,
padabaddho 'ksarasamas tantrilayasamanvitah
sokartasya pravrtto me sloko bhavatu nanyatha
“Let this utterance made by me while I was stricken with grief (nay) set in four metrical feet, each containing an equal number of letters (viz., eight) and possessing the rhythm of a song that can be sung to a lute, be accepted as (real) poetry and not otherwise.” (Ibid, Sloka 15) That which was born of
soka (melancholy) became sloka (verse).
And it was thus the first of poetry was born. Brahma appeared before Valmiki as he reached his hermitage back, still charmed and wondering at the birth of poetry. Valmiki expressed his sorrow for having cursed the hunter. Brahma laughed. “Brahma then laughingly said to Valmiki (the chief of hermits) ‘Let this metrical composition be conducive to your glory alone. You need not brood over this (any more). Through my will alone has this speech flowed from your lips, O Brrahmana sage! Describe, O jewel among seers, the whole life on this earth of Lord Sri Rama, whose mind is (ever) given to piety and who is full of wisdom.” (Ibid, Sloka 32)
A moving scene, a spontaneous and rhythmic stream of words and a joyful story. In melancholy does the best of poetry gush forth in its effusion. And it did, in the case of the first of all poetry.
|
