The Rámáyan of Válmíki, translated into English verse
Rigveda, they assist Soma to pour down his floods, they descend in the
epic literature on earth merely to shake the virtue of penitent Sages and
to deprive them of the power they would otherwise have acquired through
unbroken austerities.”—GOLDSTÜCKER’S _Sanskrit Dictionary_.
Vishnu’s Incarnation As Ráma.
“Here is described one of the _avatárs_, descents or manifestations of
Vishṇu in a visible form. The word _avatár_ signifies literally _descent_.
The _avatár_ which is here spoken of, that in which, according to Indian
traditions, Vishṇu descended and appeared upon earth in the corporeal form
of Ráma, the hero of the Rámáyana, is the seventh in the series of Indian
_avatárs_. Much has been said before now of these avatárs, and through
deficient knowledge of the ideas and doctrines of India, they have been
compared to the sublime dogma of the Christian Incarnation. This is one of
the grossest errors that ignorance of the ideas and beliefs of a people
has produced. Between the _avatárs_ of India and the Christian Incarnation
there is such an immensity of difference that it is impossible to find any
reasonable analogy that can approximate them. The idea of the _avatárs_ is
intimately united with that of the Trimúrti; the bond of connection
between these two ideas is an essential notion common to both, the notion
of Vishṇu. What is the Trimúrti? I have already said that it is composed
of three Gods, Brahmá (masculine), Vishṇu the God of _avatárs_, and Śiva.
These three Gods, who when reduced to their primitive and most simple
expression are but three cosmogonical personifications, three powers or
forces of nature, these Gods, I say, are here found, according to Indian
doctrines, entirely external to the true God of India, or Brahma in the
neuter gender. Brahma is alone, unchangeable in the midst of creation: all
emanates from him, he comprehends all, but he remains extraneous to all:
he is Being and the negation of beings. Brahma is never worshipped; the
indeterminate Being is never invoked; he is inaccessible to the prayers as
the actions of man; humanity, as well as nature, is extraneous to him.
External to Brahma rises the Trimúrti, that is to say, Brahmá (masculine)
the power which creates, Vishṇu the power which preserves, and Śiva the
power which destroys: theogony here commences at the same time with
cosmogony. The three divinities of the Trimúrti govern the phenomena of
the universe and influence all nature. The real God of India is by himself
without power; real efficacious power is attributed only to three
divinities who exist externally to him. Brahmá, Vishṇu, and Śiva,
possessed of qualities in part contradictory and attributes that are
mutually exclusive, have no other accord or harmony than that which
results from the power of things itself, and which is found external to
their own thoughts. Such is the Indian Trimúrti. What an immense
difference between this Triad and the wonderful Trinity of Christianity!
Here there is only one God, who created all, provides for all, governs
all. He exists in three Persons equal to one another, and intimately
united in one only infinite and eternal substance. The Father represents
the eternal thought and the power which created, the Son infinite love,
the Holy Spirit universal sanctification. This one and triune God
completes by omnipotent power the great work of creation which, when it
has come forth from His hands, proceeds in obedience to the laws which He
has given it, governed with certain order by His infinite providence.
“The immense difference between the Trimúrti of India and the Christian
Trinity is found again between the _avatárs_ of Vishṇu and the Incarnation
of Christ. The _avatár_ was effected altogether externally to the Being
who is in India regarded as the true God. The manifestation of one
essentially cosmogonical divinity wrought for the most part only material
and cosmogonical prodigies. At one time it takes the form of the gigantic
tortoise which sustains Mount Mandar from sinking in the ocean; at another
of the fish which raises the lost Veda from the bottom of the sea, and
saves mankind from the waters. When these _avatárs_ are not cosmogonical
they consist in some protection accorded to men or Gods, a protection
which is neither universal nor permanent. The very manner in which the
_avatár_ is effected corresponds to its material nature, for instance the
mysterious vase and the magic liquor by means of which the _avatár_ here
spoken of takes place. What are the forms which Vishṇu takes in his
descents? They are the simple forms of life; he becomes a tortoise, a
boar, a fish, but he is not obliged to take the form of intelligence and
liberty, that is to say, the form of man. In the _avatár_ of Vishṇu is
discovered the inpress of pantheistic ideas which have always more or less
prevailed in India. Does the _avatár_ produce a permanent and definitive
result in the world? By no means. It is renewed at every catastrophe
either of nature or man, and its effects are only transitory.… To sum up
then, the Indian _avatár_ is effected externally to the true God of India,
to Brahma; it has only a cosmogonical or historical mission which is
neither lasting nor decisive; it is accomplished by means of strange
prodigies and magic transformations; it may assume promiscuously all the
forms of life; it may be repeated indefinitely. Now let the whole of this
Indian idea taken from primitive tradition be compared with the
Incarnation of Christ and it will be seen that there is between the two an
irreconcilable difference. According to the doctrines of Christianity the
Everlasting Word, Infinite Love, the Son of God, and equal to Him, assumed
a human body, and being born as a man accomplished by his divine act the
great miracle of the spiritual redemption of man. His coming had for its
sole object to bring erring and lost humanity back to Him; this work being
accomplished, and the divine union of men with God being re-established,
redemption is complete and remains eternal.
