Chapter Text
Many glorious years did Dionysos-Rama and His maenads live upon the earth, after the god returned in triumph to Ayodhya His city and to Bharat His brother. Rama found his brothers faithful, his mothers contrite and devoted; and he assumed the Kingship of Ayodhya amidst cries of victory, his loving wife Sita by his side.
But death and decay come even to Arcadia. His mission done, the Great Spirit of Dionysos left Rama in time; so that he was human once more, mortal and limited as he had not been since many years.
And so Rama ruled Ayodhya as any mortal King rules a city. As the years went by, and the city grew, he became ever more distant, ever more regal; until the man who as a youth had known his every citizen by name no longer spoke to them, no longer mixed with his people. Instead he sat in his palace, a magnificent structure of divine symmetries, filled with gold and precious stone, and listened to bards and poets declare his praises in song.
One such evening, Rama sat on a golden lotus throne, Sita and Lakshman by his side, and asked the poets, “You traveling bards hear many rumours. Tell me, what do the people of my city say of me?”
But with the Spirit of the god had gone Rama’s divine mercy and his capacity for deliverance; so that those around him now only feared his power and his wrath. The poets all paled in terror; and none dared answer, nor did even Lakshman or Sita venture to speak.
Finally one bard, casting a glance at Sita for support, said, “My Lord, your people are safe and prosperous. They remember well your strength, how you waged war upon the great City of Lanka and destroyed its King, whom all men thought invincible. They have no cause for complaint.
"And yet… I have heard murmurs in the streets, my Lord, in the alleys and on the riverbanks. I have heard women say that none of their kind could keep her virtue against Ravana, that his temptation was too strong. I have heard them doubt your Queen’s loyalty, o King; and I have heard men doubt your purity of heart, for keeping her in your house.”
Now Rama had loved Sita dearer than his own life; so that at first, he dismissed all those poets without payment and forbade them to ever return to Ayodhya on pain of death. But the divine Spirit had withdrawn, and Sita had long since fulfilled her purpose. Though he loved her still, she no longer possessed the frenzied allure to Rama’s mind that once she had done; and so, as the days went by, doubt began to grow in Rama’s heart, a battle between his love for his wife and his love for his city.
Deeper and deeper did this doubt eat at the King’s spirit. Finally he could bear it no longer and called Lakshman his brother into his presence. “You have heard what the people say about me,” Rama said. “Lakshman, your loyalty is beyond question. You remained steadfast at my side, through our exile in the Forest, through the frenzy of the god, through our battle against Lanka.
“I now call upon your loyalty yet again. I cannot keep both Sita and my throne. And though I do not know whether Sita has truly been unfaithful, the mere possibility eats at my heart. I cannot bear to keep her any longer. Lakshman, what I am about to ask you will sound excessive; but such is the way of Kings, and you must obey me. Do this: take Sita in your chariot, drive her to the edge of the Forest in which we dwelt for fourteen years, and there kill her. As proof that she is truly dead, bring me back her heart.”
Lakshman was struck with astonishment at his royal brother’s words, but he could not refuse Rama. And so, the dan of the following day saw Lakshman and Sita ride out, away from the city as pilgrims go. But no man was there to look more closely; no man or woman saw the tears in Lakshman’s eyes, the look of bitter resolve in Sita’s.
Rivers they crossed, and fields and marshes, all in total silence; each understanding what was happening but unwilling to speak it aloud. When they reached the edge of the dark Forest, forever changed now, never the same, Lakshman dismounted and drew his sword. “Sister, forgive me,” he said to Sita, “your virtue must have drawn the envy of the gods, for treacherous voices are raised against you in the city and even your husband has been swayed. He sent me here to end your life; but I cannot bring myself to raise my sword against you.”
But Sita remained serene throughout; and now she regarded Lakshman as the Sphinx had done Oedipus. “I know well my husband’s heart,” she said. “I know how the power of the god sustained him; how he weakened, wilted, once the oracles of Dionysos left his dreams. I know how he sits in his palace, a stranger to himself, ruling his people as a distant tyrant. I know that the kind youth I married was lost the day he set foot in this Forest.
“I know also that you alone remain loyal. Therefore, listen to my words. Kill a deer here in the woods, cut off its ear, and skin it so that the flesh and the blood are exposed. Then cut from my dress a square of silk, and wrap the ear in it. Take it back to Rama and tell him I am dead. He will not open it.”
And so Lakshman, weeping, did as Sita told him; and he returned to his brother, who, satisfied, did not ask him again. But Sita went off into the Forest and found an empty ashram. Here she lived, sustained by Hera who pitied her fate; and here she bore Rama twin sons, unknown by any save the goddess herself.
Thus did Rama continue to rule his city, alone this time, and bitter, for love had gone from his life. But the Spirit of Dionysos had not altogether abandoned him. One day, an old mystic came to Ayodhya; he came from the wild forest, dressed in fawnskins, the sound of pipes preceding him in the strains of a Phrygian song.
His arrival stirred the old memory of the god within Rama’s heart; and the King asked to see him instantly. “What brings you to my city, o master?” Rama asked him.
“I have come, o King,” said the sage, “to inform you of your Fate. You are the Lord Dionysos incarnated upon the earth; but your mission is long since complete, and so the Spirit has withdrawn itself and returned to the divine realms. My Lord, I have seen the Moirai at work upon the Thread of your life, and I know you have as well. Why do you tarry? It is time for Dionysos to return to the Underworld once more, so that from the buried seed next year’s wheat may grow.”
And so the next day at dawn, Rama and Lakshman went down to the river side by side as their people watched in astonishment. Great whirlpools rose up in that sparkling blue water as though in anticipation. Lakshman was first to enter; ever devoted, he walked into the river until its waters covered him completely, and he was seen no more.
His brother followed him into that stream of Hades; and as the waters covered Rama’s body, the river erupted in a blinding light like the fires of Helios’ horses. And Dionysos, now fully divine, no longer clinging to mortal flesh, bright and burning and comforting and not of this world, appeared from the light to His stricken followers one last time.
The god vanished, and the river returned to its regular form, light and fire gone. The people of Ayodhya worshipped at the riverbank; and a great many of them went down into the river themselves, following their god to his palace in the Underworld. Others took up their burdens and their wives and children and went away from that holy place, spreading across the lands of India as once the maenads had done.
The City of Ayodhya has been sacred to Dionysos ever since. Still today it stands, a memorial to the greatest Dionysia ever celebrated upon the earth.
KHAIRE DIONYSE