Ramayana (2): Rama - Young Prince of Ayodhya

Late Treta Yuga

Bala Kanda 2: After their birth through the divine payasa, the four sons of Daśaratha grew up in Ayodhyā like four flames from the same sacred fire.

Rama — calm, steady, self-restrained, deeply observant

Bharata — gentle, affectionate, beloved of all

Lakshmaṇa — fierce in loyalty, unwavering toward Rāma

Shatrughna — sharp, alert, often found at Bharata’s side

The four brothers studied the Vedas, the codes of dharma, archery, statecraft, and the science of weapons. They trained under Sage Vasiṣṭha and the royal masters.

As years passed, Rāma became the jewel of the court — the kings, citizens, and elders all loved him. He was still young, between 12 and 16 depending on tradition, when the event that changed Ayodhyā’s destiny began.

The Arrival of Sage Viśvāmitra

One morning, a great commotion stirred at the palace gates. Sage Viśvāmitra had arrived, the ascetic king-turned-sage whose fame filled the three worlds. His coming was unexpected. Daśaratha rose from his throne, placed his palms together, and welcomed him with reverence.

When the sage was seated, Daśaratha said:

“Nothing is beyond your command. Tell me what you wish.”

Viśvāmitra spoke plainly.

The Fated Request

In his hermitage, demons led by Mārīca and Subāhu were defiling his sacrificial fires. They hurled flesh and blood into the sacred altar, ruining the austerities of the sages.

Viśvāmitra asked the king for Rāma to fight these demons. Not an army. Not captains or generals. Just Rāma.

Daśaratha was shocked. Rāma was still a boy. He was untested in real war. The thought of sending his son against rākṣasas chilled the king’s heart.

He said:

“Rāma is not ready. Send me instead. I myself shall defend your sacrifice.”

But Viśvāmitra’s face hardened.

Daśaratha pleaded… a father, not a king:

“He is but a child. I cannot part with him.”

In some retellings, Daśaratha even fainted from grief, terrified to lose his eldest.

Viśvāmitra grew angry — “You promised me anything. Now you withdraw it. Is this the truthfulness of kings?”

Vasiṣṭha Intervenes

The tension rose until Vasiṣṭha, the royal preceptor, spoke to Daśaratha gently but firmly.

He reminded him who Viśvāmitra was, one whose tapas could shake the heavens, one who had created even a parallel heaven for Triśaṅku. His spiritual power surpassed armies.

Vasiṣṭha said:

“You fear for Rāma. But you do not understand. Rāma is born for this.Rāma is no ordinary prince.”

Only then did Daśaratha relent. Weeping inwardly, but surrendering to destiny, he called Rāma. Lakṣmaṇa rose with him, refusing to let his brother go alone. The two princes bowed to their father. Daśaratha blessed them, though his heart trembled.

Viśvāmitra smiled very slightly, for he had known this outcome all along.

And thus the three departed Ayodhyā… the first step of Rāma’s true path.

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ALTERNATE TRADITION

(found in later retellings — some Kamban, some North Indian oral streams)

There exists a variant retelling where Daśaratha tries to trick Viśvāmitra. He does not send Rāma. Instead, he sends Bharata and Śatrughna to the hermitage. Viśvāmitra sees through the deception immediately.

He either refuses them outright or teaches them briefly and sends them back. Then he returns to the king and says:

“If you will not give Rāma, I shall destroy the world with my austerities.”

Only after this does Daśaratha submit fully, and Rāma leaves Ayodhyā. This version emphasizes Daśaratha’s emotional struggle, a father trying to delay fate, but in every version, Rāma finally goes, Lakṣmaṇa goes with him, and Daśaratha stays behind with a breaking heart.

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The First Night in the Forest — and the Teaching of Bala & Atibala

Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa walked beside Viśvāmitra as Ayodhyā faded behind them. For the first time in their lives, they slept not in a palace chamber, but under open sky and forest canopy. The silence of the wilderness surrounded them.

Wild deer watched from the trees. On the far horizon, the faint red glow of rakṣasa fires flickered. Viśvāmitra sat cross-legged near the sacrificial fire he had kindled for their first halt.

The two brothers sat respectfully in front of him, waiting.

That night, like a teacher receiving students, Viśvāmitra spoke:

“Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa… you are noble by birth, but birth alone is not enough. A king must learn to govern his own body before he can govern the land.”

The sage then taught them two secret mantras, Bala and Atibala. These were not weapons. These were foundations. They protected against hunger, fatigue, fear, confusion, and weakness.

“These,” he said, “steady the body, sharpen the senses, and keep sleep and hunger in their bounds. They will not turn you into something you are not. They will let you be fully what you are.” They would not age, nor lose strength, even on long journeys, or amidst sleepless nights.

He taught the syllables, the breath, the way to set the mind and hold it. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa listened, absorbed, and recited. The mantras sank into them like fire entering wood. From that night onward, they no longer hungered as ordinary men. Their minds stayed calm. Their bodies were light and ready.

Viśvāmitra smiled slightly. He knew now they were prepared for what lay ahead. Satisfied, he rose. “Come. There is much to do.”