“The superficial study of India produced in the last century many
erroneous ideas, many imaginary and false parallels between Christianity
and the Brahmanical religion. A profounder knowledge of Indian
civilization and religion, and philological studies enlarged and guided by
more certain principles have dissipated one by one all those errors. The
attributes of the Christian God, which by one of those intellectual
errors, which Vico attributes to the vanity of the learned, had been
transferred to Vishṇu, have by a better inspired philosophy been reclaimed
for Christianity, and the result of the two religions, one immovable and
powerless, the other diffusing itself with all its inherent force and
energy, has shown further that there is a difference, a real opposition,
between the two principles.”—GORRESIO.
Kusa and Lava.
As the story of the banishment of Sítá and the subsequent birth in
Válmíki’s hermitage of Kuśa and Lava the rhapsodists of the Rámáyan, is
intimately connected with the account in the introductory cantos of
Válmíki’s composition of the poem, I shall, I trust, be pardoned for
extracting it from my rough translation of Kálidása’s Raghuvaṇśa, parts
only of which have been offered to the public.
“Then, day by day, the husband’s hope grew high,
Gazing with love on Sítá’s melting eye:
With anxious care he saw her pallid cheek,
And fondly bade her all her wishes speak.
“Once more I fain would see,” the lady cried,
“The sacred groves that rise on Gangá’s side,
Where holy grass is ever fresh and green,
And cattle feeding on the rice are seen:
There would I rest awhile, where once I strayed
Linked in sweet friendship to each hermit maid.”
And Ráma smiled upon his wife, and sware,
With many a tender oath, to grant her prayer.
It chanced, one evening, from a lofty seat
He viewed Ayodhyá stretched before his feet:
He looked with pride upon the royal road
Lined with gay shops their glittering stores that showed,
He looked on Sarjú’s silver waves, that bore
The light barks flying with the sail and oar;
He saw the gardens near the town that lay,
Filled with glad citizens and boys at play.
Then swelled the monarch’s bosom with delight,
And his heart triumphed at the happy sight.
He turned to Bhadra, standing by his side,—
Upon whose secret news the king relied.—
And bade him say what people said and thought
Of all the exploits that his arm had wrought.
The spy was silent, but, when questioned still,
Thus spake, obedient to his master’s will:
“For all thy deeds in peace and battle done
The people praise thee, King, except for one:
This only act of all thy life they blame,—
Thy welcome home of her, thy ravished dame.”
Like iron yielding to the iron’s blow,
Sank Ráma, smitten by those words of woe.
His breast, where love and fear for empire vied,
Swayed, like a rapid swing, from side to side.
Shall he this rumour scorn, which blots his life,
Or banish her, his dear and spotless wife?
But rigid Duty left no choice between
His perilled honour and his darling queen.
Called to his side, his brothers wept to trace
The marks of anguish in his altered face.
No longer bright and glorious as of old,
He thus addressed them when the tale was told:
“Alas! my brothers, that my life should blot
The fame of those the Sun himself begot:
As from the labouring cloud the driven rain
Leaves on the mirror’s polished face a stain.
E’en as an elephant who loathes the stake
And the strong chain he has no power to break,
I cannot brook this cry on every side,
That spreads like oil upon the moving tide.
I leave the daughter of Videha’s King,
And the fair blossom soon from her to spring,
As erst, obedient to my sire’s command,
I left the empire of the sea-girt land.
Good is my queen, and spotless; but the blame
Is hard to bear, the mockery and the shame.
Men blame the pure Moon for the darkened ray,
When the black shadow takes the light away.
And, O my brothers, if ye wish to see
Ráma live long from this reproach set free,
Let not your pity labour to control
The firm sad purpose of his changeless soul.”
Thus Ráma spake. The sorrowing brothers heard
His stern resolve, without an answering word;
For none among them dared his voice to raise,
That will to question:—and they could not praise.
“Beloved brother,” thus the monarch cried
To his dear Lakshmaṇ, whom he called aside.—
Lakshmaṇ, who knew no will save his alone
Whose hero deeds through all the world were known:—
“My queen has told me that she longs to rove
Beneath the shade of Saint Válmíki’s grove:
Now mount thy car, away my lady bear;
Tell all, and leave her in the forest there.”
The car was brought, the gentle lady smiled,
As the glad news her trusting heart beguiled.
She mounted up: Sumantra held the reins;
And forth the coursers bounded o’er the plains.
She saw green fields in all their beauty dressed,
And thanked her husband in her loving breast.
Alas! deluded queen! she little knew
How changed was he whom she believed so true;
How one she worshipped like the Heavenly Tree
Could, in a moment’s time, so deadly be.
Her right eye throbbed,—ill-omened sign, to tell
The endless loss of him she loved so well,
And to the lady’s saddening heart revealed
The woe that Lakshmaṇ, in his love, concealed.
Pale grew the bloom of her sweet face,—as fade
The lotus blossoms,—by that sign dismayed.
“Oh, may this omen,”—was her silent prayer,—
“No grief to Ráma or his brothers bear!”
When Lakshmaṇ, faithful to his brother, stood
Prepared to leave her in the distant wood,
The holy Gangá, flowing by the way,
Raised all her hands of waves to bid him stay.
At length with sobs and burning tears that rolled
Down his sad face, the king’s command he told;
As when a monstrous cloud, in evil hour,