LAUGHTER IN THE RAMAYANA

India's first poet, first in so many of the achievements of the poetic spirit, is perhaps greatest in his command of pathos. The Ramayana is in many places soaked in tears, tears that start with the shooting down of the innocent 'crouncha' bird. With that initial story our poet suggests not only that poetry is an overflow into song of powerful feeling, but also that the most powerful feeling of all is that of sorrow and pity, and that therefore the sweetest songs cannot but be those of saddest thought. It also suggests the connection between feeling and rhythmic expression: metre is but the expression of a rhythm set up within by an agitated heart.

But Valmiki's tears do not blind him to the laughter that is but their other side. He often smiles through his tears, though perhaps, not often enough. He feels in earnest, but his thinking mind tells him that it could have been so comic if it had been not so tragic. His humour is therefore generally though not invariably, the highest type of laughter, the smile of sympathy. It is the laughter of a laughing father at the inconsistencies, follies, of his children. And it is sometimes a laughter at himself and his class, the father laughing at himself with his children.

See the Maharshi laughing at the ascetic Rishyashringa (Balakanda 10th Sarga) whose Brahmacharya is built on simple exclusion from and entire ignorance of woman kind. With what delight the poor boy eats the new fruits (Modakas) that the Veshyas offer him! What an undreamt of bliss he feels in their joyful embraces! How agitated he is after their departure, and with what willingness he agrees to follow them to their 'Asrama'! It is a tragic subject, the break-up of a long tapasya, but treated smilingly. And the results of this tragedy are not at all tragic as Valmiki hastens to point out. It rained and the World was glad.

This story and its loving laughter became so popular that it re-appeared in the Mahabharata. Or could it have been the other way round?

Valmiki has another laugh, a laugh that is half pity at his own people in the Ayodhya Kanda. Rama is giving away endless gifts of money and jewels and cattle to Brahmins and dependants prior to his departure for the forest. It is a touching scene. Every one except Rama is in tears- Rama smiles at the Brahmins assembled. "Give to these" he says to Lakshmana, "Give to these lazy gourmands, lazy, still respected even by the great, precious stone in plenty", and Lakshmana gives. When the distribution is almost over an old poor Brahmin, yoked to a young wife suffering from poverty and too many children, and acting under her advice, arrives in torn clothes and asks for Rama's blessing. Rama with a smile on his lips tells him. "I give you not a mere thou and head of cattle. Throw your staff with all your might and as far as you can, all the cattle up to that limit are yours." Hastily winding his cloth round his waist, nervous, he, waving his staff, throws it with all his strength and it sends flying at top speed. He wins many thousands. Rama often ordering that they be taken to his home by his servants, embraces him and consoles him, "Pray don't be angry. It was only a joke." Rama regrets even the triumphant smile of the man who gives to the needy a hundred time more than they had the courage to beg for, Valmiki too seems to be half afraid of laughter, fears that laughter cannot be completely separated from malice or at least a sense of superiority. Hence perhaps the comparative rarity of laughter in his work.

When Valmiki laughs at Kaikeyi the laugh is not perhaps go innocent or pure. The moment Mandhara's specious arguments win approval, witness the change that comes over Kaikeyi. She suddenly "discovers that this hump-backed wretch is beautiful; as beautiful as a lotus that bends in the breeze; every part of her is lovely, and every ornament. Her gait as she walks before her mistress is now the gait of the swan ... Then comes another and more interesting discovery, that her intelligence resides in that hump as big as the have of a chariot wheel. With this arises the desire to decorate the hump with gold ornaments, she would even give it a coating with molten gold! And again a last reward. She would have other beautiful hump-backed ones to serve her. The moment a hump develops in Kaikeyi's mind all humps become beautiful as all wrong advice becomes right. Hundreds of years of psychological research, after Valmiki, still finds Valmiki well abreast.

Is there any sympathy in this laughter? Perhaps there is. Valmiki seems to be telling Kaikeyi, "You are not yourself. Everything is upside down with you. You know not what you are doing or saying!"

