The Valmiki Ramayana
2.9: The Kidnapping of Sītā
Again arriving at Maricha’s hermitage, Rāvaṇa quickly sought him out. Maricha, clad in black deerskins and seated in meditation, spoke in surprise when he saw Rāvaṇa. “Why have you returned so soon, O king? I trust all is well in Lanka.”
Maricha sat the Rākṣasa king on a grass mat. He offered him food and drink, but Rāvaṇa waved it aside and said, “No doubt you recall my earlier request, O Maricha. I am here now to insist that you comply. Not only has Rāma annihilated my army in the forest, but He has attacked and mutilated my sister Shurpanakha. He must by all means be punished. Prepare to leave. You will assist me in Sītā’s abduction.”
Rāvaṇa had made up his mind. He told Maricha to come with him to Rāma’s hermitage. Once there he should use magic to assume the form of an enchanting deer. Rāvaṇa calculated that Sītā, due to Her womanly nature, would become captivated by the deer. She would then send Rāma to capture it. As soon as Maricha had taken Rāma to a distance, he should further use his magical powers to allure Lakṣman. Imitating Rāma’s voice, the Rākṣasa should cry out in distress. When Lakṣman heard the cry He would come after Rāma, leaving Rāvaṇa to abduct the unprotected Sītā. Rāvaṇa spoke derisively of Rāma, knowing that Maricha considered the prince formidable.
“This worthless human has been exiled by His father. Abandoning virtue, He caused my sister to be violently assaulted. He is a disgrace to the royal class and a threat to all beings. His time is now all but run out. Once he has lost His wife, His strength will be gone. I shall then make short work of Him.”
Maricha’s face whitened. This was his worst fear. Rāvaṇa was bent on a purpose which would surely end in both their deaths. He stared at Rāvaṇa with unblinking eyes. His mouth felt dry and his limbs weak. He folded his palms and addressed the Rākṣasa king in a trembling voice. “People speaking agreeable words are easy to find, O lord. On the other hand, rare are those who will speak words for one’s good which are nevertheless unpalatable. O Rāvaṇa, you have clearly not heeded my earlier advice. You have not sought to establish for yourself Rāma’s actual power. This dereliction of your duty will lead to the extinction of the race of Rākṣasas, there is no doubt.”
Rāvaṇa’s expression hardened. He was not interested in Maricha’s advice. He listened impatiently as Maricha went on. “Rāma has not been abandoned by His father nor is He devoid of virtue. Indeed, He is devoted to piety and truth. Listen as I tell you His history.”
He told Rāvaṇa how the prince had gone to the forest to prove His father truthful. Both Maricha and Rāvaṇa understood that warriors derived power from virtuous behavior. Maricha made it clear that Rāma was virtue incarnate. He again described Rāma’s power and the consequences of facing Him in battle.
“Do not cast yourself headlong into the fierce fire of Rāma blazing on the battlefield,” Maricha beseeched the Rākṣasa king. “Upon encountering, Rāma you will relinquish for good your throne, your happiness and your very life. Rāma’s glory is immeasurable. You will no more prove able to remove Sītā from Rāma than you could take from the sun its brilliance. O Rāvaṇa, remain peacefully in Lanka. Do not bring about your own destruction, along with that of your relatives, friends and entire kingdom.”
Rāvaṇa blazed up with anger. He cared nothing for Maricha’s well-intended advice. Rising, he spoke harshly to the fearful demon. “Your words, like seeds sown in barren soil, are entirely fruitless. I cannot be deterred from my aim of kidnapping Sītā. O ignoble Rākṣasa, I did not ask you about the merits or demerits of my intentions. Indeed, a king should never be advised except when he requests such advice. I have told you what I require. All that remains for you to do is to carry out my order.”
Rāvaṇa reiterated his idea. He knew that Maricha could, by his unique magical abilities, transform himself into the most wonderful-looking creature. He felt sure his plan would work. Speaking slowly and deliberately he told Maricha the consequences of non-cooperation. “Perhaps upon approaching Rāma you will face some danger, but if you reject my request then death at my hands will be certain and immediate. Carefully weigh things in the balance of reason, O Maricha, and do what you feel is best.”
Maricha tried one last time to sway Rāvaṇa from his plan. “Whoever advised you to confront Rāma should be executed, O king, not me. That sinful person obviously desires only your imminent ruin. The minister who counsels violent measures against a powerful enemy is himself the enemy. Such advice will lead to the destruction of the counseled along with the counselor, and indeed the state itself.”
Maricha saw that Rāvaṇa was silent, fixed in his purpose. Obviously his counsel was useless. Maricha then realized that his death was near. Understanding the inevitability of his fate, he spoke fearlessly to Rāvaṇa. “Being a slave to your senses, cruel and evil-minded, you have adopted this course of action. People with leaders who are not self-controlled cannot prosper any more than sheep protected by a jackal. A terrible and unforeseen calamity has arrived at Lanka’s door, O king, which will bring an end to the city as well as to you. Therefore I simply pity you. I shall fulfill your order. It is better to be killed by the enemy than executed by the king. Take me as already slain at the very sight of Rāma, and consider yourself dead with all your followers the moment you bear away Sītā. Those on the verge of death cannot understand right from wrong. No advice can help them.”
Maricha rose slowly and prepared to go with Rāvaṇa, saying, “Let us now depart.” Rāvaṇa became joyous. He had heard little of what Maricha had said. The Rākṣasa king was thinking only of Rāma and, more particularly, of Sītā. When he saw Maricha ready to follow his command, Rāvaṇa embraced him and said, “Here is my real Maricha. Before now, some other demon must have possessed you, robbing you of your valor. We shall proceed fearlessly on my chariot. Once you have bewitched Sītā with your magic, you may go wherever you please. I shall do the rest.”
The two Rākṣasas got aboard the great chariot; the goblin-headed asses bore it away into the skies. Moving swiftly they soon arrived at the Dandaka forest. As they circled overhead, they saw below Rāma’s hermitage. They landed nearby and Rāvaṇa instructed Maricha, “Now work your wonderful magic, my friend. I shall wait here.”
Rāvaṇa had no intention of immediately encountering the two brothers. He wanted first to steal and enjoy Sītā, anticipating that this would weaken Rāma. Rāvaṇa knew that Rāma would soon come after him, but that would give him the opportunity to gauge the strength and weakness of Rāma and His forces. The Rākṣasa felt confident that he could confront Rāma from the security of Lanka, surrounded by his powerful troops. After transforming himself into a human ascetic wearing matted locks and simple dress, he waited in the woods near Rāma’s hermitage.
Meanwhile, Maricha turned himself into a magical deer. His head was partly white and partly dark with horns like bright sapphires. The upper part of his snout had the hue of a red lotus, while the lower part had that of a blue lotus. His perfectly formed body had slender white legs, with hoofs like glossy black gems. The deer’s belly was dark blue and its flanks golden. All over its shining skin were a number of jewel-like spots. Its tail resembled a rainbow and it glanced about with eyes that shone like diamonds.
In that deer form Maricha wandered slowly about. Other deer approached him but quickly ran in all directions, sensing that this was not actually a deer. Maricha strenuously controlled his Rākṣasa nature, which was impelling him to kill and eat the deer which came near to him. Nibbling at leaves here and there, he went into the region of Rāma’s hermitage. Sītā was outside the hut plucking flowers. She immediately saw the wonderful-looking deer.
Seeing that he had caught Her attention, Maricha playfully came near to Sītā and then moved away again. As the deer gamboled about, Sītā’s mind became enchanted. Her eyes opened wide in wonder as She surveyed the stunning form of that magical animal. It seemed to illumine the forest on all sides as it moved around with grace and elegance, making delightful sounds. Sītā called out to Rāma, “Come quickly, My lord, and bring Lakṣman! Here is a sight to behold.”
Hearing Sītā calling out again and again, the two princes came to Her and saw the deer for themselves. Lakṣman was immediately suspicious. “This animal cannot actually be a deer. Never has such a deer, looking like a bright jewel, been seen anywhere upon the earth. This must surely be a Rākṣasa come in disguise. I suspect it is probably Maricha.”
Lakṣman recalled how Rāma had spared Maricha’s life previously. He knew the demon was capable of great mysticism and strongly suspected that some evil plan was afoot. But Sītā was captivated. She interrupted Lakṣman. “O Rāma, this wonderful animal has stolen My mind. Please fetch it to Me. I would love to show it to My mothers-in-law and Your brothers. When We return to Ayodhya We can keep it in the palace as a pet. I do not think that such a beautiful creature can be a Rākṣasa. My lord, I must possess this gentle animal.”
Sītā repeatedly beseeched Rāma to capture the deer, which remained close by. Rāma felt obliged to satisfy His wife. He turned to Lakṣman. “Dear brother, see how this deer has created such a burning desire in Sītā. I must try to catch it for Her. I have never seen a deer like this anywhere before. It defies description. If, as you say, it is a Rākṣasa in disguise, then it must be put to death. Therefore I shall chase it through these woods. Either I will bring it alive or, having determined it to be a Rākṣasa, slay it with My sharp arrows. Perhaps then I may take its superb skin for Sītā.”
Rāma asked His brother to stand close to Sītā and guard Her while He was gone. Like Lakṣman, He also feared an attack from the Rākṣasas. He told Lakṣman that Jatayu was nearby and could assist Him if necessary. Rāma then fastened His sword to His belt and, after tying on His two quivers, He grasped His bow. He then went toward the deer, which bounded away into the woods.
In fear Maricha ran swiftly into the deep forest. Rāma pursued him, moving through the trees with agility and speed. But Maricha kept ahead, sometimes appearing for a moment and then disappearing again. Acting exactly like a deer, he bounded high in the air and glanced about fearfully. In this way Maricha took Rāma a long distance from His hermitage. Rāma felt helpless, seeing the deer maintaining a constant lead over Him. He stopped and leaned on a tree, exhausted and perspiring. He decided that Lakṣman’s assessment was correct. This could not be an ordinary deer. He would have captured it by now if it were. Rāma concluded that the deer was certainly a Rākṣasa.
Spotting it emerging from a distant cluster of trees like the moon appearing from behind clouds, Rāma took out an arrow. He imbued that shaft with celestial power and shot it at the deer. It streaked through the air glowing like fire, seeking out its target. In a moment it struck Maricha and pierced him in the heart. The Rākṣasa bounded as high as a palm tree and screamed in pain. As he crashed to the ground he again assumed his actual form.
Rāma ran toward the dying Rākṣasa. Maricha saw Him approaching and remembered Rāvaṇa’s instruction. With his dying breath he let out a cry that could be heard for miles. Perfectly imitating Rāma’s voice, which he vividly remembered from their previous encounters, Maricha cried, “Lakṣman! Help me! Alas, Sītā!”
With that final cry the Rākṣasa died, his gigantic form covered in blood lying prostrate on the ground. Rāma stood before the dead Rākṣasa, filled with apprehension. This was obviously a plot by the demons. When Lakṣman and Sītā heard that cry, They would become confused. Rāma looked at Maricha’s massive body. The voice of a Rākṣasa was hundreds of times more powerful than that of a man. Rāma had been chasing the deer for an hour at least and was miles from the hermitage. The only thing to do was to run back. Rāma immediately began to retrace His steps. Thinking of Sītā, He feared the worst.
At the hermitage Lakṣman and Sītā had heard the Rākṣasa’s cry. Sītā was struck with anxiety. Turning to Lakṣman, who stood calmly, She said, “Did You not hear Your brother’s cry? Surely He has fallen into the hands of the demons, even as a bull might be seized by a group of lions. O Lakṣman, go quickly to help Rāma! My heart is all but stopping and My breath hardly comes. Please act swiftly!”
Lakṣman did not move. He remembered Rāma’s instruction to guard Sītā. He did not at all fear for Rāma and considered the cry to have been uttered by a demon. Sītā became even more anxious when She saw Lakṣman unperturbed. Bewildered by fear, She spoke angrily. “O son of Sumitra, You are an enemy in the guise of a friend. It seems You are glad to see the plight of Your brother. Surely You desire to possess Me for Yourself. Therefore You do not rush to Rāma’s aid. What is the value of protecting Me when Our leader is in such danger?”
Sītā shook with fear and sobbed loudly. Lakṣman felt pained by Her words and He tried to reassure Her. “Your husband cannot be overcome by the gods or demons assembled in any number, O gentle princess. Rāma cannot be killed in a fight by any created being, of that there is no doubt whatsoever. Be at ease. Rāma will soon return, having slain the Rākṣasa who assumed the form of the deer and who no doubt uttered that cry.”
Lakṣman was certain that Rāma was not in any danger. He could guess that the demon had been killed by Rāma and had imitated Rāma’s voice as he died. After Rāma had annihilated the Rākṣasa army at Janasthana the Rākṣasas must have formulated a plot for revenge. Lakṣman tried to explain this to Sītā, but She became even more angry. She stood blazing like fire, Her eyes red with fury. Because of Her fear for Rāma, She was confused. Despite Her respect for the virtuous and gentle Lakṣman, who had never once looked Her in the face, Her anxiety for Rāma made Her rebuke Him harshly.
“O ignoble and merciless Lakṣman! It is obvious that You care nothing for Your brother. Indeed You are happy to see Him in peril. I can understand that You have been concealing Your true nature. Posing as Rāma’s friend You have all the while been coveting Me. Your sinful desire shall never be fulfilled. I shall give up My life even in Your presence. Having become Rāma’s wife, how could I accept an ordinary and wicked man like You?”
Lakṣman was deeply hurt. Sītā was as worshipable to Him as Rāma. He could not even imagine what She was suggesting. His mind raced, confounded by agony. He could not remain with Sītā while She was in this mood. Her words were unbearable. How could She make such accusations? He had to look for Rāma. But what would happen to Sītā? Fearful and angered by Sītā’s castigation, Lakṣman controlled His mind and replied, “Your words pierce Me like a heated steel arrow. I cannot argue with You since You are a deity to Me, O princess. Alas, it seems that the nature of women is to be fickle and given to sentimentality. Although I feel sure I am right, I must nevertheless follow a dangerous course, driven by Your sharp words. I shall depart and search for Rāma, but I fear I may not find You here when I return.”
Sītā continued to cry out, saying to Lakṣman, “I shall never remain with another man in Rāma’s absence! I would sooner drown Myself in the river, fall from a high precipice or enter blazing fire.”
Lakṣman was enraged by Sītā’s insinuations. He tried consoling Her, but She would not say anything. He prayed to the forest deities to protect Her. Then, bowing to Her with folded hands, He left to look for Rāma, Sītā’s words still ringing in His ears.
As soon as Lakṣman had gone Rāvaṇa came out of hiding. In a human form he approached Sītā, who was without Rāma and Lakṣman, even as thick darkness overtakes dusk when devoid of the sun and moon. He saw the youthful princess sitting and weeping in front of Her hut. As he came near, all the animals fled in all directions. Even the breeze did not blow and the river slowed her swift current till she almost stopped flowing. Appearing like a holy man, Rāvaṇa was like a deep well covered by grass. He looked intently at Sītā, marveling at Her beauty. As he gazed at Her the demon was pierced by Cupid’s arrow. Continuously chanting Vedic mantras he moved close to Rāma’s beautiful consort. In his guise as a Brahmin ascetic he stood before Sītā and praised Her in various ways.
“O most beautiful lady, You possess the splendor of gold and silver adorned with celestial gems.” Rāvaṇa spoke poetically, his deep voice resonating around the forest grove. “Your form is radiant and Your face, eyes and delicate limbs are like so many blooming lotuses. Are you a goddess or an Apsarā descended from heaven? Your body is perfectly formed and Your face resembles the full moon. With Your dark eyes and full lips playing over teeth resembling rows of pearls You have captured my heart. My mind is stolen away by Your beauty, which is surely unmatched anywhere in the three worlds.”
Rāvaṇa thought that by praising Sītā he would attract Her to him. His mind was full of lust. With wide opened eyes he continued, “Why are You residing in a dark forest, frequented by wild beasts and haunted by Rākṣasas? You deserve to live at the top of a magnificent palace of gold. Sweet-smelling gardens should be Your playground, not fearful forests. Tell me, O charming lady, who are You and who is Your protector? Are You the consort of some powerful deity? Why are You alone in this dangerous region?”
Sītā looked up and saw Rāvaṇa dressed as an ascetic. She had encountered numerous Brahmins during Her stay in the forest and She was not surprised to see this one. The pious and open-hearted princess offered Rāvaṇa a seat and water to wash his feet. Acting perfectly in accord with religious codes, She fetched food from the hut and placed it before him, saying, “You are welcome.”
