Sumitra

SRIMATHI K. SAVITRI

There is in the beauty of the character of Sumitra an effect almost too holy and beautiful for words. She is drawn with so pure and subdued a glow of colour as to make the tenderest and the most enduring picture in the reader's heart. Indeed, no portrait has ever received such a maximum of effect with the minimum of labour at the artist's hand. What Shakespeare has achieved with Portia, the wife of Brutus, Valmiki has, in a different sense, with Sumitra, the mother of Lakshmana. In both, the same few words suffice to bring out the singular force of their natures. Search the whole Ramayana; you can hardly find, next to Rama, a figure more sedate and unruffled in spirit than Sumitra amidst all those agitating circumstances. She is like some distant star which may be overlooked but for the steady clear ray of light that it sheds.

The comparison between her and Kaikeyi is inevitable. While the favourite queen of the King exhibits all that is thoughtless, willful and petulant in her sex, Sumitra displays a mind full of a quiet strength, patience and sweet humility. In whatever situation she is placed, we feel her self-possession will hold its own like a vessel with an unshakable ballast. The storm may blow all around, yet leave the vessel as untouched and unyielding to the rough winds as ever.

Should we ask ourselves how she would have acted were she the mother of Bharata, instead of Kaikeyi? Would Manthara have prevailed with her? Far otherwise; we fancy she would have not only withstood her friend's evil insinuations but would have definitely carried everything before her with her own vivid reasoning and persuasive powers of speech. And Manthara would have actually discovered the flowers of her eloquence wither away in that rarefied atmosphere of moral superiority.

The poet writes speaking of her as Tatvadarshini. In truth, no term could be more fittingly applied to a character like hers. For, her clear intellect always rises superior to her feelings. How else could she have found it in her heart to bid an almost tearless farewell to the dear son and speak to him rather in a tone of command than one of sorrow as she does?

"My son," she says as he bows down at her feet, "Thou art meant for exile. Ever devoted to thine own kin, fail not in thy love now that thy brother goes away. In affliction or in happiness I see no better course for thee than that thou shouldst completely submit thyself to thy elders. This behoves the right-minded and is, I believe, worthy also of this great House of thine. Look up to Rama, dear Lakshmana, as thy father, to Sita as thy mother and the forest as no less than this thy dear city, Ayodhya. Let this conviction comfort thee. Hurry up my child, tarry not here a moment longer."¹

Such are her parting words, brave yet filled with the deepest sorrow, which have all the distinctness of the tinkling of a bell amidst the general clamour and weeping of those around her.

Where can we find the mother who would willingly spare her son to accept a banishment to which he is in no way bound? But she knows the heart of Lakshmana. She is perfectly aware that he would rather accompany his brother to the end of the world, than bear to be parted from him for a single moment. She would not think of dissuading him from a noble resolution even if she were ten times his mother. It would seem, like that great Roman Mother, if she had twelve sons she would have rather eleven of them die for a noble cause than one remain idle at home.

It is a rare detachment from all binding influences of poor human nature with which Sumitra carries herself through life and thereby is enabled to attain a peace of mind hardly to be won by anyone else. Even Kausalya is not more aware of her son's greatness than this saint of a woman who could thoroughly comprehend the magnanimity of his conduct unfettered by weaker sentiments. How ably she consoles the grief-worn Kausalya!

"Indeed, dear madam, why should you weep? Your son, blessed with all the virtues in the world, is a prince among men. If he has renounced the crown and accepted the banishment, it is because he would have his noble father remain faithful to his word."²

In what a different light does this place the poor old King who is accused of nothing less than an abject surrender to the force of love! That single sentence reveals to us not only her fine understanding but her unfailing devotion to her husband, and also the admirable delicacy with which she strives to point out to Kausalya that she must not be hard on the afflicted King.

Again, it is significant, though it is but in keeping with her unique temperament, that not a word against Kaikeyi ever passes her lips. In this respect even Rama comes after her. For does he not, the high fortitude which supported him till then suddenly forsaking him, break down with feelings of bitterness against Kaikeyi when Sita is taken away from him?

The fair personality of Sumitra, only occasionally visible, is yet so vivid before us that we are sure we cannot entirely dispense with it. However small her part in the story, the reader will be rare to whom her true womanly courage and her incomparable nobility of mind will fail to make their own special and lasting appeal.

1 Ayodhya Kandam, Barga 40, Slokas 7 to 11.

2 Ayodhya Kandam, Sarga 44, Slokas 2 and 3