Sexual Life in Ancient India: A Study in the Comparative History of Indian Culture v2.c17.17

v2.c17.17

Among the finest passages in the Rāmāyaṇa is perhaps the extract where Rāma tells Sītā that he is going off into the forest for fourteen years. He wishes to take leave of her, and gives her counsel as to her behaviour during his long absence. But with angered love she cries out: “What art thou saying there? The father and the mother, the brother and the son, each has his own destiny: the wife’s destiny in this world and the other is the husband only. If thou goest into the forest, I shall walk before thee, and trample down thorns and sharp grasses before thy feet. As in my father’s house, I shall live along with thee in the forest, and shall think of nothing in the three worlds but of my duty towards thee. How fair will it be in the forest together with thee! I have long been yearning for its mountains, lakes, and lotus-ponds. With thee so will I live a hundred thousand years in utmost joy, and I shall not mark their flight. Thou alone art my love, to thee alone does my heart cling; sundered from thee, I am resolved to die. Take me with thee; I shall be unto thee no burden.” Rāma unfolds before her all the horrors, hardships, and torments of life in the forest. But she answers: “The wild beasts will run off when they but see thee. I have long known of the forest life from the tales of a nun that came on a visit to my mother. I am burning with longing to go off to the penitential settlement, and to serve thee, the hero. Through my love for thee I shall be freed from sin, following my husband, for he is the highest godhead; to him belongs the wife in death also. Take me, her that is truly devoted to thee, deeply sorrowing, a faithful wife, take me with thee into the forest. If thou do not, then shall I seek refuge in poison, in fire, or in water.” Bathing the earth with her tears, she sinks to the ground; anger comes upon her, and Rāma must soothe her. She beseeches him once more: “Go not into the forest without me! The pains of penance, the forest wilds, or heaven—all but with thee! I shall not weary, if I walk behind thee. The sharp grasses and thorns on the way will be to me as soft cotton, the dust stirred up by the stormy wind as precious sandal-powder. When I am lying then on the forest turf, even a bed spread with handsomest rugs cannot be more blissful. Reach me the smallest root or fruit which thou hast brought me thyself, and it will be sweet to me as the food of the gods. I shall no longer remember father, mother, or home. Where thou art, there is heaven; without thee it is hell. If I am forsaken by thee, O thou my treasure, then it is better I die. Not a moment can I bear this sorrow, how much less for fourteen years.” Loud and piteously she cries out, and twines her arms fast round her beloved. Then he embraces her, utters consoling, tender words, and tells her she can go with him: “At the price of thy sorrow, O queen, I would not buy heaven itself. It was only that I did not know thou wast so firmly resolved. Follow me and be my life-companion in the fulfilling of duty. A fair deed hast thou done, and worthy of my house and of thine. Make thyself ready for the journey. Now were heaven itself nothing to me without thee.” And filled with joy Sītā bestows her ornaments, her clothing, all the beautiful and loved things she possesses on servants and the needy, and goes off with Rāma into the forest (Rām., ii, 26.8–30).¹