There is some sympathy for Kaikeyi. But there is apparently none for Mandhara. Shathrughna, returning after the 'Sanchayana' ceremony of his father, is offered by the guards, Mandhara, the cause of it all, for exemplary treatment. As she appears what a contrast she is to the sorrowing children of Dasharatha. She is decked from head to foot in ornaments. She is smeared all over with sandal paste. She wears queenly robes and is surrounded by friends. Bound by gold girdles and other ornaments (all ornaments bind!) she shines forth like a monkey led forth in ropes. Valmiki is evidently unable any longer to contain his contempt and that glorious simile is its outlet. There is no more coming. Shathrughna drags the frightened shouting Mandhara on the ground, now by her hands, now by her legs, now by her hair. Her ornaments now lie scattered in the palace yard, once more beautiful because now once more in place. Here is no subdued smile. It is the loud laughter of triumph, of writer and reader, the Homeric laugh, the laughter of the savage when he has clubbed his enemy to pieces. This kind of laugh too is not perhaps without its place in character culture. It achieves a purgation of the dangerous in pulses accumulating even in the calmest hearts. Mandhara's cries purify the atmosphere in the palace, so it docs the atmosphere within us. "The sky is once again clear as in Sharath."

But the absence of sympathy for Mandhara is only apparent. By making this woman a hump-backed one Valmiki has suggested the cause of the crookedness within. The fates have been cruel to her and she could, not be expected to be straight in her responses and reactions.......And she has one virtue, she is loyal to her mistress. Perhaps she is only Kaikeyi's own evil nature projected outside herself in human form.

Valmiki does not seem to show much sympathy for Surpanakha either. He makes her fall headlong in love with Rama and hastens to point out the utter incongruousness of it. She is ugly, big bellied, squint-eyed, red-haired, terrible-voiced, old, notorious; and he lovely, long-eyed, thin-bellied, dark-haired, sweetvoiced, young, famous. And she not only loves but expects him to love her and prefer here to Seetha. See what she thinks of Seetha, "I am powerful, I go where I like, what could this Seetha do? She is deformed, she is ugly, she is not fit mate for you. Look at her belly! I shall eat this ill-formed creature and your brother too.”

Rama cannot help smiling. It is a long time since he has smiled like this. He would like to enjoy the joke a little longer, and in pure fun he tells her, "Lakshmana is unmarried, he is the one for you." Immediately she flies to him. Lakshmana joins in the joking, agrees that Seetha is old, ugly and thin-bellied and that Rama would gladly leave her and join the lovely Surpanakha. Seetha too must have joined in at least at this stage. Imagine the whole group laughing. If they restrain their laugh a little it must be out of fear of the Rakshasi.

Does Valmiki show any sympathy for this giantess? Perhaps he does. As a rakshasi she naturally finds beauty only in women like herself. After all beauty is what we are accustomed to. The wonder is that she finds Rama and Lakshmana beautiful; from her that is true homage as well as love. Anything moreover could be, and should be, excused in a rakshasi especially in the grip of passion.

Still it is so ridiculous, this woman who wants some young man immediately. She does not seem to care whether it is Rama or Lakshmana, to secure one she is prepared to eat up the other two. Valmiki does not forget to point out that she has no sense of humour. She is always in earnest, takes words at their face value; something could be forgiven her for this simplicity too.

In this scene what Valmiki probably wants to emphasise is the nearness of tragedy to comedy. How quickly and unexpectedly a mere joke proves the gateway to blood, mutilation, vengeance, war. Rama and Lakshmana are playing with fire. Rama realises but too late, that with, or at, the cruel and the bad, there should never be any laughter. The rest of the Ramayana is the dire result of his realising this too late.

Is Valmiki condemning all laughter in this scene, especially unsympathetic laughter?

Valmiki smiles sweetly again in Sundarakanda. Ha-numan is having a look at Ravana's many wives, sleeping huddled up around him after the night's orgies. Some of these women in their sleep mistake their neighbour's faces for Ravana's and kiss them again and again; and these other women so excessively in love with Ravana are only happy at this. Most of these women were won in War, but some of these, Valmiki adds, had come of their own accord to find satisfaction for their mad passion. And still they are evidently not satisfied, they have to seek satisfaction, in sleep, among themselves. See what shrewd psychology we have here, thousands of years before Freud.

In the next scene we see these unsatisfied women again. One is sleeping, embracing her drum; another is asleep kissing her flute. Ravana is after all one, though Ravana, amongst so many.

