Rama Sita Love Quotes

Shri Ram said: “Ever since I have been separated from you, Sita, everything to me has become its very reverse. The fresh and tender leaves on the trees look like tongues of fire; nights appear as dreadful as the night of final dissolution and the moon scorches like the sun. Beds of lotuses are like so many spears planted on the ground, while rain-clouds pour boiling oil as it were. Those that were friendly before, have now become tormenting; the cool, soft and fragrant breezes are now like the hissing serpent. One’s agony is assuaged to some extent even by speaking of it, but to whom shall I speak about it? For there is no one who will understand. The reality about the chord of love that binds you and me, dear, is known to my heart alone; and my heart ever abides with you. Know this to be the essence of my love.

If it changes shape and structure, form and even content, it is because that is the nature of the story itself: it inspires the teller to bring fresh insights to each new version, bringing us ever closer to understanding Rama himself.  This is why it must be told, and retold, an infinite number of times.  By me.  By you.  By grandmothers to their grandchildren.  By people everywhere, regardless of their identity.  The first time I was told the Ramayana, it was on my grandfather’s knee. He was excessively fond of chewing tambaku paan and his breath was redolent of its aroma. Because I loved lions, he infused any number of lions in his Ramayana retellings—Rama fought lions, Sita fought them, I think even Manthara was cowed down by one at one point! My grandfather’s name, incidentally, was Ramchandra Banker. He died of throat cancer caused by his tobacco-chewing habit. But before his throat ceased working, he had passed on the tale to me.

The children were pining for their father. They were dreaming about him. Though she had brought them up like they were her very life, though they knew nothing about their father, though their father did not even know about their birth or growing up—they wanted him. Sons needed to grow up inheriting their father’s name. She was Janaki—daughter of Mother Earth. Yet, she became Janaki—daughter of Janaka—under his care. These boys would get recognition only when they were regarded as Rama’s offspring. Rama was Dasarathi—‘of Dasaratha’—he was fond of that name, revered it and took pride in it. These children too wanted that kind of acknowledgement. It was indeed the order of the world. But would that happen? Would Rama embrace these children? Would he give them his name? Would he acknowledge them as descendants of his family? If that did not happen, how these innocent hearts would grieve! If Rama accepted them as his children and took them to Ayodhya, what would happen to her? She had left her father who loved her like his own life and taken Rama’s hand. Rama, whom she loved like her own life, had let go of her hand. These children whom she had brought up, caring for them like her own life—would she be able to hold on to them? Should she even attempt to do that? Would they remain in her grasp even if she did? Would they not run to their father if he called them? What did she have, other than the disgrace that Rama, bowing to public opinion, had heaped on her? In comparison, Rama had a kingdom—which was so dear to him that he could not give it up even for her sake. Would these children give up such a kingdom for her sake? Would their kshatriya blood allow them to do that? Sita’s mind was in turmoil. As a mother she had no power over them. Power never fascinated her anyway. She only had love—she loved her father; she loved Rama; she loved her children. There was no desire for power in any of those relationships. She did not want it. These children were nature’s gift to her. She had raised them like fawns. When fawns grow up, they go off into the forest, never to return. These children too … Sita struggled to rein in her mind.

Rama and Sita’s final separation, after she is asked to prove herself again (this time for the people of Ayodhya) is at Sita’s initiative. She disappears into the Earth without even a glance at the man she has loved and it is Rama who is left alone, abandoned to his public life and duties. At the very end of the story, we are left with the man—hero, husband, king, divine reflection—and his emptiness. Glorious Rama, destined for greatness and success from birth, ends up alone and lonely—that should be enough reason for us to read the text anew. For our sake, and not his.

74. I’m no hero They say that Rama, parted from Sita, held back the mighty ocean to build a bridge. And here I am, parted from her – can’t even hold back a few tears. Vidyakara Mishra’s Thousand, 1800 CE