Rāvaṇa watched Her closely. He was stunned by Her grace and elegance. He made up his mind to carry Her away by force if necessary. As She tended to Her unexpected guest, Sītā looked around for signs of Rāma returning, but She saw only the vast green forest. She began to reply to Rāvaṇa’s questions. “I am the daughter of Janaka, the king of Mithila, and My name is Sītā. I am the consort of the high-souled Rāma, a prince of Ayodhya. With Him and His powerful brother Lakṣman I reside here peacefully.”
With a guileless mind Sītā told him how She and Rāma came to be living in the forest. She explained everything in brief and then said, “Soon My husband and His brother will return, bringing with Them varieties of forest produce. Rest here awhile and They will no doubt sumptuously entertain you. But tell Me, O sage, who are you and how do you come to be wandering this lonely forest?”
Rāvaṇa decided to reveal his true identity. He stood up and replied proudly to Sītā, “I am Rāvaṇa, the celebrated ruler of all the Rākṣasas. The gods, demons and human beings are struck with terror upon hearing my name, O Sītā. Now that I have seen You, O most beautiful woman, I can no longer find delight in my own consorts. Become my foremost queen! Roam with me at ease in my golden city, Lanka. You will live in a splendid palace adorned with jewels, and five thousand handmaidens will wait upon You.”
Sītā was shocked. She became enraged and said to the Rākṣasa, “I have taken a vow to follow Rāma, who is as unshakeable as a great mountain, as powerful as Indra and as wise as Bṛhaspati. I cannot be swerved from Rāma’s service. He is virtuous and always true to His word. I am dedicated to Rāma, who will never abandon His devoted servant. I belong to that Rāma who is like a mighty lion and destroys His enemies with ease and speed. How have you, O Rāvaṇa, a jackal, been so brazen as to covet Me?”
Sītā looked disdainfully at Rāvaṇa, who stared at Her lustfully. She felt sickened. What a disgusting creature! How could he even imagine that She would go with him? How disgraceful that he should pretend to be a Brahmin ascetic, the holiest of men. She spoke with fury. “You could no more touch Me than you could the sun’s fiery orb. Your desire is sure to bring about your death, O vile Rākṣasa. You seek to extract a tooth from the jaws of a powerful and hungry lion. You wish to carry in one hand the massive Mount Mandara. You desire to swim across the ocean, having tied around your neck a stone slab. You who would steal the beloved consort of Rāma are trying to snatch away the sun and moon with your bare hands.”
Sītā reproached Rāvaṇa again and again. She scorned and derided him with sharp words, warning him against his evil intentions. “After stealing Me away, where will you go? How will you retain Me while Rāma stands on the battlefield, bow in hand? Your pathetic might is nothing against that of Rāma’s. Next to Rāma you are like a crow compared to Garuḍa.”
Sītā shook like a sapling caught in a storm. She turned away from Rāvaṇa and prayed for Rāma to return quickly. The Rākṣasa was provoked by Her harsh words and he began to boast about his own strength. “I have won from Kuvera the celestial city of Lanka, chasing him away by my own power. Why, I have even taken from him the Pushpaka, his celebrated and beautiful airplane which can range anywhere according to one’s will. Wherever I stand, the sun withholds its fierce rays, the wind blows gently and the rivers become still and calm.”
Rāvaṇa tried to intimidate Sītā. He was annoyed that She was not interested in him. How could She remain attached to Rāma, an insignificant human, when Rāvaṇa, the immensely powerful king of the Rākṣasas, sought Her favor? Surely She did not know of his strength and exploits. Even the gods feared his angry gaze. And as well as power, what about his unlimited opulence? Rāvaṇa described the city of Lanka, with its innumerable gold palaces.
“Come with me to Lanka, O princess. There You will enjoy human and celestial delights You have never even imagined. You will soon forget the mortal Rāma, whose life is well-nigh ended. Rāma has lost everything and, having no power, lives in fear in the forest. I can dispose of Him with a single finger. By Your good fortune Rāvaṇa is here in person to beseech Your love. Accept me, O Sītā, and abandon the worthless Rāma.”
Sītā could not even look at Rāvaṇa. She clenched Her fists and flushed a deep crimson, sharply rebuking the demon. She told him that once he had laid hands on Her, he would soon die at Rāma’s hands. Crying and calling for Rāma, She moved away from the Rākṣasa. Rāvaṇa became furious. He struck one hand against another and roared. The Rākṣasa then assumed his original form with its ten heads and twenty arms. He moved closer to Sītā. “Look at me, O proud lady! I can lift up the earth, drink the ocean and kill even Death himself.”
Rāvaṇa’s red eyes burned like fire. Wearing a red robe and bedecked with fine gold ornaments, he looked like a dark cloud lit up by lightning. He had lost all patience and he spoke angrily to the trembling Sītā. “Here is a husband fit for You, O charming one. I shall take good care of You and never do anything You dislike. Leave aside the useless Rāma and serve me. You do not deserve a life in the forest. Give up Your affection for the soon-to-die human and become the queen of Lanka.”
Rāvaṇa had no intention of leaving Her behind, but Sītā was clearly not going to go with him willingly. He would have to force Her. The demon grasped hold of the delicate Sītā, taking Her hair in one hand and Her legs in another. Seeing him looking like Death, with mighty arms and sharp teeth, the forest deities all ran away. At that moment Rāvaṇa’s chariot appeared close by, drawn by its ugly mules. Rāvaṇa took Sītā in his arms, scolding Her sharply, and he placed Her in the chariot. Sītā writhed in Rāvaṇa’s grasp. As the chariot rose up She called for Rāma at the top of Her voice. Distracted with grief and anguish, Sītā wailed like a mad woman.
“O Lakṣman, where are You? I am being seized by a vile Rākṣasa. O Rāma, Your life has been sacrificed for virtue. How then do You not see Me being unrighteously carried away? You always chastise the wicked. Why then do You not punish the evil Rāvaṇa?”
Sītā began calling to the trees. She cried to the river and forest deities, to the animals and the birds, asking them all to tell Rāma what had happened. Turning to Rāvaṇa she said, “The fruits of sinful deeds are not immediately received, O Rākṣasa, but in time they destroy the perpetrator to his very roots. O Rāvaṇa, your time is all but over. Rāma will certainly recover Me and end your life.”
As the chariot rose higher, Sītā looked down and saw Jatayu perched on a large tree. She called out to him. “O bird, help Me! I am being seized by an evil Rākṣasa! Don’t try to stop him. He is too powerful. Quickly find Rāma.”
Jatayu heard Sītā and looked up. He saw the chariot with Rāvaṇa and Sītā on board. From the tree he called out to the Rākṣasa, whom he immediately recognized. “O Rāvaṇa, I am the king of the vultures, Jatayu. I possess might and am devoted to virtue. I shall not allow you to carry away Sītā in my presence. You who are also a king should not bear away another’s wife against the eternal codes of morality.”
Jatayu flew up from his perch, continuously reproaching Rāvaṇa and reminding him of what had happened to Khara and Dushana. Soaring upwards, he kept pace with Rāvaṇa’s chariot. He spoke in a loud voice, disturbing the demon’s mind. “Release Sītā now, O evil-minded one! You have placed the noose of Death around your neck. You have tied a poisonous snake in your cloth. O fool, your act will bring you nothing but suffering. If Rāma were here, you would no more be able to carry away Sītā by force than one could alter a Vedic text by the force of logic.”
Jatayu was infuriated. He challenged Rāvaṇa. “I am here to stop you, O night-ranger! Stand and fight. Although I am old and weak I cannot watch you take away this princess. Struck by my bill you will fall from your chariot like a ripe fruit from a tree.”
When Rāvaṇa heard Jatayu’s challenge he veered his chariot toward him and rushed angrily at the king of birds, raining him with blows from his twenty arms. But Jatayu swooped and avoided Rāvaṇa’s attack. Then he assailed Rāvaṇa with his sharp talons. As the great bird screamed, Rāvaṇa roared. The clash between the two combatants was tumultuous and frightening to witness. It resembled an encounter between two winged mountains. Rāvaṇa fired terrible-looking arrows that sped through the air like streaks of fire. Jatayu was suddenly struck all over with hundreds of sharp arrows. Ignoring his wounds, he rushed at Rāvaṇa, inflicting many wounds on him with his beak and claws. Jatayu then broke Rāvaṇa’s large jewel-encrusted bow, which fell glittering from the sky. Rāvaṇa swiftly strung another bow and shot thousands of arrows at Jatayu, entirely covering his body. The king of birds looked as if he had found shelter in a nest. He shook off the network of arrows with his wings and again flew at Rāvaṇa’s chariot. The great bird tore off the heads of Rāvaṇa’s mules. With a blow from his bill he killed the charioteer. Swooping again and again, Jatayu then smashed Rāvaṇa’s chariot. As his chariot fell in pieces, the Rākṣasa grabbed hold of Sītā and dropped to the ground.
The gods, witnessing the battle from above, applauded Jatayu. Then Rāvaṇa again rose into the air. In two of his arms he held Sītā, while in another hand he clutched his fierce-looking sword. He faced Jatayu, who again rebuked the demon.
“Your act is condemned by all virtuous men,” thundered Jatayu. “It is not even heroic. You are simply a thief, and like a thief you will be caught and punished by Rāma. O cowardly one, how do you hope to survive? Surely it is only for the annihilation of the Rākṣasas that you have stolen Sītā. Wait a short while and Rāma will return. Or fight me now, Rāvaṇa, for I shall never allow you to leave with Sītā.”
Jatayu flew at Rāvaṇa. He tore the demon’s back with his talons and struck his heads with his beak. The fearless bird pulled the Rākṣasa’s hair and dragged him about. Rāvaṇa shook with anger. His eyes blazed and his lips twitched with indignation. Tormented by Jatayu he decided to kill him. He rushed at the bird and struck him violently with his fists. Jatayu then tore off Rāvaṇa’s ten left arms. Even as the arms fell to the ground, ten more grew immediately in their place, like serpents coming out of an ant hill. The Rākṣasa then placed Sītā on the ground. He darted toward Jatayu and began striking him with his fists and feet. Taking his razor-sharp sword, he lopped off Jatayu’s wings. The great vulture fell on the ground, dying. With his white breast reddened with blood, he resembled a large cloud tinged by the setting sun. Sītā cried out and ran toward him. Gently stroking his head, She called out to Rāma.
“My lord! Where are You? Do You not see this terrible calamity? The sky is filled with evil omens. Come quickly. Here lies the brave Jatayu, mortally wounded on My account. O Rāma! O Lakṣman! Save Me!”
Sītā cried bitterly. From the sky, Rāvaṇa saw that his adversary was overcome. He descended swiftly and went toward Sītā. She ran away and embraced a tree, crying out, “Hold Me, trees, hold Me!”
Rāvaṇa grabbed Her forcefully by the hair. In the grip of his own destiny he dragged Sītā away as She cried out, “Rāma! Rāma!” again and again. Pulling Her onto his lap, Rāvaṇa rose up into the sky.
At that time the wind stopped blowing and the sun appeared lusterless and dull. The whole creation seemed out of order and a dense darkness enveloped the four quarters. Brahmā saw by his divine vision that Sītā had been seized violently by Rāvaṇa and he said to the gods, “Our purpose is accomplished!” The great sages in the forest also saw Sītā being taken. Knowing Rāvaṇa’s destruction to be imminent, they felt simultaneously agonized and joyful.
Rāvaṇa held Sītā tightly and flew toward Lanka. With Her body shining like molten gold and adorned with jeweled ornaments, Sītā looked like lightning against a black cloud. Rāvaṇa appeared like a dark mountain illumined by fire as he traveled with haste toward his city. Sītā’s face pressed against Rāvaṇa, resembled the full moon splitting a cloud. She burst into tears again and again and called out for Rāma. Lotus petals fell in showers from Her crushed garland. A bejeweled golden anklet dropped from Her foot like a circular flash of lightning. Her necklace of pearls fell from Her breast, appearing like the Ganges descending from the heavens.
As Rāvaṇa soared over the treetops the leaves shook violently, seeming to say to Sītā, “Don’t be afraid.” Forest ponds, with their faded lotuses and frightened fishes, appeared sorry for the princess. Lions and tigers, along with birds and other beasts, angrily rushed behind, following Rāvaṇa’s shadow. The mountains, their faces bathed in tears in the form of rivulets and with arms upraised in the form of peaks, seemed to scream as the wind from Rāvaṇa’s passage rushed over them. Seeing Sītā held in the grasp of the ten-headed monster, the forest deities wept and their limbs trembled with fear.
Sītā, Her face pale and Her eyes reddened, chastised Rāvaṇa. “Have you no shame at all? Resorting only to stealth and trickery, you have stolen away the chaste wife of another. O coward! You have killed the old and helpless Jatayu and now you flee in fear from Rāma. You are proud of your valor, but people throughout the world will scorn and deride you, O vile demon!”
Sītā struggled in Rāvaṇa’s grip. She preferred to fall to earth and die than be carried away by him. She censured Rāvaṇa continuously, goading him to turn and fight with Rāma and Lakṣman. The tearful princess told him that even if he carried Her to Lanka She would soon die, being unable to see Rāma. Rāvaṇa, ignoring Her sharp words, continued to bear Her away through the skies.
As they flew, Sītā looked down and caught sight of a group of large monkeys sitting on a mountain peak. She pulled off Her silken head covering and quickly bound up Her golden bracelets and other shining jewels, dropping the bundle as Rāvaṇa flew over the monkeys. Sītā hoped they would meet Rāma and show Him the jewels. He would then know which direction Rāvaṇa had taken Her. The Rākṣasa king did not notice Sītā’s cloth falling to earth.
The monkeys caught sight of it as it fell. They looked up and saw Rāvaṇa speeding past with the beautiful princess held in his arms. The Rākṣasa coursed through the air like an arrow shot from a bow. Delighted in mind, he raced toward his own destruction. Crossing over the fearsome ocean, which teemed with sharks and other fierce aquatics, he went in the direction of his celestial city. Even as he flew overhead the wind died and the ocean waves were stilled out of fear of him.
The many Siddhas and Cāraṇas in the sky who witnessed Rāvaṇa’s flight with Sītā said, “This marks Rāvaṇa’s end.”
Soon Rāvaṇa arrived in Lanka and entered his palace, going straight to the inner section where he kept his many wives. There he spoke with the Rākṣasas who were entrusted with guarding his women. “Take good care that no man looks upon Sītā. Give Her every item of enjoyment the moment She asks. Gold, gems, pearls, silks—whatever She may desire should be provided. Those who slight or upset her, knowingly or unknowingly, must not hold life dear.”
Rāvaṇa then left and went to his own rooms. He called for eight of his most powerful generals. After praising them for their strength and valor, he said, “Armed with various weapons, go at once to the Dandaka. Seek out Rāma and observe Him closely. Be wary, for Rāma has single-handedly destroyed the entire army I had stationed in that forest. Because of that I feel a rage that burns my insides. That rage will only be calmed when Rāma lies dead, slain by me. Therefore you should learn of Rāma’s strengths and weaknesses. Report these to me and I shall then do what is required.”
Rāvaṇa gave them detailed instructions, repeatedly extolling them with pleasant words. The powerful Rākṣasas then made their bodies invisible and set out toward the Dandaka forest. Rāvaṇa, having set up a bitter enmity with Rāma, felt secure and rejoiced within himself. He decided to visit his inner quarters where Sītā was lodged. Stricken with love for the dark-eyed princess, he hurried to see Her.
Rāvaṇa found Sītā bathed in tears and fallen to the floor amid the Rākṣasīs. She resembled a female deer beset by a number of hounds. Even though She was unwilling, Rāvaṇa had Her forcibly brought as he showed Her his palace. It comprised a large number of shining buildings supported by pillars of ivory, gold and crystal. The palace was astonishing to behold and highly pleasing to the mind. Rāvaṇa took Sītā up the magnificent central stairway of gold, showing Her the vast extent of his home. The walls were set thickly with celestial gems, which threw off a brilliant luster, lighting the whole palace. On each level of Rāvaṇa’s palace were differently furnished rooms, meant to evoke different moods. The palace resounded with the delightful music of kettledrums and other instruments. Various scents filled the air. There were fountains and ponds surrounded by flowers of every description.