We now come to another joke that proves almost as costly as Rama's. This time the joker is Ravana, his antagonist. Hanuman should not be killed being an ambassador. But he could be punished. Ravana's sense of humour prescribes an interesting punishment. (Ravana can laugh unlike his sister.) "Monkeys are proud of their tails, their loved ornaments. Set fire to his and let him go home with a burnt tail. Let the miserable mutilated one be seen and scoffed at by his friends, relatives." Then an afterthought. "Let him be taken round the city, let him be laughed at here first". This curious procession is soon in the streets. Men, women, children pour into the streets to boo, grin and make merry. The laugh is not all on one side. With that burning tail he has felled not a few of his guards and then thinking better of it, he calmed down; the fire is not burning him, and here moreover is an opportunity to see Lanka in day-light. He is not laughing, though mischievous ideas are sprouting within him. He is letting them laugh for a time. He will laugh best because he will laugh last.

There! The monkey has made a beautiful leap. He is now on the roof top. Now he can continue to laugh. The others too can continue to laugh, a monkey on a roof-top is interesting. But soon laughter turns to cries. He is setting fire to houses. He jumps nimbly from roof-top to roof-top and sets them all on fire. This living firebomb is setting that old London on fire. People are now running for their lives. Women with their children in their arms flee and fall crying. A small flame has become a wild fire, a joke an unspeakable tragedy.

But the readers continue to laugh with Hanuman and Valmiki. But is Valmiki laughing? Or is he pointing out once again how near neighbour laughter is to tears? Is he warning us once again of the dangers of that not-so innocent laugh?

Valmiki soon takes us to a less agreeable scene: Monkeys drunk. Here is low humour; still the picture is vivid. No one could do it better, "Some are singing, some stooping, some are dancing, some are laughing, some are falling, some are talking, some are babbling, some cry as they laugh. There is not one undrunk and not one who has not had enough; the madhu is dripping from some mouths, some drunk are throwing the wax at each other... They bend their enemies and show them their buttocks. After all they are monkeys and Valmiki the Maharshi does not seem to disapprove of this in the least. All his sympathies are on their side and yet he laughs.

There is plenty of savage laughter in the Yuddhakanda, the laughter of the victorious soldier at the downfall of his enemy; laughter at these blood-drinking rakshasas now themselves spitting blood. It is indeed a savage fight. A fight with trees and stones, with hands and teeth and nails. There are also scenes of fright and flight from the battle-field, jumping into the sea, disappearing in the forest. The monkeys too run away, too often.

But in the midst of all this bloody and terrible laughter Valmiki provides some innocent comedy too with a picture of the sleeping Kumbhakarna and the attempts to wake him. Ravana is returning from the field beaten and desperate and yet this brother of his is sound asleep in some vast underground shelter. He must be awakened, he is necessary. Ravana's messengers approaching the cave are taken aback by the snoring that proceeds from it. With an effort they enter. They see him lying like an ugly mountain. They heap mountains of food, huge jars of blood and wines, before this hell-mouthed monster. They put sandal-paste on him, and offer this snorer incense. They then roar like the angry clouds, they shout, they clap, they shake him, frightened birds take to their wings at this, but unable to fly fall to the ground. But Kumbakarna is undisturbed. Now they beat him with their heavy weapons but to no purpose. They dare not approach his nose, because though strong they might be sucked in.- They beat him again, whip him with all their might, they raise hell. All Lanka and all the surrounding forests are echoing with it. Still Kumbakarna is not awaking. They pluck his hair, they bite his ears, they pour hundreds of pots of water down those pot-like ears. They drive thousands of elephants over him, he just feels that he is touched. At last he wakes up but only been use of returning hunger- He takes a few deep breaths, they blow on them like the wind in the mountains. And he immediately falls on those food heaps. With eyes still half closed and turbid he surveys the people around.

Here is the humour of exaggeration, a humour of which a Mark Twain may be proud. Here is neither pity, much contempt, but pure fun. It is the child's laughter at the sight of an enormous snoring monster.

