सीता राम चरित अति पावन:
मधुर सरस और अति मन भावन:
पुनि पुनि कितनेहू सुने सुनाये:
हिय की प्यास बुझत न बुझाए:
I was introduced to this book by my mentor Mt. Biswajeet Chatterjee, way back in 1998. Took me a long time to get acclimatised, but once I did, there was no holding back.
And why do I say so?
Just because of the fact that reading ‘Sri Ramcharitmanas’ is not an act of finishing a book; it is an act of entering a climate.
You do not “close” it when the last canto is done—its cadence lingers in the room, in the breath, in the moral weather of your days.
‘Tulsidas ji ji does not merely retell the Ramayana; he re-temperatures it, making it warm enough for household lamps, village courtyards, women’s songs, the speech of saints and sinners alike.
What Maharshi Valmiki gave as epic architecture in Sanskrit, ‘Tulsidas ji pours into the living arteries of Awadhi, turning scripture into circulation. This is why ‘Ramcharitmanas’ survives not as a monument but as a companion—recited, sung, argued with, leaned upon, and loved.
At its heart, the book is a meditation on maryādā—measure, balance, ethical proportion. Rama is not simply a god performing miracles; he is a man constantly refusing to overstep the line that defines righteousness. This restraint is what makes him luminous.
Valmiki’s Rama is already the exemplar of dharma, but ‘Tulsidas ji sharpens this further, polishing Rama into an almost unbearable ideal of self-command. The exile is not a narrative necessity; it is a moral crucible. When Rama accepts banishment without bitterness, the moment echoes the Vedic insistence on rita, the cosmic order that must be upheld even when it hurts.
One hears faintly the voice of the Rig Veda murmuring, “ऋतं च सत्यं चाभीद्धात् तपसोऽध्यजायत”—from tapas arises truth and order. Rama’s tapas is not ascetic fire but ethical endurance.
‘Tulsidas ji frames this endurance with bhakti, and here lies the text’s revolutionary intimacy. The ‘Manas’ is soaked in devotion, but it is not hysterical or escapist. Bhakti here is intelligence with a heartbeat. When ‘Tulsidas ji writes, “सियाराममय सब जग जानी,” he dissolves metaphysics into daily perception: to see the world as soaked in Sita and Rama is not to flee from it but to engage it with tenderness.
The divine does not cancel the human; it dignifies it. This is where ‘Tulsidas ji parts company from colder philosophies and joins hands, unexpectedly, with Shakespeare.
When Shakespeare lets Hamlet say, “There is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,” he gestures toward the same paradox ‘Tulsidas ji inhabits fully: agency and grace are not enemies; they are collaborators.
The narrative movement of ‘Ramcharitmanas’ is deceptively gentle. It flows like a river that seems calm until you realize how many worlds it irrigates. The Bala Kanda establishes not just origins but tone—a cosmos where gods lean in to watch human ethics unfold.
The Ayodhya Kanda is the emotional core, a masterclass in the portrayal of grief without melodrama. Dasharatha’s collapse is not the fall of a tyrant but the cracking of a father’s heart.
Kaikeyi is not demonized into caricature; she is rendered tragically human, susceptible to poisoned counsel and the seduction of certainty. In her moral failure, one hears an echo of Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth, whose certainty outruns her soul.
Yet ‘Tulsidas ji, unlike Shakespeare, refuses tragic nihilism. Even error is held within a larger arc of redemption.
Sita, in ‘Tulsidas ji, is not merely the silent sufferer she is sometimes accused of being. She is moral gravity. The forest becomes habitable because of her presence; exile becomes pilgrimage. When she follows Rama, the act is not submission but solidarity. ‘Tulsidas ji writes her with a quiet steel that resists both pity and pedestal. Her later trial by fire is among the most disturbing and debated moments in Indian literature, and ‘Tulsidas ji does not soften its cruelty.
Yet he reframes it within a cosmic courtroom where the verdict indicts society as much as the accused. If Valmiki presents the trial as a narrative inevitability, ‘Tulsidas ji lets it ache as a moral scandal. It is here that the ‘Manas’ invites modern readers to argue with it—and that invitation is a sign of a living classic.
The forest episodes breathe with ecological sensitivity before ecology was a discipline. Trees are not scenery; they are witnesses. Hermitages are not retreats from life but laboratories of ethical living. In this sense, ‘Ramcharitmanas’ feels astonishingly Vedic.
The Upanishadic instinct to see the world as ensouled hums beneath the surface. The Vedic prayer “सर्वे भवन्तु सुखिनः” does not appear verbatim, but its spirit animates the narrative: the good life is collective or it is false. Rama’s kingship is valuable not because it centralizes power but because it redistributes well-being.
Hanuman, that incomparable bridge between devotion and action, may be ‘Tulsidas ji’s greatest gift to cultural imagination. Valmiki’s Hanuman is heroic; ‘Tulsidas ji’s Hanuman is incandescent. He is the bhakta who forgets himself so completely that power flows through him without ego.