Hoping to seduce Her, Rāvaṇa spoke to Sītā. “I have under my control millions of Rākṣasas. Ten thousand of them are my personal servants. My city extends for eight hundred miles and is constructed everywhere with gold and gems. Everything I have I now give over to You, O lovely princess. You are more dear to me than life. Become my wife and the queen of all the women who are mine. What is the use of remaining attached to Rāma, who is deprived of His kingdom, given to austerities and travels the earth on foot?”
Rāvaṇa tried at length to impress Sītā. He bragged of his power, telling Her how he could conquer even the gods in heaven. Rāvaṇa also derided Rāma in various ways, saying that He would not be able to reach Lanka even in thought. Indeed, Rāvaṇa boasted, there was not a being anywhere in the three worlds who would now be able to rescue Sītā from Lanka. “Therefore, O delightful lady, share with me all these celestial pleasures. Range freely with me in the Pushpaka. Cast aside any thought of Rāma, whose life is soon to end, for I alone am a husband worthy of You.”
Sītā sat sobbing for some time, not looking at Rāvaṇa. She had no desire to speak to him, but seeing the Rākṣasa’s insistence, She composed Herself and addressed him reproachfully. “O sinful demon, had you dared lay hands upon e in Rāma’s presence, you would now be lying prostrate on the battlefield. Give up your vain boasting! Your life has all but ended. Your royal fortune is gone. Gone too is your strength and intelligence. Soon a shower of arrows will rain down upon Lanka, annihilating the Rākṣasa forces. Thanks to you, O vile Rākṣasa, this city will soon be filled with weeping widows.”
Sītā spoke furiously to Rāvaṇa. How could he even dare to suggest that She abandon Rāma for him? He was like a crow trying to steal a sacrificial offering from amid an assembly of Brahmins. Her mind would not for a single moment contemplate a sinful act. It was only with deep regret that She looked at Rāvaṇa at all. Obviously, virtue was entirely unknown to him. He could imprison Her or kill Her as he liked, for She had no use of life without Rāma.
Hearing Sītā’s stinging words, Rāvaṇa’s bodily hair stood on end. He spoke threateningly. “O most beautiful lady, hear my warning. If You do not yield to me within one year, You shall be killed by my cooks and served to me as my meal.”
Rāvaṇa then stormed away. He instructed the Rākṣasīs to break Her pride. “By fearful threats alternated with soft words, tame this lady as one would tame a wild animal!”
He told them to keep Her in his beautiful gardens, which were filled with trees laden with fruits and flowers. They should guard Her carefully and continue to inform Her of Rāvaṇa’s power and glory. Gradually Her mind would change. Otherwise She would be put to death. Rāvaṇa left in anger, his footsteps causing the earth to vibrate.
Placed in the midst of a grove of trees, Sītā fell weeping to the ground. She felt Her limbs overpowered with grief and could find no peace of mind. Threatened by the Rākṣasa women, who had misshapen faces and deformed figures, She was like a young deer fallen into the clutches of tigresses. With Her mind rapt in thought of Rāma, She fell unconscious, oppressed by fear and sorrow.
2.10: Rāma’s Terrible Discovery
Rāma raced toward His hermitage. He was filled with foreboding. As He crashed through the bushes He heard a jackal’s fierce yell behind Him. Recognizing the evil omen He became even more anxious. Had Sītā been devoured by Rākṣasas? Lakṣman must have left Her when He heard Maricha’s cry; Sītā would have insisted upon it. The Rākṣasas had plotted successfully. Surely they had now taken Sītā.
Rāma saw other frightening omens and His mind became even more distressed. As He rushed through the forest He suddenly saw Lakṣman coming toward Him. Rāma ran to Him and took hold of His hand. He spoke sternly. “My dear brother, what have You done? Why have You abandoned the helpless Sītā? Without doubt She is now dead or stolen by the Rākṣasas.”
Rāma pointed out to Lakṣman the various omens. He told Him about Maricha’s trickery. It was now obvious. The Rākṣasas had arranged everything so they could abduct Sītā. Tears flowed from Rāma’s eyes as He thought of His wife. If She were killed, He would give up His own life. Desperately He asked Lakṣman, “Did you fail to protect Her? Where is that gentle lady who willingly gave up every happiness to follow Me here? Where is Sītā now? You should know that I cannot live without Her for even a moment.”
Feeling dispirited, Lakṣman replied, “I did not leave Sītā willingly. Urged by Her strong and painful words I came looking for You. She would by no means allow Me to stay with Her. Forgive Me, My lord.”
Lakṣman explained everything to Rāma—how He had tried hard to convince Sītā of Rāma’s invincibility, how She had accused Him of having ulterior motives—but Rāma only became angry and reprimanded Him. Why had He taken Sītā’s words seriously when She was overwhelmed by sentiment? Why had He allowed Himself to fall prey to anger? He had failed to carry out Rāma’s order. Now They would surely meet calamity. Rāma turned and continued to run toward His hermitage, His mind fixed on Sītā.
As Rāma ran He felt a tremor run through His limbs. His left eye throbbed violently. Greatly perturbed by these baleful omens, Rāma crashed through the forest. He seemed almost to fly, oblivious of the creepers and bushes which lashed Him. Breaking into the clearing where He had His hermitage, He ran about wildly, looking for Sītā. He called Her name again and again, but on finding no sign of Her, His heart sank.
Rāma examined His hut and the surrounding grounds closely. It resembled a lotus flower blighted by winter and deprived of its charm. The trees seemed to cry as they creaked in the wind. The flowers appeared faded and dull. Deer and birds were restless and ill at ease. Rāma saw blades of kusha grass scattered around, along with flower petals fallen from Sītā’s garland. He wailed loudly. “Surely Sītā has been snatched away. Or perhaps She lies dead somewhere. Or has She gone out playfully, hiding now in sport?”
Rāma searched frantically, but Sītā was nowhere to be found. He feared the worst. This was surely the work of the Rākṣasas. Even now Sītā must be in their clutches. Rāma imagined Sītā as She was carried away. She must have cried out for Him in plaintive tones. As She was borne upwards, Her beautiful face streaked with tears, fear would have gripped that timid princess. Perhaps at that very moment She was being devoured by demons who were cutting open Her soft neck and drinking Her blood.
As Rāma ran from tree to tree, His eyes red from sorrow, He appeared almost crazy. He questioned the trees, “O Kadamba, O Bilva, O Arjuna tree, where is Janaka’s frail daughter? Is She alive or not?”
In the madness of grief He spoke to animals, the river, the sky and the earth itself, but they all remained silent, heightening Rāma’s anguish. The forest and river deities, remembering Rāvaṇa’s frightful form, were petrified with fear and could make no reply. As Rāma gazed around, it seemed to Him that He saw Sītā in the sights of the forest. The yellow flowers looked like Her silk garment. The creepers flowing in the wind became Her limbs. Rāma thought He saw His beloved wife everywhere. He ran toward Her crying, but found only the desolate and echoing forest.
Rāma rebuked Himself for leaving Sītā. What would He say to Kaushalya? How could He even look at Janaka, that ever-truthful monarch? Rāma felt as if He would die. But then what would His father say upon seeing Him arrived in heaven, killed by grief? Surely the emperor would reproach Him for becoming a liar by not completing the term of His exile.
Rāma lamented piteously. “I shall never return to Ayodhya. Kaikeyi may rejoice, her purpose fulfilled. O Lakṣman, You should embrace Bharata and tell Him to long rule over this wide earth, for Rāma is no more. Without Sītā I shall not accept even heaven, what then of this world? With Sītā’s death has come Mine. For failing to protect that gentle princess I shall reach unending regions of hell.”
Rāma fell weeping to the ground. He censured Himself in many ways. Surely this awful misfortune was the result of sinful acts performed in a past life. It was undoubtedly His destiny. Such suffering—the loss of the kingdom, separation from His loved ones, the king’s death, and now Sītā’s loss—could only have been caused by His own past evil deeds. Rāma tossed about in pain.
Seeing Rāma’s agony, Lakṣman, Himself gripped by despondency, approached His brother and said, “Do not give way to despair, O mighty prince. Men of Your caliber are never bewildered by even the greatest disaster. We shall yet find Sītā. She cannot be far away. It is less than an hour since I left Her. Let Us continue Our search.
Rāma composed Himself and got up. He sighed and gazed about, wondering which way to go. As He looked at the seat outside His hut, He remembered how He had sat there with Sītā by His side—how They had talked and laughed together; how She had teased Him, pretending to be hurt by His words, or cajoling Him to fetch a particular flower from deep in the woods. As He thought of His lotus-eyed wife, Rāma’s grief rose in repeated waves.
A couple of large deer came close to the brothers. Rāma asked if they had seen Sītā. The deer then stood with their heads pointed toward the south. Rāma and Lakṣman took that as a clue and sped off in that direction. They soon came upon a trail of flowers fallen on the ground. Rāma dropped to His knees and picked up the petals. They were from the braid on Sītā’s hair. He cried out in a resounding voice, “Sītā! Sītā!”
The two brothers kept running. Suddenly they saw enormous footprints, probably of a Rākṣasa. Near to it were Sītā’s footprints going here and there as She evidently ran in fear. As they looked about they found a huge bow lying in pieces, along with many fearsome arrows tipped with blue steel barbs. A chariot lay smashed there, still yoked to great mules with goblin heads, some of which had been torn off in what was obviously a terrible fight. The headless body of the charioteer still sat holding the reins and whip. There were strands of gold fallen from Sītā’s ornaments, along with Her crushed garland.
Rāma pointed to the ground. “See here the many drops of blood! Look at these shattered weapons. And this mighty bow, encrusted with pearls and gems. Whose chariot is this, with its hundred-ribbed canopy torn apart? Look over there! Glowing golden armor studded with emeralds and rubies. All these items could only belong to gods or demons.”
Rāma fell to the ground wailing piteously. “O Lakṣman, it is clear that Sītā is dead. Here at this place two Rākṣasas fought for Her sake. The victor would surely have consumed My darling wife. Alas, I am lost.”
Lakṣman carefully examined the scene. There had obviously been an encounter between two very powerful beings. Perhaps Rāma was right. But from the footprints there did not appear to be more than one Rākṣasa. Lakṣman felt that somehow Sītā was still living. He reassured Rāma, telling Him to take heart, for Sītā would surely soon be recovered.
As He checked His grief Rāma felt consumed by anger. The corners of His eyes turned coppery as He stood holding His bow. “The Rākṣasa race will soon be extinct. They have borne away Sītā even as She practiced virtue. How did the gods stand by and allow this to happen? Do they not fear My wrath? Do they think I am powerless? For too long I have been mild and compassionate. Today the world will see a different Rāma!”
Rāma roared, giving vent to His anger. He would fill the heavens with His missiles. With His weapons He would annihilate the entire creation. All living beings would find themselves oppressed as He discharged endless flaming arrows. The planets would be brought to a standstill, the sun obscured and the moon brought down from the sky. The mountains would lie crushed to a powder and the oceans would be dried up. If the gods did not bring back Sītā, they would find no shelter anywhere in the universe. All the worlds would be torn to pieces by Rāma’s arrows and nothing would remain. A blazing fire would rage through all the quarters, leaving total devastation in its wake.
Rāma tightened His clothes. His lips trembled and He pressed them against His teeth. He looked like Śiva intent upon the destruction of the universe at the end of an age. Taking from His quiver a dreadful-looking arrow, He placed it upon His bow. “Today I shall not be checked by conciliation or force. See now, dear Lakṣman, as I bring down the gods from heaven.”
Lakṣman grabbed hold of Rāma’s arm and stopped Him from releasing His arrow. With palms joined He spoke gently to the infuriated Rāma. “You have always been dedicated to the good of all beings. Do not abandon Your nature today, O Rāma. Do not be swayed by anger. You should not destroy the worlds for one person’s offense. Lords of this world are always just in their punishment. Therefore display Your forbearance, for it is as deep as that of the earth itself. Be calm and consider the situation with care.”
Lakṣman pointed out that They could see only the footprints of a single Rākṣasa. It appeared that someone had fought against the demon, probably to protect Sītā. Whoever had abducted Sītā was obviously possessed of great power. Perhaps no one was able to prevent the kidnapping. After all, who would approve of the destruction or kidnapping of Rāma’s spouse? The gods and Gandharvas, the rivers, seas, mountains and indeed all living beings were not capable of giving offense to Rāma, any more than the priests at a sacrifice could offend the person for whom they were performing the ritual.
Rāma felt slightly pacified as Lakṣman continued, “Let Us seek out the assistance of the great sages. With Me by Your side we shall search the whole earth with all its mountains and forests. If We still do not find Sītā We shall go to the depths of the ocean and up to the realms of the gods. O Rāma, We shall not rest until We find Your beloved wife.”
Lakṣman suggested that if still They did not find Sītā, then Rāma could let loose His venomous missiles upon the worlds. But first He should control His anger and seek His wife through peaceful means. Otherwise, what example would He set for the world? If the earth’s ruler immediately resorted to violence when under duress, then what would ordinary men do? Could they be expected to exercise any control when in distress? In this world calamities visited everyone in due course of time, but they also disappeared again. Happiness and distress follow one another in swift succession. One should not give way to either. Even the gods were subject to suffering. One should neither rejoice nor grieve for material things, but with a peaceful mind carry out one’s duties. This was the path to everlasting happiness. Lakṣman looked into Rāma’s eyes.
“O Rāma, You have often instructed Me in this way. Indeed, who can teach You, even if he be Bṛhaspati himself? I am only trying now to awaken Your intelligence, which has been dulled by grief. Dear brother, people like You do not give way to grief even when faced with the gravest perils. Therefore spare the worlds. Seek out only the sinful adversary who has stolen Sītā.”
Rāma put down His bow and replaced His arrow in its quiver. He was moved by His brother’s beautifully worded advice. Controlling His anger, He thanked Lakṣman and asked Him what They should do next. Where should They begin to look? The two princes continued to walk south, discussing what to do. Soon They came upon Jatayu lying upon the ground. Seeing from a distance the mountainous bird drenched in blood, Rāma exclaimed, “Lakṣman! Here is a Rākṣasa in the guise of a bird. Surely this beast has devoured Sītā. I shall make short work of it with My fiery arrows.”
Rāma fitted a razor-headed arrow to His bow and bounded toward Jatayu, but as soon as He recognized the great bird He lowered His weapon. Jatayu, close to death, saw Rāma coming and raised his head. Vomiting blood he spoke in a strained voice. “O Rāma, the godly Sītā and indeed my life have both been snatched away by Rāvaṇa. I flew to Her assistance and fought with the demon. Although I smashed his chariot and killed his horses, I was finally cut down by him.”
Jatayu then described what had taken place. Upon hearing his story Rāma fell weeping to the ground. He embraced Jatayu and stroked his head. In great pain Rāma cried out, “Alas, who is more unfortunate than I? My sovereignty is lost, I am exiled, My wife is stolen and now My father’s friend lies mortally wounded, having tried his best to help Me.”
Rāma questioned Jatayu. Where did Rāvaṇa take Sītā? What did She say as She was being dragged away? How powerful was the Rākṣasa and where was his abode? Rāma spoke wildly in a tearful voice.
Jatayu looked at Him fondly. Speaking in barely a whisper he replied, “The demon conjured up a storm as he flew in the sky. As I contended with him I soon became exhausted, being old and worn out. He then lopped off my wings. He sped away with his face pointing south.”
The bird lay gasping. He reassured Rāma that Sītā would soon be found. The Rākṣasa had kidnapped Her at an hour which was favorable for Her return. “Although he knew it not,” Jatayu said, “it was the ‘vinda’ hour. According to scripture, a treasure lost during that time is again recovered.”
Jatayu told Rāma that Rāvaṇa was the son of the sage Vishrava and the half-brother of Kuvera. Although he was immensely powerful Rāma would soon slay him; Jatayu was sure of it. As the old bird spoke he felt his life departing. Blood flowing continuously from his mouth, he looked at Rāma with tears in his eyes. Repeating Rāma’s name over and over, Jatayu gradually became silent. His head fell to the ground and his body slumped back.
Rāma stood with folded hands looking at His father’s dear friend. He cried out in anguish. “Speak more, O noble bird. Speak more!”
But Jatayu was dead. Rāma gazed at him sorrowfully. Turning to Lakṣman He said, “Alas, this bird has laid down his life for My sake, dear brother. It is clear that valiant souls who practice piety and virtue are found even in the lower species of life and not just among humans. The pain of seeing this vulture’s death afflicts Me as much as that caused by Sītā’s loss.”
Rāma considered Jatayu to be as worthy of His worship as Daśaratha. He asked Lakṣman to fetch logs so that They could build a funeral pyre. Rāma looked at the bird and said, “You will attain unsurpassed realms of happiness, O king of birds. Never again will you take birth in this mortal world of pain and suffering.”
