Dasarathi Satakam (selected verses)

Told in English, Telugu.

The Godavari was wide and silver that evening in Rajahmundry. From the terrace of their old house, Harini could see the boats coming home, and the lamps beginning to glow on the ghats. Sri Rama Navami was only a week away, and the smell of fresh mango leaves already hung over the doorway.

But Harini was not thinking about the festival. She was sitting on the steps with a notebook on her knees and a frown on her face.

Tatayya came up slowly, holding the railing, and sat beside her. "That frown is bigger than the river," he said. "What happened?"

Harini sighed. "Our Telugu teacher wants each of us to recite a padyam at the Sri Rama Navami function in school. I chose a verse from the Dasarathi Satakam because you always sing it in the mornings. But today in class I got stuck in the middle of the second line, and everyone laughed. Even Kavya laughed. I think I will pick a small, easy poem instead."

Tatayya did not laugh. He took the notebook gently and looked at what she had written. "Ah, the very first verse," he said. "It is not small, it is true. But do you know who wrote it, and what he was going through?"

Harini shook her head.

"Then let me tell you," said Tatayya, "and after that you can decide."

Long ago, about three hundred and fifty years ago, there lived a young man named Kancherla Gopanna. He was born in the village of Nelakondapalli. From the time he was a boy, he loved Lord Rama with his whole heart. He would sing Rama's name while he walked, while he worked, even while he ate.

Gopanna's uncles, Akkanna and Madanna, were important ministers in the court of the king of Golconda, a king people called Tana Shah. Because of them, Gopanna was given an important job. He was made the officer in charge of the area around Bhadrachalam, on the banks of this same Godavari river, further upstream. His work was to collect the taxes from the people and send the money to the king.

Now, at Bhadrachalam there was a temple of Sita and Rama on a hill. But it had become old and broken. When Gopanna saw it, his heart ached. Here was the Lord he loved most, and his home was falling apart.

Gopanna had a choice to make. He could send all the tax money to the king, as he was supposed to. Or he could use it to rebuild the temple. He knew what he was doing was against the rules. But his love was so strong that he used the money, and the temple rose up again on the hill, beautiful and bright.

Harini's eyes widened. "But Tatayya, wasn't that wrong? It was the king's money."

Tatayya nodded slowly. "That is a very good question, and wise people have talked about it for a long time. Gopanna's heart was full of love, but the king did not see it that way. When the king found out, he was very angry. Gopanna was taken to the great fort at Golconda and put in prison."

The story says he stayed there for twelve long years.

Harini was quiet. Twelve years was longer than her whole life.

"Was he scared?" she asked softly.

"I think he must have been," said Tatayya. "He was lonely, and far from his family. Sometimes he felt that even Rama had forgotten him, and he poured that sadness into his songs. But he did not stop singing. He did not stop praying. Day after day, he kept calling to Rama. Many of the songs he made in those years are still sung today, in homes and temples all over our land. That is why people call him Bhakta Ramadasu, the servant of Rama."

"And then?"

"Then comes the part people love to tell," said Tatayya, smiling. "The story goes that one night, two young men came to the king's palace. They said their names were Ramoji and Lakshmoji, and that they were servants of Gopanna. They paid back every coin Gopanna owed, in gold, and took a receipt. When the king looked at those shining coins and thought about the two young men, he understood that they were no ordinary visitors. People believe they were Rama and Lakshmana themselves. The king set Gopanna free, and Gopanna went back to Bhadrachalam to serve his Lord for the rest of his life."

Harini let out a long breath. The boats on the river were only little lights now.

"The Dasarathi Satakam is a collection of verses that Ramadasu wrote for Rama," Tatayya went on. "Satakam means about a hundred verses. And every single verse ends with the same words. Bhadragiri Dasarathi karunapayonidhi. Can you say it with me?"

"Bhadragiri Dasarathi karunapayonidhi," Harini said.

"Good. It means, O son of Dasaratha, Lord of the Bhadra hill, you who are an ocean of compassion. Ocean, because his kindness has no shore. Now listen to the first verse once, the whole thing."

Tatayya closed his eyes and sang, in the old slow way. Sri Raghurama, charu tulasi dala dhama, shama kshamadi shringara gunabhirama, trijagannuta shourya ramalalama, durvara kabandha rakshasa virama, jagajjana kalmasharnavottaraka nama, Bhadragiri Dasarathi karunapayonidhi.

He opened his eyes. "Do you know what it means?"

"Some of it," said Harini.

"Let us walk through it together. O glorious Rama of the Raghu family, you who wear a lovely garland of tulasi leaves. You are made beautiful by good qualities like calmness and forgiveness. All three worlds praise you, and you are the jewel of courage. You defeated Kabandha, the demon no one could stop. Your name is like a boat that carries all people across the ocean of their mistakes. O Rama of Bhadragiri, ocean of compassion."

Harini thought about it. "Calmness and forgiveness come first," she said slowly, "before courage."

"You noticed," said Tatayya, pleased. "And think about this. The man who wrote about a name that carries people across an ocean of trouble was a man who knew what trouble felt like. He was not writing from a comfortable chair. He was holding on."

He pointed to her notebook. "Here is a small secret about padyalu. See how the lines break in strange places, right in the middle of words? Durvara is cut into dur and vara. That is because a padyam follows careful rules of rhythm. And look, the second letter of every line is the same sound, ra. Sri Ra, ga ra, rva ra, tta ra. The poet had to fit his whole heart inside those rules. If you learn where the lines break, the verse will stop feeling like a tangle."

Harini looked down at the page. Somehow the words looked less like a wall now, and more like a path with stepping stones.

"Tatayya," she said, "if Ramadasu could keep singing for twelve years in a prison, I think I can keep practising for one week."

Tatayya laughed and patted her head. "That is the bravest thing I have heard all day."

So every evening that week, Harini sat on the terrace steps and practised. One line at a time. When she stumbled, she started again, slowly. When she felt cross, she looked at the river, which never hurried and never stopped.

On the day of the function, her hands were a little cold. In the middle of the third line, her voice wobbled, just for a moment. But she remembered the stepping stones, took a breath, and went on, all the way to the end. Bhadragiri Dasarathi karunapayonidhi.

The hall was quiet, and then everyone clapped. Afterwards Kavya came up to her and said, "Sorry I laughed before. That was really beautiful." And Harini found, to her own surprise, that forgiving her was easy.

That night, Tatayya was singing on the terrace again. This time, Harini sang with him.