When he leaps across the ocean, the feat is less about muscle than about alignment. ‘Tulsidas ji’s famous portrayal of Hanuman burning Lanka is not an orgy of destruction; it is a controlled blaze, a warning flare. There is discipline even in wrath.
Shakespeare would have recognized this figure immediately—the loyal servant who understands his master’s soul better than the master himself, like Kent in ‘King Lear’, whose devotion is intelligence in disguise.
The Sundara Kanda is often called the emotional high point of the ‘Manas’, and rightly so. It is here that separation sharpens love into clarity. Sita’s endurance in Ashoka Vatika is a hymn to inner sovereignty. Ravana’s power, by contrast, curdles into theatricality. He has everything except measure.
‘Tulsidas ji is not interested in demonology; he is interested in imbalance. Ravana is undone not by Rama’s arrows but by his own refusal to listen. In this, he resembles Shakespeare’s tragic kings, whose downfall is scripted by their deafness to counsel. When Lear rages into the storm, he is Ravana without ten heads; when Ravana roars in his court, he is Lear without Cordelia.
War, when it arrives, is stripped of glamour. ‘Tulsidas ji refuses to eroticize violence. Each death costs the cosmos something.
Rama’s victory is tinged with exhaustion, not triumphalism. This moral sobriety sets the ‘Manas’ apart from epics that revel in conquest. The final restoration of order feels earned precisely because it has been paid for in restraint. Rama’s return to Ayodhya is not the restoration of pleasure but of proportion. The lamps lit for Diwali are not fireworks of joy; they are small, steady affirmations that light still knows its way home.
Language is the ‘Manas’s secret weapon. Awadhi allows ‘Tulsidas ji to achieve something rare: philosophical density without obscurity. The couplets move with the ease of speech, yet they carry metaphysical freight. This is why the text survives translation but resists replacement. You can render its meaning, but not its music.
Like Shakespeare’s blank verse, ‘Tulsidas ji’s chaupais lodge in the memory because they sound like thought discovering its own rhythm. When Shakespeare writes, “The quality of mercy is not strained,” he could be paraphrasing ‘Tulsidas ji’s entire ethical universe. Mercy, for both, is the sign of power that knows itself.
The theology of the ‘Manas’ is generous. Rama is supreme, but devotion is not policed. Even antagonists are given moments of tragic dignity. Vibhishana’s defection is not opportunism; it is conscience crossing enemy lines. Rama’s acceptance of him is one of the text’s quiet revolutions.
In a world obsessed with purity, Tulsidas ji imagines a god who recognizes sincerity over origin. This is bhakti as moral cosmopolitanism. The Vedas whisper again here, reminding us that truth has many doorways.
Critics often accuse ‘Ramcharitmanas’ of idealism, of creating a Rama too perfect to be human. But this critique misunderstands the text’s ambition. ‘Tulsidas ji is not writing psychology; he is writing aspiration.
Rama is less a portrait than a compass. You do not ask a compass to resemble you; you ask it to guide you. In times of moral fog, the ‘Manas’ has functioned as orientation. That function does not expire with modernity; if anything, it becomes more urgent.
There are moments, undeniably, where the text reflects the anxieties and hierarchies of its time. Gender norms, caste assumptions, and social rigidity surface, and modern readers are right to interrogate them.
Yet the ‘Manas’ also contains the tools for its own critique. Its central insistence on compassion, humility, and self-knowledge undercuts any attempt to weaponize it. ‘Tulsidas ji’s Rama does not crush dissent; he absorbs it into a larger ethic of care.
To read the text responsibly today is not to freeze it in reverence but to keep it in conversation—with Valmiki, with the Vedas, with Shakespeare, and with our own uneasy present.
The aftertaste of ‘Sri Ramcharitmanas’ is serenity without sedation. It calms without dulling. It does not promise a painless world; it promises a meaningful one. In an age addicted to speed and certainty, Tulsidas ji offers slowness and measure. He teaches that greatness is not loud, that power kneels before mercy, that exile can become education, and that return is possible without revenge.
When Shakespeare has Prospero renounce his magic, choosing forgiveness over domination, one hears a distant kinship with Rama laying down his bow to rule with justice rather than fear.
Ultimately, the ‘Manas’ endures because it trusts the reader. It trusts us to sing it, to argue with it, to misread and reread it, to carry it into kitchens and classrooms, into grief and celebration. It is scripture that behaves like literature and literature that behaves like prayer.
Valmiki gives us the epic of events; ‘Tulsidas ji gives us the epic of inner weather. The Vedas provide the hum of cosmic order; Shakespeare supplies the tremor of human doubt.
Somewhere between them, ‘Sri Ramcharitmanas’ continues to breathe—ancient, intimate, unexhausted—asking not whether we believe in Rama, but whether we are willing, even briefly, to live as if compassion were real and restraint were strength.
A classic to cherish forever. This book is Sanatan’s gift to posterity.