The brothers placed Jatayu on the wood pile and set it alight. Rāma personally recited the sacred mantras and performed the ritual, cremating Jatayu as He would His own relative. Both brothers then went to the Godavari and, after bathing in the river, offered its sacred water to Jatayu’s departed soul. When the ritual was complete Rāma and Lakṣman felt pleased, knowing that Jatayu had gone to divine regions of unending happiness. They fixed their minds on recovering Sītā. Going in a southerly direction They entered the deep forest, appearing like Viṣṇu and Indra going out to encounter the Asuras.
Lakṣman went ahead wielding His long sword and hewing down the shrubs and creepers that blocked Their progress. The forest was trackless and difficult to traverse, but the brothers moved swiftly. Distressed and eager to find Sītā, They looked on all sides, but saw only the dense forest. Lions roared and birds of prey screamed above them. Thick darkness enveloped Them as they penetrated deeply into the jungle. As They moved ahead vigorously and without fear, They began to perceive evil omens. Rāma’s left arm throbbed and His mind became disturbed. Jackals howled and crows emitted shrill cries. Rāma said, “Be wary, O Lakṣman. These signs definitely indicate some imminent danger.”
Even as He spoke a loud noise suddenly resounded from ahead of Them. It was deafening and it filled the four quarters. Rāma and Lakṣman, with swords in hand, ran toward the sound. Here must be the demon responsible for taking Sītā. They would soon dispatch him. Perhaps Sītā was still there. The brothers raced ahead.
They suddenly broke into a clearing and saw a colossal Rākṣasa seated there. Taller than the surrounding trees, the demon looked like a mountain peak. He had no neck or head and his huge mouth was in his belly. The demon was dark blue in color and covered all over with sharp bristling hair. At the top of his body was a single fearful eye which blazed like fire. His long pointed tongue darted in and out, licking his lips. He had arms eight miles long and they drew toward him all kinds of animals. As Rāma and Lakṣman looked on, the Rākṣasa devoured bears, tigers and deer, which he crammed into his gaping mouth.
The brothers saw the Rākṣasa from a distance of a mile. They looked in amazement. As they stood there, the demon saw Them and reached out with his two arms, which snaked about like two enormous creepers. Tightly grasping both brothers he lifted Them high above the ground. Lakṣman cried out to Rāma, “Free Yourself, O Rāma! Leave Me as an offering to this devil. Make good Your escape. I cannot release Myself from this demon’s clutches. After recovering Sītā and the throne of Ayodhya, always remember Me there.”
Already torn by anguish due to having allowed Sītā to be captured, Lakṣman was overcome by the demon. Rāma replied to His distraught brother, “Do not yield to fear, O Lakṣman. A man like You should never feel dejected.”
The massive Rākṣasa pulled the brothers toward him. “Who are you two with shoulders like those of bulls, dressed like ascetics yet wielding swords and large bows?” he boomed. “By the will of Providence You have fallen within the range of my sight at a time when I stand oppressed by hunger. Your life is now of short duration.”
Rāma felt despair. What would happen next? Was there no end to His suffering? He called out to Lakṣman. “Powerful indeed is destiny. Calamity upon calamity is heaped upon Us. We are now threatened with death even before We could find the beautiful Sītā. What should be done now?”
The demon spoke again. “Today You two shall serve as my food. Exert Yourself if You have any strength.”
Lakṣman, who had gathered Himself together, became infuriated. He shouted to Rāma, “The strength of this repulsive demon lies in his arms alone. Let Us quickly cut off his vast arms with Our swords.”
As Lakṣman spoke the Rākṣasa roared and opened his mouth wide. He began drawing the brothers toward him. Without delay They both brought Their swords down upon his arms with great force. The razor-sharp weapons sliced through the demon’s flesh and his arms fell upon the ground, releasing Rāma and Lakṣman. Emitting a terrible bellowing scream, which echoed for miles, the demon slumped back, bathed in a stream of blood which gushed from the stumps of his arms. He called out to the princes, “Who are You?”
Lakṣman replied, “We are two sons of Daśaratha, in the line of Ikṣvāku. This is Rāma and I am Lakṣman. We are here at the behest of Our noble father. While My mighty brother wandered in the forest, His consort was stolen away by a Rākṣasa, whom We now seek. But who are you? Why do you reside in this forest in such a form with a flaming mouth in your belly?”
The demon became joyful upon hearing Lakṣman speak. “Welcome, O tigers among men. It is my good luck that I see You here today. By good fortune only have my arms been severed by You.”
The Rākṣasa, whose name was Kabandha, told the brothers his story. He had previously been a Gandharva. Once, out of pride in his divine beauty, he had laughed at a ṛṣi named Ashtavakra, whose body is bent in eight places. In order to free Kabandha from his pride the ṛṣi had pronounced a curse, turning the Gandharva into a Rākṣasa. Kabandha had begged for mercy and the ṛṣi had said, “When Rāma and Lakṣman cremate you in a lonely forest, only then shall you be released from my curse.”
Kabandha continued, “In the form of a Rākṣasa I ranged the forest. After once performing severe asceticism, I received from Brahmā the boon of a long life. Becoming fearless I then challenged Indra to battle. That invincible god hurled his thunderbolt at me. It hit me and forced my head, arms and legs into my trunk. Although I begged him, Indra would not kill me, saying, ‘Let the words of Brahmā prove true.’
“I asked Indra how I could survive in such a form, a mere trunk with no head or limbs. Out of compassion he gave me these two arms and this huge mouth. He then said, ‘When Rāma and Lakṣman sever your arms, you will ascend to heaven.’
“Thus have I sat here, stretching out my arms and pulling into my mouth lions, leopards, bears, tigers and deer. I always thought to myself, ‘One day Rāma and Lakṣman will fall within my grip.’”
Kabandha implored the princes to throw him in a pit and cremate him. Rāma asked that he first tell Them if he knew anything about Sītā’s whereabouts. He said to the Rākṣasa, “We only know the name of Sītā’s abductor. We do not know where he lives, nor even his appearance.”
Kabandha said he would be able to give Them good advice as soon as he could assume his original celestial form because only then would he be possessed of his former divine intelligence. The brothers dug a great pit next to the demon and placed in it many logs. They pushed Kabandha into the pit and set fire to the logs. As the Rākṣasa’s body burned he looked like a large lump of ghee, with fat running down on all sides. Suddenly from the pit there arose a shining personality dressed in blazing yellow garments and wearing a bright garland. A splendid aerial chariot drawn by swans also appeared and Kabandha took his seat on it. He then spoke to Rāma. “O Raghava, I shall now tell You how You shall recover Sītā. One who has fallen upon misfortune is served by another in the same circumstances. You must befriend someone who has suffered a similar fate as You.”
Kabandha told Rāma that He should seek out the monkey Sugrīva. This monkey lived on a nearby mountain with four friends. He was powerful, intelligent, cultured and true to his promise. His enraged brother Vāli had exiled him for the sake of sovereignty and he was in need of help. By forming a pact with Sugrīva, Rāma would render him good and in return the monkey would assist Rāma in finding Sītā.
Kabandha went on, “Having restored the kingdom to Sugrīva, the monkey will send out thousands of his followers to search every part of the world. O Rāma, even if Your wife has been taken to the highest or lowest planet, She will be found and returned to You with Sugrīva’s help.”
Kabandha then told Rāma how He could find Sugrīva. With his divine vision the Gandharva could see exactly what Rāma would encounter and he told Him in detail. Rāma would meet with the monkeys near the hermitage of the Ṛṣi Matanga on the side of Lake Pampa, where there now lived only an old ascetic lady named Sabari. After explaining everything, Kabandha remained in the sky, shining like the sun. Rāma thanked him and said, “Please depart now for your own abode. You have rendered Me excellent service.”
Kabandha bowed his head and offered prayers to the brothers, recognizing who They were. His golden chariot then rose upwards. As he disappeared into the skies the Gandharva called out, “Enter an alliance with Sugrīva.”
Rāma and Lakṣman immediately headed west as suggested by Kabandha. After some time They reached Lake Pampa and stayed one night by its side. In the morning the princes looked about and located the site of Matanga’s hermitage. It was hemmed in by trees laden with fruits and flowers. Varieties of colorful birds played in the trees and their singing was beautiful. Deer, rabbits and other timid creatures moved about peacefully.
The princes walked over the soft grass and soon found the hut where Sabari lived. She was seated outside the hut and rose respectfully as They approached. Joining her palms, the ascetic lady fell down before the brothers and clasped Their feet. Sabari offered Them grass mats and brought water to wash Their feet, saying, “You are welcome.”
Rāma and Lakṣman sat at ease and Rāma spoke. “O noble lady, is your asceticism proceeding without impediment? Have you mastered your senses? Are you fully freed from anger and is your diet controlled? O gentle one, has your service to your guru borne fruit?”
Sabari looked at Rāma with tear-filled eyes. She had been practicing austerities and yoga for many years. Being fully self-realized, she could understand the identities of the two princes. She spoke in a pleasing voice. “Today the full fruition of my asceticism and meditation has been attained. Today my life is perfected. My teachers have now been served and satisfied and I have achieved heaven. Indeed, O Rāma, after seeing Your divine form I shall reach those realms that know no decay.”
Sabari told Rāma that her preceptor Matanga had not long before ascended to heaven. Before leaving he had informed Sabari that Rāma, accompanied by Lakṣman, would soon come there. She should serve the two princes and then, when they left, she would rise up to the eternal regions. With shaking hands Sabari began offering the brothers fruits and vegetables of every description.
After graciously accepting Sabari’s offerings, Rāma asked to be shown the hermitage. “I wish to see for Myself the glory of your guru,” He said. “Please show Me where he lived and worshipped.”
Sabari took the brothers to where Matanga had his altar. It shone with a brilliant luster which illuminated the surrounding area. In a pond nearby were the waters of the seven oceans, brought there by Matanga’s ascetic powers. Flower garlands made by the sage lay on the ground, still fresh and unfaded.
After she had shown the brothers around, Sabari said, “I long now to join those great ṛṣis in heaven. I am ever their servant. Please permit me to leave, O Rāma.”
Rāma and Lakṣman looked around, saying, “Wonderful.” Rāma turned to the old ascetic woman. “You have properly honored us, O blessed lady. Please depart at will.”
Sabari bowed low to Rāma and, approaching the sacrificial fire, cast herself into it. As her body was consumed she arose in a brilliant ethereal form. Adorned with celestial jewels and garlands, she appeared resplendent. Like a streak of lightning she rose into the sky, illuminating the whole region. She went upwards toward the holy realm now inhabited by the sages whom she had always served.
Having watched Sabari depart, Rāma spoke to Lakṣman. “This hermitage shines with splendor. By simply coming here We have been freed of the stain of sinful karma. Dear brother, surely now Our fortunes will change. I feel that We shall soon meet with Sugrīva.”
Rāma felt joy as He anticipated meeting the monkey. He remembered Kabandha’s words. Soon Sītā would be found, He felt sure. The two brothers left the hermitage and walked around the edge of the lake, carefully surveying the area. The sounds of peacocks and parrots perched on the trees nearby echoed all around. It was noon and the princes took their midday bath in the lake. The water was crystal clear and covered with innumerable lotuses, making it appear like a many-colored carpet. The lake had gently sloping banks of golden sand covered with tall trees. Long creepers reached down to the water and shining fishes nibbled at their ends.
As the brothers continued around the bank of the Pampa, which stretched for miles, They came to the foot of the Rishyamukha mountain. Rāma gazed up at it. “Surely this is the mountain where Sugrīva dwells. O Lakṣman, My heart is torn with grief for Sītā. I feel I cannot live much longer unless the princess is found. Please quickly search for the monkey.”
Thinking of Sītā, Rāma burst into a loud wail. Where was Janaka’s daughter now? Perhaps She had pined away in His absence, dying of grief. As Rāma looked around at the beautiful scenery His pain only heightened. Everything reminded Him of Sītā. The peahen’s mating dance brought to mind the way Sītā would approach Him in love. The fragrant breeze was like the scented breath of His beloved wife. Yellow champaka flowers resembled Her shining silk garment. Bright red tree blossoms looked like the princess’s full lips. Deer moved about with their mates, piercing Rāma’s heart as He remembered how He would wander with Sītā. The white swans reminded Rāma of His wife’s complexion. Indeed, He saw Her everywhere He looked.
Rāma cried out in anguish, His heart burning with the pain of separation. Lakṣman comforted His brother, again reassuring Him that Sītā would be found. As he spoke to Rāma his voice rose in anger. “The sinful Rāvaṇa will find no shelter, even if he enters the darkest region of the universe. I shall seek him out. Either the Rākṣasa will yield Sītā or meet with his end at My hands. Throw off Your grief, dear brother, and together We shall strenuously exert Ourselves to find Sugrīva. High-class men never give way to despondency, even when faced with the most terrible calamities. Rather, they become more and more determined to overcome their difficulties.”
Rāma was heartened by Lakṣman’s assurances. The two brothers continued Their search for Sugrīva.
2.11: Rāma Meets the Monkeys
High on a peak of the Rishyamukha hill, Sugrīva had heard Rāma’s cries. He looked around and saw the two princes on the edge of the lake. He was immediately seized with fear. The two humans appeared like a couple of powerful gods. Sugrīva wondered if They had been sent by his brother Vāli, who bore him constant enmity. The princes’ large bows and swords struck fear into Sugrīva’s heart. He ran back to his cave and said to his four companions. “Two mighty warriors, disguised as ascetics, have come here. Surely this is Vāli’s doing. Dispatched by him with the purpose of seeking me out and killing me, those two heroes will soon arrive here. What should I do?”
The five great apes, who were all incarnations of the gods and who belonged to the celestial race of Vanaras, sat together and discussed. They decided to ascend a high peak and observe the warriors. Coming out from their cave they leapt from crag to crag. As they bounded impetuously upward, they broke down large trees with their powerful arms. Tigers and leopards dashed away in fear, seeing the apes jumping about the side of the mountain. After reaching a high place, they came together and gazed down upon Lake Pampa. Sugrīva’s main advisor, Hanumān, who was a son of the wind-god Vāyu, then said, “What cause is there for concern, O Sugrīva? Here are only two men. I do not see Vāli, the actual source of your fear, nor can Vāli ever come here because of Matanga’s curse.”
Hanumān advised Sugrīva to closely observe the warriors. From their movements and gestures he would be able to ascertain their actual purpose. He should not give way to unnecessary fear. Perhaps the two men had come as friends.
Sugrīva was still not sure. He had experienced Vāli’s malicious anger on numerous occasions. He replied to Hanumān, “No trust can placed in kings, O wise one. They will never rest until all their enemies are destroyed. I feel that these two warriors are Vāli’s emissaries. Even if They exhibit friendship, we should be wary. Otherwise, having gained our trust, They will then fulfill my brother’s wicked purpose.”
Sugrīva told Hanumān to assume the form of a Brahmin and meet with the warriors. He should study Them carefully and then report back. Hanumān, who accepted Sugrīva as his king, bowed respectfully and left, leaping down to the base of the mountain. As a son of Vāyu, he possessed great mystic power. He thus assumed a human form and, appearing as a wandering mendicant, approached Rāma and Lakṣman.
Hanumān prostrated himself before the princes and inquired in respectful tones, “What brings you two shining ascetics to this region? You appear like a pair of royal sages fit to rule the entire world. Your massive bows glow like rainbows, Your swords appear dreadful, and Your arms are like the trunks of mighty elephants. Yet You are dressed as Brahmins. And why do You wail so despondently? Why do You search about this lake? Your presence here is a mystery, although You are indeed welcome. You seem like the sun-god and moon-god descended to earth, illuminating this large mountain by Your own luster. Perhaps You are even powerful expansions of the Supreme Lord.”
The astute Hanumān closely examined the two brothers. He could understand They were not ordinary men. The monkey had a deep devotion for Viṣṇu and as he looked at Rāma, he felt his love being awakened. It seemed he had known this human all his life, although he had never met Him before. Hanumān thought carefully. Surely this was the Lord incarnate. What profound purpose had brought Him here?
Hanumān decided to reveal his identity. Folding his palms he told Them he was Sugrīva’s minister. Sugrīva was the king of the Vanaras, but he had been banished by his brother. He now sought the princes’ friendship and was waiting high upon the mountainside.
