When the old and battered Nanda put down his small-cloth bundle under the tree, he was days away from his home, Ayodhya. Though his heart was racing towards the city, where he was born, his shriveled legs stubbornly refused to budge. His body was overflowing with fatigue and he was losing his sight. The old man placed his hand on the trunk of the tree to support him as he slowly slid towards the dry ground.
Nanda knew that time was closing in on him. But he had to keep himself alive. The word had spread that the King is returning.
Fourteen years ago, Nanda had stood among the millions crying and wailing as their beloved Ram walked away from the city gates with his wife and brother in tow. The prince’s face was calm as the silent ocean and glowed with his uprightness. Even in the midst of despair he remained solid as a rock.
Nanda clearly knew that the people of Ayodhya loved Ram not for his prowess in the battlefield nor the skill with which he used his sword. There was something more to this child of King Dasharatha. His calmness was stronger than the mightiest of mountains. His resolve to uphold Dharma was legendary. Everyone knew that this prince could do no mistake and so they trusted him with their lives.
The fickle minds of the millions of citizens in Ayodhya were anchored upon this upright prince. They all had a meaning and purpose for their ordinary lives. Nothing could go wrong as long as they believed and followed their Purushottaman.
Nanda recalled how much he felt betrayed when the joys of the coronation celebration were suddenly turned in to mourning. How could King Dasharatha exile beloved Ram? What wrong can he possibly do?
Ayodhya became dark after Ram left. Nanda could sense that the people had lost hope and the very meaning of their existence was shattered. It was not only Bharata who had retired to an ashram and lived like an ascetic. Everyone in Ayodhya had mentally abandoned their happiness and pleasures and waited for the return of Ram.
As for Nanda, he did not want to live in Ayodhya anymore. Without Ram, the city was like a barren desert. Despite feeling the ailments of old-age he had decided to go to the Himalayas till the prince returned. He bid farewell to his loving family and his few friends and made his way north.
Nanda’s mind was filled with the thoughts of Ram for the past fourteen years. Every hour and every second, he believed that he was getting closer to his Lord. He travelled from one place to another. There were cold nights and days spent without food. But each time the hand of Ram was there to guide him and protect him.
Lying under the shade of the tree, Nanda wanted to get up and keep walking but he could not raise himself up. Time has finally caught up with him and is slowly creeping through his veins.
The day was extremely hot and the road was dry. With no one in sight for a hundred miles, he realized that he will breathe his last in this wilderness lonely and forgotten. Tears welled up in his eyes. He was not worried about death but he was sad that he had to die without seeing the Lord for one last time.
He thought to himself, “I walked and endured hardships all these years, but now my body is failing me. Just when I am closer to my Lord, I have lost my physical strength.”
However, Nanda began to chant the Lord’s name. He wanted to die with the name of the Lord on his lips.
“Ram, Ram, Ram…”
As the twilight was spreading from the horizon Nanda heard someone calling “Baba, Baba” from a distance. Nanda was too tired to even respond. Only his feeble breath and the movement of his lips revealed that he was still alive.
As the stranger approached Nanda, his sound became clearer. It was deep and soothing. Nanda felt a sense of peace and coolness.
“Baba, drink some water.” He put his hands behind Nanda’s head and lifted him up a little and gave him some water. Nanda had never felt such a strong hand touch him. Nanda felt his firm grip yet it was tender. His forearm felt like a tree trunk.
Nanda sipped on the water being offered to him. “Are you on your way to Ayodhya, Baba?” asked the stranger. Nanda just nodded his head but his lips were murmuring “Ram, Ram, Ram….”
“Ah you are lucky. I too am on my way to Ayodhya and I will take you with me,” said the stranger.
Nanda could feel his frail body being lifted up. His eyes were closed and he continued chanting the Lord’s name. A cool breeze began to caress his wrinkled face. He was too weak to open his eyes. Nanda wanted to conserve his last bit of energy to keep chanting “Ram, Ram, Ram…”
The stranger’s gait began to pick up speed with Nanda lying on his iron like hands like torn pieces of a cloth. Nanda could not determine if they were running or flying but he felt the heavy gust of the wind beating against his body.
Suddenly there was a blazing light. Nanda did not feel the constraints of his frail body anymore. He felt free. He opened his eyes slowly and saw the brilliance that was shining in front of him.
Like a million suns, there stood in front of him his long awaited King. Nanda could not hold back his tears of joy. He felt ashamed to be in front of his King in worn out clothes. He wanted to fold his hands to seek forgiveness for his poor appearance in the King’s regal presence.
Before Nanda could utter a word the brilliance engulfed him. His pain, shame and longing withered away like dry leaves. He felt the everlasting glory of his King. Nanda now knew that he had reached Ayodhya.
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