Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Out of the Darkness

Image lovingly borrowed from Sanjay Patel's Ramayana Chronicle Books: San Francisco, 2010

Some days, nothing seems to make senseevery bit of creative fluid in my body has been converted to venom, a side effect of exposure to the steady river of craptaculation. When that happens, I keep returning to this one story, and the world makes sense again.

Listen, friends. Once upon a time, in India…

Shatrughna kept vigil, as he had done every night for the past fourteen years, while his stepbrother Bharata slept. It did not matter that Bharata slept in a ramshackle hut, that of a beggar, rather than in the palace, the rightful place of the royal princes. It did not matter that Shatrughna had not slept in fourteen years. His duty was to guard his stepbrother. Besides, Shatrughna’s and Bharata’s discomforts were nothing compared to those of Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita, living out their exile in the forest. Shatrughna knew that his twin, Lakshmana, kept the same vigil over Rama, the rightful king.

The solid-gold gates of Ayodhya, now tarnished and overrun with vines, creaked in the evening breeze. No guard bothered to mind them; no citizen bothered to polish them. With Rama in exile, nothing mattered. Bharata served as head of state, ensuring the kingdom’s basic functionality, yet, without Rama, the very soul of the people, the kingdom remained a ghost town.

Bharata tracked a shooting star in the night sky. Perhaps some omen, he thought, then quickly dismissed the idea as sheer fancy. If the gods allowed the rightful king to be exiled due to a silly promise made by their father years ago, then who needs their omens?

Vasishtha, the priest of Ayodhya and the spiritual preceptor of Rama, Bharata, Lakshmana, and Shatrughna, strode through the gates and stood beside Shatrughna. Vasishtha leaned on his staff. The accumulated merit of millions of lifetimes shone from the sage’s body, warming Shatrughna. Neither spoke. Vasishtha pointed his staff at the shooting star.

“He comes.”

Before Shatrughna could ask, “who?” the star streaked down from the sky and exploded in a white light in front of the pair. Unfazed, Shatrughna drew his sword.

When the dust settled, a white monkey knelt at the center of the impact crater.

“Who dares invade Holy Ayodhya?” Shatrughna said, ready to strike the interloper down.

The monkey raised his head and spoke the only words that mattered to Shatrughna:

“Rama returns.”

The monkey’s words reverberated like thunder. Every person in the kingdom awoke. All lamps were lit, dispelling fourteen years of darkness. Incense brightened the stale air. For the first time in fourteen years, prayers were sung by holy men. The city was reborn.
Bharata emerged from his hut. He embraced the monkey.

“What is your name, noble monkey?”

“I am Hanuman, a humble servant of Rama.”

“Return with a message for my brother. Tell him, we await his arrival.”

Hanuman joined his hands and bowed. He crouched. With a cry of, “Jai Rama!” he leapt, a white streak crossing the sky. Even the stars moved from his way, for nothing could impede a messenger of the Lord.


On this day, some 800,000 years ago, Rama restored order to the world. In our modern Kali Yuga, a time of darkness and vice, we can make it through by remembering the light. That light is contained in one word: RAMA.  

रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा  
रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रामा रमा रमा 
रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा 
रमा रमा रमा रमा राम रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा रमा 
Happy Diwali.