The brothers were relaxed and smiling. They had listened attentively to Hanumān. Rāma had become cheerful upon hearing his words and He said to Lakṣman, “This meeting is fortunate indeed, dear brother. Here stands Sugrīva’s minister, who is the monkey We seek. My heart and mind are moved by this noble Vanara’s speech. Surely he has studied every facet of Sanskrit grammar, for his words were faultless and delivered in a gentle and highly poetic style. Even an enemy with upraised sword would be made friendly by such a speech.”
Rāma asked His brother to reply to Hanumān. Lakṣman then informed the monkey that They had heard about Sugrīva and wished to meet with him in friendship. Hanumān smiled. Realizing that the two godlike brothers were seeking his master’s assistance, he felt that Sugrīva’s kingdom was already recovered. The monkey joyfully spoke again. “Pray tell me Your purpose in having come to this lonely forest region in the first place.”
By gestures Rāma urged Lakṣman to explain everything to Hanumān. Lakṣman told him in brief all that had happened to Rāma from the point of His being exiled. The narration of Rāma’s many misfortunes distressed Lakṣman and He spoke with tears streaming from His eyes. Describing how Kabandha had directed Them to find Sugrīva, the prince concluded, “This Rāma, whose father Daśaratha was daily honored by all the kings of earth and who himself possesses limitless virtues, now seeks the refuge of Sugrīva, the lord of monkeys.”
When the prince stopped speaking, Hanumān stood with folded palms. He looked at Rāma and said, “Fortunate indeed is Sugrīva that You have sought him as an ally. He too is fully afflicted by grief, having lost his home and family at the hands of his powerful brother. He now lives in fear on this high mountain. Come, I shall take You to him.”
Rāma and Lakṣman looked at each other joyfully. Hanumān then assumed his form as a monkey and, kneeling, told the princes to mount his shoulders. Then the powerful ape leapt up the mountainside, carrying both Rāma and Lakṣman with ease.
Within a few minutes Hanumān reached Sugrīva. Setting the brothers down, he introduced Them to the monkey chief. He told Sugrīva all that Lakṣman had said about Their exile and search for Sītā. Hanumān praised the princes highly and recommended to Sugrīva that he accept Their proffered friendship.
Sugrīva looked at the two brothers, his mind awed by Their brilliance and obvious power. Like Hanumān, he felt a strong love and devotion awakening in his heart. He stood up and spoke to Rāma. “I am highly honored that You have sought my alliance, O Rāma. Your righteousness, Your virtues and Your kindness to all beings is well known. It is my gain only that You have arrived here today. O noble one, if my friendship is acceptable to You, then please take my hand. Let us enter into an abiding pact.”
Sugrīva extended his hand to Rāma, who clasped it firmly in His own. Rāma vigorously embraced the monkey and they both felt great happiness. Hanumān then lit a fire and sanctified it with Vedic mantras. Rāma and Sugrīva sat by the fire and swore their alliance together. They went clockwise around the fire, hand in hand. As they gazed happily at each other, Sugrīva said, “May our friendship last forever. Our woes and joys are now one.”
Hanumān broke off a large bough from a flowering sal tree and set it on the ground as a seat for Rāma and Sugrīva. He broke off another from a blossoming sandalwood tree and offered it to Lakṣman. When they were all seated Sugrīva began telling Rāma about himself. “I have been banished and antagonized by my elder brother Vāli, O Rāma, and I move about these woods in great fear. He has stolen my wife and wrested the kingdom from me. Even now he seeks to destroy me. Please grant me security from my hostile brother.”
Rāma laughed heartily and replied, “Certainly service is the fruit of friendship, O mighty monkey. You need have no fear from Vāli. That immoral monkey will soon lie dead, killed by My infallible arrows. You will see Vāli struck down and lying on the earth like a shattered mountain.”
Sugrīva was reassured. He was certain he would soon recover his wife and kingdom. He again clasped Rāma’s hand and thanked Him. Sugrīva assured Rāma that he would search out and find Sītā, whether She was in the bowels of the earth or the vaults of heaven. “You should know for sure,” he said, “that neither god nor demon can hold Sītā any more than a man can digest poisoned food.”
Even as that friendship between Rāma and Vāli was forged, the left eyes of Sītā, Vāli and Rāvaṇa all throbbed violently and simultaneously, foreboding good to the princess and evil to the other two.
After the brothers and the monkeys had eaten a meal of cooked roots and forest vegetables prepared by Hanumān, they again spoke together. Sugrīva told Rāma that he had seen, not long ago, a great Rākṣasa flying overhead clutching a crying lady. He had heard Her plaintive calls of, “Rāma! Lakṣman!” This must surely have been Sītā being stolen by Rāvaṇa. Sugrīva continued, “I saw the princess wriggling like a snake in the demon’s grasp. She spotted me sitting with my four companions on the mountaintop. She then threw down Her jewels wrapped in a cloth.”
Rāma grasped the monkey’s arm. “You saw My beloved Sītā? Where are those jewels? Bring them quickly!”
Sugrīva got up and entered deeply into his cave. After a few minutes he returned, holding the cloth bundle Sītā had thrown. He laid it out before Rāma and the brilliant jewels shone in the bright sunshine. Rāma dropped to His knees and began sobbing. “Sītā! My darling!” He pressed the jewels to His bosom. Thinking of His kidnapped wife He began to hiss like a serpent provoked in its hole. He turned to Lakṣman, who had knelt by His side. “See here, O Lakṣman, Sītā’s bright jewels. The Rākṣasa must have carried Her this way.”
Lakṣman gazed at the jewels and replied to Rāma. “I do not recognize the armlets or earrings, for I have never looked at the face or body of the princess. But I recognize the anklets, which I saw each day as I bowed at Her feet.”
Rāma stood quickly and spoke to Sugrīva. “Tell Me where the demon has taken Sītā? Where does he dwell, O Sugrīva? On account of that demon I shall exterminate the entire Rākṣasa horde. By carrying off Sītā he has opened wide the portals of death. Let me know his whereabouts and I shall dispatch him to Death’s presence this very day, accompanied by all his followers.”
Sugrīva’s head fell. He told Rāma he had no knowledge of Rāvaṇa’s whereabouts. The city of the Rākṣasas was unknown to the monkeys, as it was to humans. Perhaps it even lay on some other planet, for the Rākṣasas could move freely anywhere. But Sugrīva solemnly swore that he would find Sītā. Rāma should not lament. Whatever it took to locate the princess, Sugrīva and his monkeys would undertake.
Sugrīva reassured Rāma. “Do not allow grief to overpower You, O great hero. Wise men face every calamity with fortitude and do not yield to sorrow. Only the foolish are overcome by lamentation, losing their intelligence and strength and sinking like an overloaded boat. O Rāma, I am here to help You. Cast away Your grief.”
Rāma wiped His face with His cloth and smiled at Sugrīva. He felt comforted by the monkey’s words and thanked him for his counsel. He urged Sugrīva to begin the search for Sītā immediately and He again promised to kill Vāli. Sugrīva and his ministers felt immense pleasure to hear Rāma’s promise and they considered their purpose accomplished. Sugrīva vowed his unending and unswerving friendship and service to Rāma, who then asked, “Tell me how you came to be exiled, dear friend. Why do you tarry here on this lonely mountain, suffering grief and fear?”
Sugrīva then told Rāma his story. “Although I had ascended the throne of the monkeys under the instruction of Vāli’s ministers, I was deposed and chased away violently by Vāli. Even my dear wife was stolen by my powerful brother. Still he antagonizes me. Many times I have killed monkeys sent by him for my destruction. Thus it was that I feared even You when I first saw You arrive here.”
Rāma wanted to hear all the details about Vāli. He asked Sugrīva to relate the whole history. What were Vāli’s strengths and weaknesses? Why had he insulted Sugrīva? Rāma was already feeling anger toward Vāli. He wanted to know everything about the arrogant monkey. Then He would take the necessary steps. He again reassured Sugrīva. “Speak with confidence. Soon you will see My arrow streak toward Vāli’s chest and him falling like a cleft mountain.”
Sugrīva, feeling delight, said, “Vāli and I are the two sons of Riksaraja, the king of the monkeys. My father and I always held Vāli in the highest esteem. When the king died it was Vāli, as the elder prince, who was duly installed as the ruler. I always remained subservient to my brother, standing by his side.”
Sugrīva described how, one day, a demon named Mayavi had come to Kishkindha, the monkeys’ city. He had a dispute with Vāli over a woman and he stood outside the city gates, bellowing fearfully and challenging Vāli to a duel. Vāli was sleeping and Mayavi’s roars woke him. He got up furiously and immediately rushed out of the city with Sugrīva by his side. When Mayavi saw the two huge monkeys emerging from the city he became fearful and ran away. Vāli and Sugrīva gave chase and were gaining on the demon when he suddenly entered a large hole in the earth.
Upon reaching the hole, Vāli decided to go after Mayavi and he told Sugrīva to wait for him. Although Sugrīva implored his brother to take him, Vāli went alone into the hole. He bound Sugrīva on oath to remain at the entrance of the hole until he returned.
A year passed and Sugrīva waited. There was no sign of Vāli. Sugrīva began to fear his brother had been killed. He stayed at the hole, feeling misgivings. Then, as he sat watching the hole, a large amount of foaming blood began to seep out. Sugrīva also heard the roaring sound of the demon, but he could not hear his brother’s voice. Thinking carefully, Sugrīva concluded with great sorrow that Vāli must have been killed. Not wanting the demon to escape, Sugrīva placed an enormous boulder over the hole. He then returned grieving to Kishkindha.
Vāli’s ministers then installed Sugrīva on the throne, although he was reluctant to accept it. However, after only a short time elapsed, Vāli returned, having killed the demon. When he saw Sugrīva on the throne he became enraged. He bound the ministers in chains and spoke harshly to Sugrīva, explaining that he had found Mayavi after a full year of searching and had slain him and all his kinsmen. He then turned back, only to find the entrance to the hole blocked and Sugrīva gone.
Sugrīva was full of reverence toward his brother and bowed before him, touching his feet with the crown. He told Vāli how pleased and relieved he was to see him returned. Sugrīva would again happily become his brother’s servant, but Vāli would not be placated. He accused Sugrīva of deliberately shutting him up in the hole out of a desire to gain the kingdom. He threw Sugrīva out of the city with only a single cloth wrapped around him. Vāli also stole his brother’s wife.
Sugrīva concluded his story. “Thus it was that I came to be wandering about, accompanied by only a few close friends and advisors. Ranging the earth in fear of Vāli, I finally sought shelter upon this mountain, knowing that he cannot come here due to a curse.”
Rāma smiled at Sugrīva. Once more He gave him every assurance that the cruel and immoral Vāli would soon be punished. “I will soon dispel your grief at losing your wife, O king of monkeys, even as the sun dispels a morning mist.”
Sugrīva looked at Rāma. With His powerful frame and huge bow he was truly an impressive sight. Surely He could easily overpower even the mightiest of warriors. But Vāli was no ordinary opponent. Although raised by Riksharaj, Vāli had been born the son of Indra. He possessed strength beyond compare. No one could face him in battle. Therefore Sugrīva felt uncertain. He began to describe Vāli’s prowess. “Each day upon rising, Vāli, for exercise, strides from the western to the eastern ocean. Then he moves to the southern shore and again bounds from there to the northernmost coast. He knows no fatigue and climbs to the tops of mountains, hurling down their huge peaks with his bare hands. I have seen Vāli snap numerous massive trees as if they were small sticks.”
Sugrīva then told Rāma about Vāli’s encounter with another celestial demon named Dundubhi. This demon was accustomed to roam about in the form of a terrible-looking buffalo. He possessed the strength of ten thousand elephants and was wandering around looking for a suitable opponent. Coming to the god of the seas, the demon challenged him to battle, but the god declined, saying, “I am not competent to fight with you.” The deity sent Dundubhi to the Himavan mountain, telling him that he would get battle there, but the mountain also declined to fight with Dundubhi. The demon roared angrily and demanded to know who could possibly face him. Himavan then said that Vāli would prove a worthy combatant for him, and he directed Dundubhi to Kishkindha.
The furious demon, still in the form of a tremendous buffalo, rushed toward Vāli’s city. He appeared like a black cloud racing through the skies in the rainy season. Dundubhi arrived at the gates of Kishkindha and thundered like a large drum being violently beaten. That sound reverberated for miles and it broke down the surrounding trees. Vāli was enjoying with his wives in his palace. Drunk with wine and passion, he stood up and gazed about with reddened eyes. He was intolerant by nature and the sound of the demon maddened him. He ran out of his palace, followed by his wives. Going before Dundubhi he said, “Why do you bellow like this, O demon? If you are challenging me, then you had best flee immediately before I take your life.”
The demon laughed loudly. He said to Vāli, “You should not challenge me in the presence of ladies. O gallant monkey, fight with all your power and I shall kill you today. Or, if you prefer, you may remain for this night with your wives and we shall fight tomorrow. It is improper to fight one who is drunk or blinded by passion. Return to your city and gaze upon it for one last time. Say fond farewells to your near and dear ones. Install your son upon the throne and then come out for battle. Soon you will lie dead upon the earth.”
Vāli laughed to hear this arrogant boasting. He sent his wives back into the city and said to Dundubhi, “Do not make excuses to hide your fear. Take my inebriety to be the drunkenness of a warrior just prior to a battle. We shall fight now!”
Vāli tightened his cloth and stood like a mountain in front of Dundubhi. The demon roared and, lowering his pointed horns, charged furiously at Vāli. The monkey at once seized Dundubhi by his horns and swung him around, throwing him down on the ground. Blood flowed from the demon’s ears and he got up and charged again. Rising up on his hind legs, he began pounding Vāli with his hooves, making a sound like thunderclaps. He thrust his horns into Vāli’s body, but the monkey stood firm.
The battle raged for some time as the two opponents beat each other furiously. Vāli struck the demon with fists, knees, feet, rocks and trees. Gradually he overpowered Dundubhi, who became exhausted. Vāli then took hold of his horns and dashed him to the ground with great force. He whirled the lifeless demon around and tossed him to a distance of eight miles. As he flew through the air large amounts of blood flowed from his smashed body. Some drops fell upon the hermitage of the sage Matanga. The ṛṣi stood up in a rage and looked around. He saw Dundubhi’s carcass and by his mystic vision could understand that Vāli had thrown the dead demon there. He immediately uttered a curse: “If the monkey who threw this corpse ever steps within a four-mile radius of this hermitage, he will immediately turn to stone.”
Thus Sugrīva explained why Vāli did not dare come near Rishyamukha. He pointed to what appeared to be a massive heap of shining white rocks. “Here are Dundubhi’s bones, tossed away by Vāli. Even these bare bones can hardly be moved by any other person.”
Lakṣman laughed contemptuously. “What feat have you seen that Rāma cannot easily equal? O Sugrīva, I have not heard anything yet to indicate that this brother of yours is formidable.”
Sugrīva assured Lakṣman that he was convinced of Rāma’s prowess, but he had not yet seen any demonstration of Rāma’s power, while on many occasions he had witnessed the power of Vāli. He asked Rāma to show him His strength by kicking away Dundubhi’s skeleton.
Rāma laughed again and with His foot He playfully lifted the huge bones, flicking them high into the sky. That skeleton flew out of sight, landing some eighty miles away. Seeing the bones vanishing into the distance Sugrīva was impressed, but he still remained doubtful. He said to Rāma, “You have thrown the dried-up bones of Dundubhi, but he was hurled by Vāli when still a carcass full of flesh and blood. O Rāma, forgive me, but there is one other test I should like to witness.”
Sugrīva showed Rāma and Lakṣman seven sal trees, each more than thirty arms’ length in diameter. In the past Vāli had easily broken down many such trees. Sugrīva asked Rāma to show His strength by piercing one of those trees right through with an arrow.
Rāma smilingly took up His bow and strung it, placing on the string a dreadful-looking arrow. He took aim and released the arrow which passed cleanly through all seven trees. The arrow, gilded with gold, entered the earth and descended to the subterranean regions. Forcing its way back up and out of the earth, it again entered Rāma’s quiver.
Sugrīva was astonished and fell flat on the ground at Rāma’s feet. He considered Vāli as good as slain. Kneeling before Rāma he said, “You could kill with Your arrows the gods and demons combined. Who can stand before You in battle? With You as my ally, my grief has totally dried up. O Rāma, let us go quickly and make short work of Vāli.”
Rāma agreed and they all left immediately for Kishkindha. Rāma told Sugrīva to go ahead and challenge Vāli to a fight and He would wait nearby. When Vāli came out of the city, Rāma would kill him.