They crossed a narrow river by stepping stones and came to a grove where the air felt old and clean. There, in a ring of sal trees, Viśvāmitra stopped and faced north. His voice grew grave.

“This forest was once free of fear. That ended when one who preyed upon sages made it her ground.” He told them of Tāṭakā, fierce and swift, and how the rites of the hermitages had been disturbed by her shrieks and blows. “Her strength is great. She is not a mere beast. But she chose to live without restraint, so her end will come.”

Tāṭakā appeared near sunset.

She came like a storm, throwing stones and broken trunks, filling the air with dust. The earth trembled where she landed. Rāma stood, bow low, breath even, watching her shoulders and hips for the first twitch of a leap.

Viśvāmitra spoke from behind, not loud, not harsh: “Hold your ground.”

Lakṣmaṇa flanked. When Tāṭakā rushed, Rāma’s arrow met her throat like a line of light. Another followed, and another, until the forest stilled. The wind seemed to ease. Birds returned to branches.

The hermitage of the sages was still many forests away. The demons who polluted those holy fires knew they were coming. They would not wait quietly. But for that moment, the forest was peaceful. The three slept under the stars, the sacred fire glowing softly beside them.

And thus began the true journey of the princes.

Arrival at Siddhāśrama

By the second day, the forest thickened. The paths narrowed. The trees seemed older, ancient, silent witnesses of forgotten ages. Rāma felt as if the land itself was watching them.

Viśvāmitra stopped at the edge of a clearing. His voice lowered.

“Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa — this is Siddhāśrama.”

Before them lay a vast hermitage once blessed by Vāmana, ringed by sacred fires. Hundreds of ascetics lived there, thin as skeletons, their bodies marked by long years of austerity. Yet their faces were peaceful. Some were chanting. Some were gathering fuel. Some sat motionless beneath trees, deep in meditation.

As the three entered, the sages rose and greeted Viśvāmitra like a king. They offered water for washing feet, fresh kusa grass, clean seats, and fruits.

An elder among them spoke:

“O Kauśika, you have returned after so many seasons. You have brought the princes?”

Viśvāmitra nodded.

“Yes. The hour has come.”

They led him and the princes to the inner sanctuary, near the oldest, most sacred fire of the hermitage. There, Viśvāmitra pointed to a simple, earthen altar. Around it were marks of burnt offerings, black scars where demon-missiles had fallen like meteors.

“This is the altar I once used for my thousand-year penance. This is where Mārīca and Subāhu come. When the sacred oblations begin, they attack. Rāma, you must protect this sacrifice.”

The sages looked at the fourteen-year-old prince with hope and fear mixed in their eyes. Rāma bowed in acceptance. But before the great rite could begin, Rāma asked Viśvāmitra:

“The demons who come here — who are they? How do they defile this yajña?”

Viśvāmitra’s eyes narrowed, as if remembering a long old insult.

“They hurl filth and blood. They rain down flesh and bone. They mock the sacred. They do not merely kill. They want humiliation of dharma itself.”

The air grew heavy. That night, there was no rest. Fires burned bright. The sages purified the grounds. They recited hymns to Agni. The sky trembled with the sound of chants.

Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa stood guard, bows ready.

Before dawn, Viśvāmitra placed his hand on Rāma’s shoulder.

“Before you face them, you must receive the weapons of the gods.”

The Gift of Divine Astras

With his ascetic power, Viśvāmitra alled out names, not of men, but of weapons. Names that were also powers and patterns, memories of the gods bound for use by a human hand.

“Come,” he said, “Aindra, Āgneya, Vāyavya, Varuṇa. Come, great shafts that quell serpents and those that scatter illusions. Come, missiles that bind, that daze, that lay low and that protect.”

As he called, the air wavered. The weapons came in forms that were seen less with the eyes than with the mind, each with a face and a mood. Rāma saluted them and felt them settle in him like quiet guests who choose respectful rooms and make no noise.

“Use them only when cause is right,” Viśvāmitra said. “Strength without measure is a test, not a prize.”

He taught their names, their invocations, their release chants, their restraint chants.

Brahmāstra. Indra’s Vajra. Vāyu’s speed-weapons. Agni’s flame-arrows. Varuṇa’s water-weapons. Śiva’s mountain-shattering shafts.

Rāma absorbed each with calm concentration. Lakṣmaṇa learned the secondary weapons, the counter-missiles, to protect the rite from flanking sorcery.

When it was complete, Viśvāmitra simply said:

“Now — you are ready.”

The next morning, the sacrifice began. The smoke of ghee rose into the sky. And somewhere beyond the forests, two demons stirred.

Sources:

Primary / canonical

• Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa — Bāla Kāṇḍa — Sarga 18–30

Alternate tradition

• Kamba Rāmāyaṇam (Tamil), Bala Kandam — episode where Daśaratha sends Bharata + Śatrughna instead of Rāma

• North Indian oral kathā streams (kathā-vāchaka tradition) — same Bharata/Śatrughna switch motif

Optional secondary Sanskrit sources

• Adhyātma Rāmāyaṇa — heightens emotional dimension of Daśaratha’s reluctance (but does not include the switch trick in core text)