In the Uttarakanda the laughter is mostly directed against, Ravana. Ravana flying in his newly won Pushpaka plane finds its movement arrested over a mountain. He is told Shankara is amusing himself with his wife and followers in that mountain. His eyes red with anger he descends from his plane and scoffs, "Who is this Shankara?" At the foot of the mountain he has another laugh at the monkey-faced Nandi. Determined to root out the offending mountain he puts his arms under it and shakes it. Everything in it shakes. Parvathi, shaking, takes refuge in the embrace of her Lord. What a beautiful picture in one line! Valmiki leaves us to imagine the smile on Shankara's lips, the dawning smile on Parvathi recovering from her fright in his embrace. Mahadeva with another smile presses slightly in fun one toe on the mountain. Poor Ravana's hands are suddenly caught firmly under the mountain. He shouts in rage, in vain. But not entirely in vain. With that world-shaking shout it is that he becomes Ravana, Lokaravana. And he grows proud of this name born of disgrace! Helpless, he conciliates Sankara with his prayers. He has to pray long, a thousand years with his arms under the mountain.

We have another huge laugh at Ravana in the hands of Bali. Proud, haughty Ravana, the war-monger, goes to Kishkindha seeking war with Bali. But Bali is not there. He is told to seek him on the shore of the South Sea. He immediately flies in that direction. He approaches the praying Bali from behind and is in a flash caught in his arm-pit by Bali who has not even turned his head. With Ravana hanging from his arm-pit, like a serpent from Garuda's claws, Bali jumps from sea to sea. After his prayers, at last he comes back to Kishkindha. Releasing him now Bali asks with a loud laugh, "Where from you are?"

We find in Valmiki, at least once, hysterical laughter, laughter that is the child of a sorrow too deep for tears.

Tara weeping over her dead husband lying on the ground wails, 'The earth is dearer to you, Lord of the earth, than I. You have left me, but even in death you embrace her". There is some jugglery with words too in her lament. This is the laughter of the soldier who on finding his hand blown off by a bomb begins to laugh.

There is also occasionally the humour of the grotesque, as in the descriptions of the Mandeha Rakshasas who hanging in different terrible shapes from mountain peaks fall into the water with sunrise, then heated by the sun slowly come up again to hang like balloons ! There are also creatures that can cover themselves up completely with their ears, or their lips, etc.

For an early writer there is comparatively little of purely verbal humour in Valmiki. He does not revel in puns like some of his own successors or like the much later Shakespeare. He is carried away, of course, by the wonder of words, their music and their meaning. He cannot occasionally help playing a little with his meaningful proper names. Homer too has been shown to have found mischievous delight in playing with the names and surnames of his characters. His Oddysseus is odd, a man of all 'odds'. 'His name originally came from a pun.'

There is also present in Valmiki, as again in Homer, the oft-repeated stock epithets suddenly proving ironical and humorous, Homer gives the Greeks his recurrent epithet "Great-hearted” even when they are behaving like cowards. Even when the dawn is late he calls it 'Early'. The like effects are produced by Valmiki when he calls people 'Nayakovidas' and 'Vakyavisharadas' even when they are actually behaving tactlessly or talking foolishly. What can we do but smile when Rakshasas and Rakshasis are called 'Kamaiupis' and 'Kamarupinis'! When Lakshmana is furious, Rama calls him 'soumya' and lets us smile though probably he does not, for it is a hint as well as a wish.

What are all these almost unnoticed verbal ironies and the always noticed dramatic ironies compared to the deep and wide cosmic irony permeating the poem! It is apparaently a story of losing a kingdom and winning it, of losing a wife and winning her back again, and of many other less important losses and gains. But survey the losses and gains with the impartial eyes of Fate. Rama wins his beloved, only to lose her, gets her back again only to reject her again, and again. Seetha insists on being taken to the forest to be always with Rama, but only to lose him almost for ever. With her cutting tongue she drives Lakshmana away from her side, but thereby serves not Rama but Ravana. And in the end, when Seetha gets her husband back and for the last time, she rejects him, in her turn, to go back to the Earth, her mother and ours. The kingdom that Rama succeeds in winning and expanding, he leaves to his descendants, divided, weak. Think of Kaikeyi, Tara, how gains become losses and losses gains! And think of that last sad procession to the other world that winds up all achievements as all defeats...... but we have to be Gods to laugh at all this.