Sugrīva stood outside Kishkindha and began to roar. Vāli heard his brother and rushed out to fight. The two monkeys began a tumultuous and terrible combat that resembled a clash between Mars and Mercury in the heavens. Blinded by anger they threw blows like thunderbolts at each other. Striking with their fists, palms and feet, they pummeled each other, screaming with fury.
Rāma watched closely, bow in hand. He could not distinguish who was who. The two monkey brothers resembled each other closely, like the twin Aśvinī gods. Rāma did not therefore release His arrow for fear of hitting Sugrīva.
Vāli soon got the upper hand and the battered Sugrīva ran for his life. He dashed back to the Rishyamukha, closely followed by Vāli, who stopped at the edge of the forest near to Matanga’s hermitage, saying, “Today you are spared.”
Sugrīva lay gasping on the ground as Rāma ran up to him. The monkey looked at the prince in surprise. “Why did You not say truthfully that You had no intention of slaying Vāli? Look at me now. I have been half-killed by that fearful ape. O Rāma, had I known You were reluctant I would not have moved from this place.”
Rāma consoled Sugrīva, explaining that He was unable to distinguish the monkey from his brother. Their features, dress and ornaments were too similar. He suggested that Sugrīva again challenge Vāli, but this time wearing some distinctive mark so that Rāma could tell one from the other. Lakṣman tied round Sugrīva’s neck a flowering creeper. Reassured, Sugrīva got up and left again for Kishkindha.
Lakṣman and Sugrīva strode in front, followed by Rāma, Hanumān and the other three monkeys. They soon reached the city and again Sugrīva went to the gates. He looked at Rāma, still feeling fearful. The beating from Vāli had shaken him.
Rāma saw Sugrīva’s anxious expression. He took the monkey by his shoulders and said, “Do not hesitate. Vāli will presently roll in the dust, struck down by My arrow. I have never uttered a falsehood, even though I have been in adversity for a long time. Let go your mighty shout, O Sugrīva, and Vāli will quickly proceed to this spot. How can he brook a challenge in the presence of women? This shall be his last battle and indeed his last day on earth.”
Sugrīva accepted Rāma’s firm assurance. While the two princes remained concealed in a clump of bushes, he again began to shout out his challenge. His roar rent the air pitilessly. Animals fled confused in all directions like women assailed by wicked men due to the failure of leaders to protect them. Birds dropped from the sky like gods whose pious merits have been exhausted. As Sugrīva emitted his fierce cry he sounded like the ocean lashed by a gale.
Vāli was in his inner chambers with his wives. Hearing Sugrīva’s challenge, he sat up in surprise. How had his brother returned so soon? Was he not satisfied with one thrashing? This time there would be no escape for that arrogant monkey. Vāli was seized with fury. His limbs trembled and his eyes turned crimson. Grinding his teeth he leapt from his bed and ran toward the door.
His wife Tara, seeing him about to go out, ran to him and held his arm. Her womanly intuition told her something was wrong. She spoke fearfully. “My lord, shake off this anger. Do not enter another combat with Sugrīva. Although you are more powerful than your brother, I nevertheless feel misgivings. How has Sugrīva become so fearless even though he was only just beaten by you? Why does he now stand there roaring like a monsoon cloud? Surely he has found a powerful ally.”
Vāli stopped and looked at his beautiful wife. She told him that she had heard how Sugrīva had formed a friendship with two princes from Ayodhya. Tara described the power and glory of Rāma, which she had heard described by Aṅgada, Vāli’s son. Rāma was unassailable in battle and capable of crushing vast armies. He was the supreme resort for the afflicted and had given an assurance of safety to Sugrīva. The Vanara queen begged her husband not to go out and fight. Instead he should welcome Sugrīva and install him as the Prince Regent.
Tara implored her husband. “I consider Sugrīva to be your foremost friend. You need not maintain this animosity. Bring him close with gifts and kind words. Along with Rāma he will prove your greatest ally. O valiant monarch, please do not enter another combat with Sugrīva, for I fear it will be your last.”
Gripped by death, Vāli could not accept his wife’s wise advice. He reproached her as she stood before him weeping. “How can I tolerate this insolence? For a warrior who has never known defeat, brooking an insult is worse than death. I am not able to stand the arrogance of the weak Sugrīva, much less his roar. O timid one, I shall not tarry here longer. Sugrīva shall meet his end today.”
Vāli told Tara she need not fear on Rāma’s account. He knew about the human prince. Rāma was devoted to virtue and piety; He would never commit the sin of killing an innocent person. Nor could He intervene in the fair fights of others. Vāli ordered Tara to stay in the palace. He was going out to face Sugrīva and would soon return, having either killed his brother or sent him flying in fear. The queen bowed her head and, praying for her husband, returned sorrowfully to her rooms.
Filled with rage and breathing heavily, Vāli rushed out of the city gates. He saw Sugrīva standing firm like a mountain, his reddish brown body glowing like fire. Vāli tightened his loin cloth. Raising his fist he charged furiously at his brother, shouting, “This iron-like fist, hurled at you like a mace, will return after taking your life!”
Remembering his brother’s treatment of him, Sugrīva was also worked up with anger. He threw a great punch at the onrushing Vāli. The two monkeys clashed together roaring like maddened bulls. Struck a swinging blow on the chest by Vāli’s two clenched hands, Sugrīva vomited blood and looked like a mountain covered with a cascade of red oxides. He tore up a sal tree and dashed his brother over the head. Vāli shook like a ship tossed in the ocean. He fell upon Sugrīva and began pounding him with his knees and fists. The two monkeys fought fiercely and gradually Vāli once more gained the upper hand.
Sugrīva, with his vanity shattered, began fearfully looking about for Rāma. He was becoming weaker and weaker. From behind the bush Rāma saw His chance. Vāli stood over his collapsed brother, his arms upraised. Rāma swiftly placed an arrow on His bow, releasing it with a sound resembling a crash of thunder. The arrow sped like a streak of lightning and hit Vāli on the breast, sounding like another thunderclap.
Vāli fell to the ground like a hewn tree, uttering a great cry. He lay unconscious with his body bathed in blood. Although struck by Rāma’s powerful arrow, the monkey did not die, as he was wearing a gold chain Indra had given him. By Indra’s blessings that chain was capable of preserving the life of whoever wore it. Lying there with his scattered garments and shining ornaments, and the glowing arrow of Rāma protruding from his chest, Vāli looked like a colorful banner suddenly dropped to the ground.
Rāma and Lakṣman slowly approached the mortally wounded monkey. Vāli opened his eyes and looked up at Rāma, who was smiling at him. The fallen monkey spoke with difficulty. “You are famous for Your truth and virtue, O Rāma. How then have You committed such an abominable act? What was my crime that I should be punished in this way? I did not attack You. Indeed I was engaged in fair combat with another. Why then have You killed me, remaining concealed at a distance?”
Vāli accused Rāma of irreligion, saying that He only posed as a virtuous person. This heinous deed surely proved Him to be otherwise. He had lost control of His mind and senses, overcome by desire and swayed by sentiment. Out of friendship for Sugrīva, He had abandoned righteousness.
Gasping for breath, Vāli went on, “I cannot understand why You have acted in this way, O Rāma. What did You have to gain by killing me, a mere monkey living in the forest on wild fruits? The scriptures condemn the eating of monkey flesh or the using of their skins. There was no reason to slay me. I have done You no harm at all. Surely this act will be condemned by all holy men and You will go to hell.”
Vāli censured Rāma at length, speaking passionately. After some time he closed his eyes and fell back exhausted. He felt regret. Why had he not listened to Tara? She had tendered him wise advice. By ignoring her he had reaped the results of his impetuosity. The arrow in his chest burned like fire. Vāli was shocked. How could the virtuous Rāma have perpetrated such a vile deed?
Rāma waited for Vāli to regain a little strength. When the monkey again opened his eyes, Rāma said, “O Vāli, you clearly do not understand righteousness and religion. This entire earth belongs to the descendants of Manu, having been bequeathed to them by that great deity and speaker of religious codes. Bharata now rules this world and We, his brothers, are His servants. It is thus Our duty to roam the earth, promoting virtue and punishing the wicked. You, O proud monkey, are indeed wicked.”
Rāma then explained to Vāli rules of morality. The younger brother should be regarded as one’s own son, and his wife as one’s daughter-in-law. Vāli had therefore been guilty of a great sin in punishing the sinless Sugrīva and co-habiting with Ruma, Sugrīva’s wife. The scriptures prescribed death as the punishment for one who has illicit sexual relations with his own daughter or a wife of his younger brother. There was no doubt that Rāma’s punishing him was just.
Rāma continued to address the pain-stricken Vāli. “You are now freed from the sinful reaction which would have sent you to hell. A person punished by the king is released from all sins and ascends to heaven, but if the king fails to punish a sinner, then he himself incurs the sin. O Vāli, you should not grieve, for you have been fortunate to receive the proper punishment, making you eligible for the higher planets after death. Nor did I act wrongly by remaining concealed. Since you are a monkey, this was the appropriate way to kill you. Just as when hunting the king shoots arrows at animals while hidden from view, so I shot you.”
Vāli could not argue. He had always felt remorseful for the way he had treated Sugrīva, but had denied those feelings, remaining fiercely antagonistic toward his brother. Now he had finally received the result. All creatures had to accept the fruits of their own acts alone. No suffering or happiness came other than as a result of one’s former acts. Understanding this, Vāli accepted Rāma’s words as true and gave up his anger and grief. With difficulty he replied, “How can a dwarf argue with a giant? O Rāma, You are the best knower of all religious principles. I am justly punished. Please forgive my harsh words spoken earlier out of sorrow and confusion. I have certainly strayed from the path of virtue.”
Vāli feared that after his death his brother Sugrīva would be antagonistic to his son Aṅgada. He begged Rāma to establish a friendship between the two monkeys. Rāma assured Vāli that Sugrīva would rule the Vanaras with righteousness, treating Aṅgada like a younger brother.
Vāli lost consciousness, his life all but ended. At that moment Tara ran out of the city crying for her husband. She saw the monkeys who were Vāli’s followers running about in all directions, seized with fear of Rāma. Tara stopped some of them and asked them why they were fleeing.
“See there your mighty husband struck down by Rāma’s arrow,” they replied. “Death in the form of Rāma is bearing him away. Leave quickly with us, for soon Sugrīva will take over the city and drive us out, assisted by Rāma’s deadly arrows.”
Tara looked around and saw Vāli lying on the ground. Nearby Rāma leant on his great bow. With a wail she ran toward her fallen husband, beating her breast and head. She fell at Vāli’s feet. The lordly ape resembled a mountain struck down by Indra’s thunderbolt. Crying out, “My lord!” she rolled about in agony. Aṅgada also came there and dropped to the ground at his father’s feet, overwhelmed with grief.
Tara lamented loudly. “Get up, O tiger among monkeys! Why do you not greet me? Come with me now and lay upon your excellent couch. The bare ground is no place for a king to lay. Alas, it is obvious that the earth is more dear to you than myself, for you lie there embracing her with your outstretched arms. What shall I do? Where shall I go? I am lost!”
Crying like a female osprey, the intelligent Tara thought how her husband had banished Sugrīva and stolen his wife. Surely this was the fruit of those sinful deeds. How could she live now as a widow under the care of Sugrīva, Vāli’s enemy? What would happen now to her dear son Aṅgada? Tara held Vāli’s feet, who still lay unconscious and was barely breathing.
Hanumān gently comforted Tara. “This is the sure end of everybody, O gentle lady. All of us shall reap the results of our own deeds only, good or bad. As such, we gain nothing and do nothing for others by lamenting. Vāli has reached the end of his allotted life span and will now rise to the higher regions. Do not grieve.”
Tara cried out in pain. She had no desire to live without Vāli. Laying next to her husband she determined to fast until death, following the path taken by Vāli.
As Tara sobbed, Vāli opened his eyes and looked slowly about. Seeing Sugrīva he spoke to him affectionately. “O brother, please forgive my evil acts against you. Destiny did not decree that we should share happiness together. Accept now the rulership of the monkeys. I shall soon depart for Yamarāja’s abode.”
Vāli asked his brother to be kind to Aṅgada. He also asked that Sugrīva carefully protect Tara, always seeking her advice on important matters. Rāma’s order should be closely followed and Sugrīva should always seek to please him.
Sugrīva, feeling despondent, nodded in assent to Vāli’s instructions. Vāli then took off his celestial gold chain and gave it to Sugrīva. Turning to Aṅgada he said in a whisper, “Dear son, I shall now depart from this world. Remain ever devoted to Sugrīva’s service, seeing him as you do myself.”
With his eyes rolling in pain and his teeth exposed, Vāli gave up his life. His head fell to the side as his last breath gasped out. A great howl of sorrow went up from the many monkeys who stood surrounding Vāli. “Alas, our lord is gone! Who will protect us now? Who can equal Vāli in strength and splendor?”
Tara and Aṅgada embraced Vāli’s body, wailing loudly. Sugrīva was filled with remorse. He went before Rāma and said, “I am a wretch who has caused the death of my own brother. Although he was always capable, my brother never killed me. But at the first opportunity I have had him slain. How can I take the kingdom now, stained as it is with Vāli’s blood? How can I tolerate seeing Tara and Aṅgada weeping bitterly on my account?”
Sugrīva became overwhelmed by his feelings. He felt sure he would reap the terrible results of the sin of fratricide and indeed the killing of a king. Vāli was noble and had ruled the monkeys with justice and compassion. Having killed him, Sugrīva was not fit to himself become a monarch. Everyone would simply condemn him. His only recourse was to enter fire along with the body of his brother. Sugrīva begged Rāma’s permission to give up his life. The other monkeys could assist Rāma in finding Sītā.
Rāma was moved to tears upon hearing Sugrīva’s piteous lamentations. As He considered the monkey’s sorrowful words, Tara approached him and said, “O all-powerful one, I too shall enter the fire along with Vāli. I have no desire for life without my husband. Surely he will miss me, even among the Apsarās in heaven, for I have always been his most devoted servant.”
Tara begged Rāma to kill her with the arrow which had slain Vāli. “O Rāma, the wife is always considered one with her husband. Therefore you need not fear the sin of killing a woman. You will only be completing the task of killing Vāli by taking my life. I cannot tolerate the pain of separation from my spouse. Surely You know only too well what that terrible pain is like.”
Rāma looked compassionately at Tara, who had fallen to the ground. He consoled her most gently. “O wife of a hero, do not think in this way. This entire creation yields happiness and distress one after another for all created beings in accord with their destiny. Where will you go to avoid your fate? Be peaceful here; having duly mourned for your husband, you will soon enjoy as much delight under Sugrīva’s protection as you did with Vāli. Your son will become Prince Regent and you will be honored. All this is ordained by Providence. O Tara, the wives of heroes never lament as you are doing now.”
Rāma instructed Tara according to the moral codes which applied to her race. On the death of her husband, she should accept his brother as her spouse and serve him as she had Vāli. Tara became silent, gazing at Rāma, who now turned to Sugrīva to comfort him.
Rāma told Sugrīva to take heart and attend to Vāli’s funeral. The soul of the monkey king would not be helped by simply grieving for him. “The time for grieving must soon end and duties must be performed,” Rāma said gravely. “Time controls everything. Vāli has succumbed to all-powerful Time, going to the regions he has earned by his own acts. Now Time is urging you to perform your religious duties toward your brother.”
Sugrīva stood looking at Rāma. His mind was bewildered with grief and remorse. Lakṣman took hold of the monkey’s arm and told him to proceed with Vāli’s cremation. Lakṣman gave detailed instructions to the confused Sugrīva. Hearing the prince speak, Sugrīva’s attendants ran to carry out his orders.
Rāma again spoke to the grieving Tara. “O Vanara queen, carefully consider whether or not this dead body of Vāli was ever related to you. It is nothing but a collection of inert chemicals. The real person is the soul, not the body. In ignorance only do we form relationships based upon bodily considerations, calling others ‘husband,’ ‘son,’ or ‘friend.’”
Rāma explained that the soul is without designations. It is eternal and dwells for only a short time in the body. During our brief sojourn in our bodies we form so many illusory relationships, but all of these will undoubtedly be broken by the force of time. The soul’s real happiness lies in its relationship with God. Vāli had now moved closer to that eternal relationship and no one need lament for him.
