Sad

तमसाThe river

Nārada had just told Vālmīki the story of Rāma and gone back to the sky. A little later the sage walked down to the Tamasā, not far from the Gaṅgā, with his pupil Bharadvāja beside him. He looked at the bathing place and stopped. 1.2.1 to 8

अकर्दममिदं तीर्थं भरद्वाज निशामय।
रमणीयं प्रसन्नाम्बु सन्मनुष्यमनो यथा॥Rāmāyaṇa 1.2.5

Look, Bharadvāja, there is no mud at this ford. The water is lovely and clear, like the mind of a good man. He took his bark cloth from the boy's hands and walked along the bank, looking at the wide forest all round. 1.2.5 to 8

क्रौञ्चThe pair

Near him a pair of krauñca birds were moving together, never apart, calling sweetly to each other. And while he watched, a hunter, a man set on harm, shot the male. 1.2.9 to 10

तं शोणितपरीताङ्गं वेष्टमानं महीतले।
भार्या तु निहतं दृष्ट्वा रुराव करुणां गिरम्॥Rāmāyaṇa 1.2.11

He lay writhing on the ground, his body covered in blood, and his mate saw him struck down and cried out, a cry full of grief. And seeing the bird brought down by the hunter, compassion came over the sage. 1.2.11 to 12

आहThe cry

Hearing the hen weep, the words came out of him before he knew it: 1.2.13

मा निषाद प्रतिष्ठां त्वमगमः शाश्वतीः समाः।
यत्क्रौञ्चमिथुनादेकमवधीः काममोहितम्॥Rāmāyaṇa 1.2.14

Hunter, may you find no rest for endless years, for you have killed one of a pair of krauñcas, lost in their love. 1.2.14

श्लोकThe verse

Then he stopped, troubled. What is this I have said, stricken with grief for a bird? He thought about it, and he heard what it was, and he turned to his pupil. 1.2.15 to 16

पादबद्धोऽक्षरसमस्तन्त्रीलयसमन्वितः।
शोकार्तस्य प्रवृत्तो मे श्लोको भवतु नान्यथा॥Rāmāyaṇa 1.2.17

Bound in feet, even in its syllables, fit for the lute and the beat: what came out of me in my grief, let it be a śloka, and nothing else. The boy learned it by heart, glad, and his teacher was glad of it. Vālmīki bathed and walked back to his hermitage, still turning it over. 1.2.17 to 19

ब्रह्मा हँसेBrahmā laughs

Then Brahmā himself came to see him. Vālmīki bowed, gave him a seat, and sat before him; but his mind was still on the bird. A cruel thing, he thought, to kill a creature that sang so sweetly, for no reason. And grieving for the hen again and again, lost in his grief, he sang the verse once more, there in front of Brahmā. 1.2.22 to 28

तमुवाच ततो ब्रह्मा प्रहसन्मुनिपुंगवम्।
श्लोक एव त्वया बद्धो नात्र कार्या विचारणा॥Rāmāyaṇa 1.2.29

And Brahmā laughed and said to him: it is a śloka you have made; there is nothing to doubt. It was by my will that this speech came to you. Now tell the whole story of Rāma, as you heard it from Nārada, in verse like this. As long as the mountains stand and the rivers run on the earth, the story of Rāma will go on among people. 1.2.29 to 35

शोक श्लोक बनाGrief became verse

Brahmā vanished. Vālmīki and his pupils were left in wonder. And the pupils sang the verse again and again, delighted, astonished, and said to each other: 1.2.37 to 38

समाक्षरैश्चतुर्भिर्यः पादैर्गीतो महर्षिणा।
सोऽनुव्याहरणाद्भूयः शोकः श्लोकत्वमागतः॥Rāmāyaṇa 1.2.39

What the great sage sang in four feet of even syllables, by being said again and again, the grief became a verse. And he made the whole Rāmāyaṇa in such verses. 1.2.39 to 41

उसका शोकHis grief

Every Jyotirgana carries grief. Some of it is his own: the years, the work, the name he had in the village. Some of it is for others: a friend who did not come back, a mother's face, a child who grew up while he was away inside it. He has been told to get over it, as if grief were a road to be got to the end of.

Vālmīki did not get over his grief. He gave it feet and a beat. He said it again, and again, and the grief became the first verse there ever was, and the whole Rāmāyaṇa grew out of it. Brahmā did not tell him to stop grieving. Brahmā laughed, with joy, and told him to go on.

That is this lamp's practice, शोक से श्लोक: the grief given a measure, tapped out, said again, until it sings. It does not make the grief small or pretend it is pleasant. It gives it a shape that can be carried, and sung, and passed on. The grief he carries is not what is wrong with him. It may be the first line of his own song.

The story: the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Bālakāṇḍa 1.2.1 to 41, in the critical edition (Baroda), read in the GRETIL e-text; the verse numbers are that edition's. The robber Ratnākara is a later tradition and is not told here. The telling in English is ours, and so is what it means for him.