As Rāma spoke, Vāli’s grieving relatives felt relief. Gathering themselves together they prepared for Vāli’s funeral. A beautiful wooden palanquin was fetched. Vāli’s body was carefully laid on it and it was lifted up by eight powerful monkeys. Vāli looked like a fallen god. The palanquin was adorned by numerous carvings of birds, trees and fighting soldiers. Over its top was lattice work covered with a net and many garlands and jeweled ornaments. The sides of the palanquin were daubed with red sandal-paste, and lotus flowers were laid out all along its edges.
Sugrīva and Aṅgada bore the palanquin along with the other monkeys. Sugrīva had regained his composure and he issued orders to the monkeys. “Walk ahead of us, scattering the ground with jewels of every description. Let learned monkeys recite the scriptures and we shall proceed slowly to the cremation ground.”
The procession moved off, heading toward the river bank. A great wail was sent up by the many females who walked in front. Gradually they came to the river and a funeral pyre was built on its bank. The palanquin was set down next to the pyre and Tara again fell to the ground, crying mournfully. “O hero! Why do you not cast your glance upon me today? See here your wives, all weeping, who have trodden the long path behind you. Here are your ministers, sunk in a sea of dejection. O Vāli, dismiss your counselors now as you did in the past. Then we shall sport together, intoxicated with love.”
The other women gently raised Tara, who was overwhelmed with sorrow. With the help of Sugrīva and the weeping Aṅgada, they lifted Vāli’s body onto the pyre. Aṅgada then lit the pyre and walked around his father, who had set out on his journey to the next world. All the others joined him in slowly circumambulating the blazing pyre.
Everyone then entered the river and offered sacred water to Vāli’s soul. After the obsequies were performed, Sugrīva and his counselors surrounded Rāma and Lakṣman.
Hanumān, who resembled a golden peak of Mount Meru, folded his hands and said to Rāma, “By Your grace, O Raghava, has Sugrīva acquired the ancestral kingdom of the Vanaras. Please enter this city of Kishkindha in state and, with Your permission, we will perform the coronation ceremony.”
Rāma looked stern as He replied. “Commanded by My father I shall not enter even a village for fourteen years, much less a city. You may proceed into the city and duly install Sugrīva as your king. I shall remain outside, finding some suitable cave for My residence.”
Rāma instructed Sugrīva to remain in Kishkindha for the coming few months. It was the beginning of the monsoon season, so it would be impossible to search for Sītā. When the rains ended Sugrīva should dispatch the monkeys in all directions to look for Rāvaṇa and the princess.
Sugrīva took leave of Rāma and went into his city, which was situated within a vast mountain cave. In accordance with scriptural injunctions, a grand coronation ceremony was performed. Everyone repeatedly extolled Rāma and Lakṣman, feeling honored by the friendship of the two princes from Ayodhya. Sugrīva was reunited with his wife, Ruma, and he entered Vāli’s magnificent palace. Awaiting the end of the rainy season he lived happily, surrounded by his wives and ministers.
2.12: The Search Begins
Rāma and Lakṣman moved to the nearby Mount Prashravana and sought out a large cave close to its summit. They settled in, spending Their time talking together and performing sacrifice. But Rāma’s mind rarely left Sītā. His only consolation was to describe Her qualities to Lakṣman. He longed for the rainy season to end so that he could search for His beloved wife. Gradually the rains subsided. The sky cleared and the resonant cries of cranes filled the air. Although the monsoons were over, however, Sugrīva still did not prepare his army to search for Sītā. Realizing this, Rāma discussed the situation with Lakṣman.
“It seems the Vanara king has forgotten his debt to Us, noble brother. Why have his messengers not arrived here with news of their search? O Lakṣman, I fear that the gentle Sītā is lost forever. What is She doing now? Surely Her mind dwells on Me, even as Mine never leaves Her. Surely She weeps in agony, even as I weep here.”
Rāma’s grief was as strong as it had been when Sītā was abducted four months ago. Rāma felt powerless. He was still no closer to finding Sītā than the day She was kidnapped, and now Sugrīva, upon whom his hopes were resting, was letting Him down. Rāma sat distracted by sorrow. Lakṣman reassured Him. “This is not the time to grieve, dear brother. We must strenuously exert Ourselves to find Sītā. With You as Her protector, no one can hold the princess for long. Compose Yourself, Rāma! Let Us do what must be done.”
Rāma sighed and looked around. On a plateau beneath His cave, a large pond had been formed by the rains. Swans and cranes sported joyfully in the water among clusters of white and red lotuses. Rāma could hear the croaks of frogs and the cries of peacocks. In the distance He heard the trumpeting sound of elephants in rut. Large black bees droned around the bright forest flowers, intoxicated with nectar. The sky was a deep blue and the wind, which had blown fiercely during the monsoons, had become a gentle breeze. The sights and sounds of autumn were visible everywhere. Rāma was reflective. Where was Sugrīva? Had he forgotten his promise now that his own problem had been solved? How could he so ungrateful? Rāma’s brow furrowed with anger and He turned to Lakṣman.
“These past four months have seemed like a hundred years for Me. I have longed for the end of the rains, O Lakṣman, so that We might find Sītā as We agreed with Sugrīva. Although I have rendered him a great favor, the evil-minded monkey king obviously holds Me in contempt. Seeing Me forlorn and deprived of My kingdom, living helplessly like an ascetic in the forest, the wicked fellow entirely disregards Me.”
Rāma told Lakṣman to go to Kishkindha. He should tell Sugrīva that there is no viler being than one who is ungrateful. Had he forgotten the favor Rāma had done for him, and the promise he had made in return? Did he wish to again see Rāma’s golden bow drawn to its full length? Did he desire to see Rāma angry on the battlefield? Did he long to hear again the crash of Rāma’s bowstring sounding like so many claps of thunder? It was strange that Sugrīva seemed to have forgotten how Vāli was slain by a single arrow from Rāma, although Sugrīva himself could never overcome his brother. Rāma’s eyes were crimson with anger as He spoke.
“It is clear that Sugrīva is lost in sensual pleasures, having regained his kingdom after a long time. Drunk and surrounded by women, he has all but forgotten his pledged word to Me. Tell him, O brother, that the path taken by Vāli still lies open. Along with all his kinsmen, Sugrīva may proceed along that path if he does not care for his promise. He should take heed of this warning. Otherwise he will meet again soon with Vāli.”
Lakṣman Himself became furious as He listened to Rāma. He told Rāma that He would go immediately to Kishkindha. With upraised weapons He would dispatch Sugrīva to Death’s abode. Clearly the licentious and unvirtuous Sugrīva was not fit to rule a kingdom. Aṅgada should be installed as king and he could organize the search for Sītā. Sugrīva should be punished without delay.
Lakṣman stood up and reached for His weapons. Rāma, whose anger had already begun to subside, then checked His brother. “I think it not fitting that You kill Sugrīva. Try at first to pursue a gentler path. Remind him of our friendship and his promise. O Lakṣman, do not use harsh words immediately. After all, Sugrīva is but a monkey. Perhaps You can awaken him to a sense of his duty by conciliatory speech.”
Lakṣman bowed in assent to Rāma’s words, although He could not subdue His anger. He left the cave and began running toward Kishkindha, thinking of what He would say to Sugrīva. He could not disobey Rāma’s order, but He would not tolerate any resistance from Sugrīva. If that lazy monkey did not immediately set about his duty, he would be sorry. How dare he be so negligent of his promise to Rāma! Who did he think he was? Lakṣman bit His lips in fury as He bounded down the mountainside.
* * *
In the city of Kishkindha, Hanumān had also noticed the season change and Sugrīva not stirring. The intelligent minister thought carefully about the situation. Rāma would certainly take stern action if Sugrīva failed to fulfill his pledge. Hanumān approached the Vanara king, who was absorbed in sensuality, and spoke to him in a friendly and pleasing manner.
“You have regained sovereignty, fame and prosperity, O Sugrīva. It now remains for you to win the goodwill of your allies. The dominion, fame and glory of a king who acts well toward his allies will always grow. That king who regards equally his exchequer, his army, his allies and his own self, will gain a great kingdom. However, he who fails to take care of any one of these meets with disaster.”
Hanumān then reminded Sugrīva of his promise to Rāma. The time had arrived to begin the search for Sītā. The king should immediately send out monkeys in all directions. Rāma should not need to ask. It would be shameful if Sugrīva did not act quickly to repay a debt to his friend and ally.
Sugrīva thanked Hanumān for his wise and timely advice. The monkey king realized his laxity and he immediately summoned his ministers and counselors. He issued orders. “Let all the Vanara generals be quickly assembled. Swift-footed and energetic monkeys are needed. Ten thousand of my army should immediately depart for every country where the Vanaras dwell. Have them fetch the very best of the monkey warriors here to Kishkindha. Anyone sent out and failing to return within fifteen days should be executed.” Ordering Hanumān and Aṅgada to organize the army, Sugrīva again retired to his rooms.
Within a few days the monkey hordes began to assemble outside the city. Monkeys resembling elephants, mountains and clouds gathered together. Those powerful Vanaras were like mighty tigers and were all heroic. They were dark and terrible and they made one’s hair stand erect just to see them. Some were as strong as a hundred elephants, some ten times stronger than that, and others ten times stronger again. They stood awaiting Sugrīva’s orders.
As the monkeys milled about in their tens of thousands outside Kishkindha, they noticed Lakṣman approaching in the distance. When they saw the prince running toward the city, His face glowing with anger and His bow grasped tightly, they became fearful. Some of them, not recognizing Him, lifted up trees and boulders, ready to defend Kishkindha. Others ran in all directions as Lakṣman arrived near the city gates, holding aloft His bow and calling for Sugrīva. Seeing the monkeys prepared to attack Him, Lakṣman became even more angry. He heaved deep and burning sighs and licked the corners of His mouth.
Aṅgada quickly came out of the city and, checking the monkeys from fleeing, went before Lakṣman. Rāma’s brother appeared to the monkey prince like the blazing fire of universal destruction. In great fear he bowed low at Lakṣman’s feet and greeted Him respectfully. Although furious, Lakṣman contained His anger and spoke kindly to Aṅgada. “Pray tell Sugrīva of My arrival, dear child. I stand here tormented by grief due to Rāma’s plight. Please ask the king to hear from Me Rāma’s advice.”
Aṅgada bowed again and left swiftly, running to Sugrīva. He burst into his chambers and told him to come quickly. But Sugrīva was asleep, groggy from the night’s pleasures. He lay upon his bed with only garlands as his dress. As he slowly stirred, many more monkeys came near his room, raising a great clamor. They were terrified of the wrathful Lakṣman. Sugrīva heard the tumult and came to his senses. He stood up, troubled in mind, and Aṅgada explained the situation.
Sugrīva told Aṅgada to bring Lakṣman immediately. “Why have you left Him standing at the gates?” he demanded. “He should be offered every respect, even as much as myself.” Aṅgada, joined by Hanumān, quickly left to fetch Lakṣman.
Within a few minutes Lakṣman was led into Kishkindha by Aṅgada and Hanumān. Still fuming, the prince surveyed the city. Great mansions and temples lined the wide avenues, each building set with celestial jewels of every description. The city was illuminated by the jewels’ glow. Rivulets flowed by the avenues and groves of trees grew here and there, yielding all kinds of delightful fruits. As he went along the main highway, Lakṣman saw the large white palaces of the chief monkeys. They shone like clouds lit by the sun. Long wreaths of flowers hung from those palaces and the scent of aloe and sandalwood issued from the latticed windows.
Lakṣman was led into Sugrīva’s palace, the most magnificent of all. After passing through seven heavily guarded gates, he entered Sugrīva’s inner chambers. Here and there were numerous gold and silver couches, spread with costly silk covers. Many beautiful Vanara ladies, wearing garlands and gold ornaments, moved about, their anklets tinkling. As they reached Sugrīva’s private chambers Lakṣman heard the strains of celestial music from within. He became even more annoyed with Sugrīva. The insolent monkey was reveling while Rāma suffered agony! Lakṣman twanged His bowstring, and the sound reverberated through the entire palace.
Sugrīva was startled. Realizing at once that Lakṣman had arrived, he spoke urgently to Tara, who sat by his side. “Go quickly and greet Lakṣman. He will never display anger in the presence of a woman. Pacify Him with gentle words. Only then will I be able to face Him.”
Tara rose up and went out of the room. The gold string of her girdle hung loose and she tottered slightly from intoxication. Bending her slender body low, she covered her head with her cloth and respectfully greeted Lakṣman. As soon as He saw Tara, Lakṣman looked down modestly. His anger abated as Tara spoke gently. “My lord, what gives rise to Your angry mood? Who has disobeyed Your order? Who has recklessly gone before a forest fire while it rushed toward a thicket of dried trees?”
Still annoyed, Lakṣman replied, “This husband of yours appears to have forgotten his duty. He seems intent only on pursuing pleasures. Four months have already passed since Rāma left and We still see no signs of Sugrīva keeping his word. He remains drunk here, enjoying with you and unaware of the passage of time. O Tara, drinking is always condemned by the wise as the root of irreligion. Please remind Sugrīva of his religious obligation.”
Tara begged Lakṣman to forgive Sugrīva. After all, he was but a monkey. It was no surprise he had fallen a victim to lust. Even great sages in the forest were sometimes overcome by desire. What then of a monkey living among beautiful women? One under the sway of carnal desire loses all sense of time and place. Forgetting his duty, he casts decorum to the winds and absorbs himself in pleasure. Tara told Lakṣman that Sugrīva was regretful. He was always Rāma’s devoted servant and he longed to fulfill Rāma’s order. Even now he was waiting eagerly to speak with Lakṣman.
Tara led Lakṣman into Sugrīva’s chamber. As the prince entered the apartment He saw Sugrīva seated on a golden couch next to his wife Ruma. He was surrounded by youthful Vanara ladies adorned with shining jewels and heavenly garlands. His eyes were bloodshot and his limbs were smeared with sandal-paste. Sugrīva’s costly silk garment hung loose on his powerful body, and Vāli’s brilliant gold chain shone from his chest.
Seeing Sugrīva absorbed in sensual delights, Lakṣman’s anger was rekindled. His eyes opened wide and His lips set in a firm line. The furious prince breathed heavily and wrung His hands, looking with blood-red eyes at Sugrīva. The monkey king jumped from his couch, like a tall flag suddenly raised in honor of Indra. He went before Lakṣman with folded palms and bowed at his feet.
Lakṣman addressed him in angry tones. “Who is more hard-hearted than he who makes a false promise to a friend, especially when that friend has done him a great favor? O lord of the monkeys, one who ungratefully fails to repay the service of friends deserves to be killed!”
Lakṣman quite forgot Rāma’s request to first speak kindly to Sugrīva. He glared at him. This selfish monkey deserved no pity. He lay here at ease while Rāma was pining away. Lakṣman vented His fury, His voice thundering about Sugrīva’s spacious chamber.
“Ingratitude is the worst of all sins, O thoughtless one! You are lustful and a liar. You have achieved your own ends, made some empty promise, and then simply abandoned yourself to pleasure. Surely you will regret your omission when Rāma’s blazing arrow speeds toward you. Before long you will meet with Vāli again!”
Tara again beseeched Lakṣman to be patient. Sugrīva was an ordinary being subject to the sway of his senses. No one could easily avert the strong urges of the body. Even the great Viśvāmitra had once lost himself in sexual pleasure for a hundred years, thinking it to be a day. Sugrīva had now been awakened to his duty. He had taken action and sent out many monkeys to raise an army to find Sītā.
Tara spoke passionately to the angry Lakṣman. “Vāli told me there are a hundred million powerful Rākṣasas in Lanka. These must be overcome if Rāvaṇa is to be defeated. Therefore Sugrīva is now amassing a force sufficient to encounter all the Rākṣasas. The army will be ready within some days. Do not be angry. The search for Sītā will soon begin.”
Lakṣman was pacified when He heard that Sugrīva had already made arrangements. He nodded His head and relaxed.
Seeing Lakṣman relaxing, Sugrīva said, “Everything I have depends upon Rāma. How can I ever repay Him? Rāma alone is powerful enough to recover Sītā and is merely using me as His instrument. This again is His kindness on me. I only wish to serve Him in whatever way I can. Please forgive any transgression on my part, for there is no servant who is without fault.”
Lakṣman began to feel ashamed of His angry outburst. He spoke kindly to Sugrīva. “With you as His supporter My brother is blessed in every way, O gallant monkey. I feel sure He will soon destroy His enemy with your assistance. Please forgive My harsh words, for I am sorely afflicted by My brother’s plight.”
Lakṣman asked Sugrīva to come with Him to see Rāma. Sugrīva immediately had a large palanquin fetched and he mounted it along with Lakṣman. Accompanied by Sugrīva’s ministers, they departed toward Prashravana.
The golden palanquin, covered by a white canopy, was carried swiftly toward the mountain where Rāma waited. Conches and kettledrums were sounded as the procession of monkeys moved in state. Sugrīva was surrounded by many warlike monkeys bearing weapons in their hands. He was fanned on both sides by his servants and eulogized by bards as they traveled.
They soon arrived at Rāma’s cave. Sugrīva jumped from the palanquin and prostrated himself at Rāma’s feet, who lifted the monkey and embraced him with love. Rāma seated Sugrīva on the ground and, sitting next to him, spoke in a gentle voice. “A wise king is he who pursues in their proper order religion, wealth and pleasure, allotting proper time to each. He who pursues only pleasure, neglecting the other two, wakes up after falling, like one asleep on a treetop. The king who wins pious allies and destroys sinful foes gains great religious merit, O Sugrīva. The time has come for you to make an effort for merit. What then has been done, O King?”
Sugrīva replied that he was ever indebted to Rāma for His kindness and favor. The Vanara king explained how he had dispatched thousands of monkeys to gather an army. Soon there would be millions of fierce monkeys, bears and baboons gathering at Kishkindha. All of them were sprung from the loins of gods and Gandharvas and all were terrible warriors capable of changing their forms at will. Sugrīva would have at his command a vast army, countless in number. They would quickly find Rāvaṇa, completely uproot him, and recover Sītā.
Rāma was delighted and He looked like a blue lotus in full bloom. He embraced Sugrīva tightly. “It is no surprise that one of your caliber renders such good to his friends. With you by My side I shall easily conquer My enemies. O Sugrīva, you are My greatest well-wisher and are fit to help Me in every way.”
Rāma and Sugrīva discussed for some time, planning how to make their search. Sugrīva then left to meet with his emissaries who were returning with the troops they had gathered.
As millions of fierce monkey warriors came to Kishkindha the earth vibrated. A massive dust cloud rose up and veiled the sun. The trees shook, sending down showers of leaves and blossoms. The entire region for miles around became thickly populated by monkeys who looked like mountains. Some were golden-hued like the rising sun, some were as red as copper and some blue as the sky. Others were as white as the moon and still others as blackish as thunderclouds. All of them, like great mountain lions, had frightening teeth and claws.
The troop leaders approached Sugrīva and asked for his command. Sugrīva took all of them and went again into Rāma’s presence. One by one he introduced the Vanara chiefs, and they all bowed low at Rāma’s feet. Sugrīva concluded, “These warriors are righteous, brave and powerful. They can move on land, water and through the air. They have conquered fatigue and are famous for their exploits. All of them have arrived bringing thousands and millions of followers. O Rāma, these Vanaras are ready to do Your bidding. Please give Your command.”
Rāma stood up and embraced Sugrīva. “It must be ascertained whether or not Sītā still lives. O noble one, find out where Rāvaṇa’s land is located. Once we have this information we shall then do what is necessary.”
Sugrīva then assigned four parties to search the four directions. He gave detailed descriptions of the countries where they should look and then added, “This search should be conducted only over the next month. Then you should return. Anyone returning after a month will be subject to death. Rāma and His great purpose should be constantly remembered by all of you. May success be yours!”
Sugrīva had asked Hanumān to assist Aṅgada in leading the search party to the south. This was the direction where Rāvaṇa would most likely be found, as he had been seen flying that way with Sītā. Sugrīva spoke with Hanumān just before he left. “There is nothing on earth or in the heavens that can obstruct your movement, O valiant son of the wind-god. You are no less than your great father in prowess. There is no created being on earth equal to you in strength and vigor. On you rests my main hope of finding Sītā.”
Rāma heard Sugrīva speaking with Hanumān and He saw his eager expression. It was clear he was confident of success, as much as Sugrīva was sure that his minister would find Sītā. Rāma was overjoyed. He went to Hanumān and gave the monkey a ring inscribed with His name. “Take this token, O jewel among monkeys, and show it to Sītā. This will reassure Her that I sent you. I feel sure you will soon see the princess.”
Hanumān took the ring and touched it to his head. He prostrated himself at Rāma’s feet and prayed for His blessings. Then, looking like the full moon surrounded by a galaxy of stars, he left with his party.
The Vanaras and bears all left with great haste. Shouting and howling, thundering and roaring, growling and shrieking, they ran in the four directions. The monkey chiefs cried out in different ways. “I shall destroy Rāvaṇa and bring back Sītā!”
“Single-handed I shall kill that demon and rescue Janaka’s daughter, even from the fires of hell.”
“I shall smash down trees, cleave great mountains and churn up the oceans. I will certainly find the princess!”
“I can leap across the sea a distance of eight hundred miles.”
“I will bound up Mount Meru and enter the bowels of the earth until Sītā is found!”
While boasting of their power in this and other ways, the monkeys gradually disappeared.
After the monkeys had left, Rāma spoke to Sugrīva. “I was surprised to hear your extensive descriptions of this earth. How do you know it so well?”
Sugrīva replied that he had seen every part of the world while running away from Vāli. “My angry brother chased me in all directions,” he said. “As I dashed away in fear I saw every part of the wide earth as if it were the impression of a calf’s hoof. With Vāli always behind me I ran with tremendous speed. Finally I remembered Matanga’s curse and came to the Rishyamukha, whereupon Vāli left me alone.”
Rāma laughed to hear Sugrīva. The two friends sat speaking together for some time, then Sugrīva left for Kishkindha to await the return of the search parties.
* * *
The monkeys dispatched by Sugrīva began their search. They scanned cities, towns and villages. Scouring woods and forests, they climbed mountains and dived into lakes and rivers. They explored deep caverns and entered holes in the earth. Going as far as possible in the directions they were assigned, they scrupulously searched everywhere for Rāvaṇa and Sītā. Even after searching for a month, however, they were not successful. One by one the parties returned, fearful, to Sugrīva.
From the north came Satabali, disappointedly reporting his failure. Vinata returned from the east, also without success. From the west came Sushena, again without having discovered Sītā’s whereabouts.
In the south Hanumān and Aṅgada and their party had traveled a great distance. The month had almost passed and still there were no signs of Sītā. They reached the plains surrounding the Vindhya mountains. It was a desolate region, full of caves and thick forests, waterless and uninhabited. The whole area had been rendered a wilderness by the curse of a sage many years previous who had been angered by his young son’s death.
Thousands of monkeys combed the entire terrain. Penetrating more and more into the frightful area, they suddenly came upon a huge Rākṣasa. Seeing the demon, who looked like a hill, the monkeys stood with their loins tightly girded, ready to fight. The demon saw the monkeys and bellowed out, “You are gone!”
Aṅgada thought the demon to be Rāvaṇa. He became enraged and rushed straight toward the roaring Rākṣasa, who raised his massive hand to strike the monkey. Aṅgada leapt high and dodged the blow. Swinging his powerful arm as he flew, the Vanara hit the Rākṣasa on the head with his outstretched palm. The blow was tremendous and the demon vomited blood and fell to the ground. After examining the dead Rākṣasa and realizing that it he was not Rāvaṇa, the monkeys continued their search.
The vast Vindhyan range was filled with innumerable caves. The monkeys systematically entered each and every one. They climbed every mountain and scoured all woods and groves. Gradually they moved further and further south. Not finding Rāvaṇa or Sītā anywhere, they became more and more fatigued and disappointed. The month allotted by Sugrīva passed and still they had no clue as to where Sītā had been taken.
One day when they were exhausted and wracked by thirst, they came upon the entrance to a huge cavern. They saw birds emerging from it with their wings dripping with water. The monkeys decided to enter the dark cave. They formed a long, eight mile chain to avoid getting lost. Bats shrieked and birds flew past them. Occasionally the growl of a lion or tiger was heard.
As they went deeper into the cave they saw ahead of them a bright light. They moved quickly toward the light and came upon a huge open area, brilliantly lit by thousands of shining golden trees. The trees were adorned with brightly colored flowers and leaves, and they bore fruits which shone like rubies and emeralds. The trees hemmed in large lotus ponds of clear water, filled with golden fish. The monkeys saw palaces of gold and silver, set with cat’s-eye gems and covered with lattices of pearls.
On all sides were spacious couches and seats studded with various kinds of gems. Mounds of gold and silver vessels lay here and there, as well as piles of colored jewels. There were collections of sandalwood and aloe-wood carvings, as well as many first class palanquins lying about. Piles of costly ethereal textiles of indescribable beauty lay on the floor. Celestial food and drink of every kind was spread on gold tables, and there were dazzling heaps of gold everywhere.
The monkeys were stunned by the sight and they stood looking all around, their mouths hanging open. Then they saw an ascetic lady clad in black deerskins sitting some distance from them. She shone with yogic power as she sat in meditation. Hanumān approached her and respectfully inquired who she was and in whose cave they now found themselves.
The woman’s name was Swayamprabha, and she explained that the cave and all its wonders had been created by Maya, the architect of the celestial demons. He had dwelt there for some time, being finally slain by Indra for the sake of an Apsarā whom Indra himself had coveted. The Apsarā had lived in the cave with Swayamprabha as her servant. She had now returned to heaven, leaving Swayamprabha to her meditations.
The ascetic lady gazed at the monkeys. She could understand that they were Rāma’s servants. She had seen Rāma in her meditations and understood His divine identity. She was pleased to have the opportunity to serve Rāma by entertaining His servants. The yogini gave the monkeys delicious food and drinks, which invigorated them. As they ate they told her of their mission.
When they had finished eating the hermitess asked them to close their eyes and she would take them out of the cave. The monkeys complied and in a moment they mysteriously found themselves again standing at the entrance to the cavern. Swayamprabha told them to continue their search and then took her leave, disappearing back inside.
The monkeys stood outside the cave, amazed but refreshed from their celestial repast. They carried on vigorously searching and soon reached the southern ocean. Realizing that they had looked everywhere in the whole southern region without success, they fell prey to anxiety. It was now more than six weeks since they had left. The monkeys were fearful of Sugrīva’s anger when they returned and they sat together discussing what to do.
Aṅgada spoke, “The king will certainly have us all put to death upon our late return, unsuccessful in our mission. Therefore I suggest that rather than return in shame we sit here and fast until life leaves our bodies. How can we go back and face execution in front of our near and dear ones?”
Some of the monkeys agreed and others recommended they continue searching for some time before giving up. One of them suggested they re-enter Swayamprabha’s cave and live out the rest of their days happily. This met with approval from other monkeys, but Hanumān disagreed. “I don’t approve of this course of action, O Vanaras,” he chided. “Forgetting our master’s cause, and actually forming an enmity by abandoning him, is not at all a wise move. Nor will Rāma and Lakṣman tolerate it. Those princes will tear Maya’s cave asunder in no time. Their arrows fall with the force of Indra’s thunderbolt. All of us will be annihilated.”
Hanumān continued to speak, praising Sugrīva’s qualities. “We need not fear the monkey king. He regards all his subjects with love and would certainly not kill Aṅgada, the son of his dear wife Tara. Nor will Sugrīva be harsh toward you others. We have all tried our best to find Sītā and should now return to Kishkindha, reporting to the king for further orders.”
Aṅgada did not appreciate Hanumān’s speech. He especially disliked hearing Sugrīva praised. The monkey prince became angry. “No good qualities are to be found in Sugrīva. Indeed, that worthless monkey has taken to wife his mother in the shape of Tara. He locked up my father in a cave and usurped his kingdom. Although Rāma rendered him a great favor, that ungrateful wretch soon forgot his debt to the prince of Ayodhya. What piety does he possess? He only instigated this search for Sītā out of a fear of Lakṣman.”
Aṅgada still burned within from the killing of his father brought about by Sugrīva. How could Sugrīva ever be kind toward the son of his mortal enemy? Now there would be more than sufficient excuse for him to punish Aṅgada, who had failed in his mission and had committed treason by sowing dissension among the other monkeys. He was sure that Sugrīva would either kill him outright or cast him into chains for the rest of his life.
Aṅgada determined to sit there on the beach and fast until death. He sank to the ground weeping, his mind confounded by grief and despair. With the exception of Hanumān, the other monkeys sat next to him, denouncing Sugrīva and praising Vāli. They all sat on kusha grass with their faces turned to the east. Thinking of Sugrīva’s fury and Rāma’s prowess, they prepared for death.
As they sat there roaring in dismay, they suddenly saw an enormous bird come out of a mountain cave. The bird looked upon the line of monkeys appearing like a row of mountain peaks on the plateau beneath him. Realizing they were observing the praya vow of fasting until death, he said to himself, “Surely this food has been ordained for me by Providence. After a long time I shall eat sumptuously, feasting upon this line of monkeys one by one as they fall dead from starvation.”
The bird dropped down and perched near the monkeys. Seeing him there Aṅgada turned to Hanumān and said, “Surely this is Yamarāja come in person to punish us for failing to serve Rāma’s purpose. This bird reminds me of Jatayu, about whom we have heard from Sugrīva. That glorious bird laid down his life for Rāma in a fierce battle with Rāvaṇa. We shall also now give up our lives in Rāma’s service. Alas, like that heroic vulture we too have failed to save Sītā.”
The great bird heard him speak. He called out to Aṅgada. “Who is this who mentions Jatayu? Where is that younger brother of mine? I have not seen him for so long. My heart trembles as I hear you speak of his death. How did he encounter the king of the Rākṣasas? If it pleases you, O monkey, pray tell me everything you know.”
The bird told them that his name was Sampati. He lived high in the mountains, unable to fly because his wings had been burnt by the sun. He had lost touch with his brother Jatayu for many years.
Aṅgada told the bird everything about himself and his companions. He narrated the story of how Jatayu had died protecting Sītā. Now they were searching for the princess and had given up hope. Thus they sat there, fearful of Sugrīva and Rāma, and awaiting only death.
Sampati cried out in anguish. His eyes filled with tears and he said to Aṅgada, “Jatayu was dearer to me than life. Now he is killed by the Rākṣasa and I can do nothing to avenge him. O monkeys, I am old and worn out. What then can I do upon hearing this terrible news?”
Sampati explained how a long time ago he had flown with Jatayu to heaven. “As we soared upwards we perceived the earth with her numerous mountains as if she were covered with pebbles. Her rivers looked like so many threads. Great cities seemed like chariot wheels and forests like grassy plots.”
Tears fell from the bird’s eyes as he recounted how he had lost his brother. “We had wanted to follow the sun as it coursed through the heavens. When we reached the track of that fiery globe, however, we became overpowered by its rays. Jatayu had grown weak from heat and exhaustion. I therefore covered him with my wings to protect him. We then fell back to earth, where we became separated. I fell onto the Vindhya mountain, with my wings completely destroyed by the scorching rays of the sun.”
Aṅgada looked at the wingless bird. He must know all the regions of the universe. Surely he knew where Rāvaṇa lived. Perhaps there was still hope. The Vanara asked Sampati, “Can you tell us where lies the abode of that vilest of all beings, Rāvaṇa?”
Sampati had slumped down in sorrow. But upon hearing Aṅgada’s question he lifted his head and opened wide his eyes. “Although I am an old and useless bird I can still render some service to Rāma, if only with my speech. I do indeed know where Rāvaṇa lives. In fact as I lay upon this mountain some while back I saw him flying by, holding Sītā. The princess was constantly crying out, “Rāma! O Rāma! Lakṣman! Help!”
The bird told Aṅgada that Rāvaṇa dwelt in Lanka, which was situated in the midst of the southern ocean eight hundred miles away. The princess was being held captive in Rāvaṇa’s garden, guarded by fierce Rākṣasīs. Sampati possessed the ability to see Lanka even as he spoke to the monkeys. He said, “Although my wings are broken, my vision is not impaired. We vultures are capable of sighting objects at a great distance. Furthermore, by my intuition I can understand that one of you will soon see Sītā, and then you will return again to Rāma’s presence.”
Requested by Sampati, the monkeys took the bird to the seashore where he offered water to the departed soul of his brother. He then told them more about himself. When he had first fallen to the Vindhya mountain he had spoken with a ṛṣi named Chandrama, who was living there. The bird had fallen at the sage’s feet and related his sad tale. Weeping, Sampati had said that he wished to throw himself from the mountain peak and end his life. The ṛṣi restrained him, telling him that in the future some monkeys would arrive at that spot, searching for Rāma’s divine consort. “Although I am able to give you your wings back, I will not do so, as you are destined to render a service to Rāma through those monkeys. You must remain here and tell them where to find Sītā. At that time your wings will again be restored.”
Sampati said the ṛṣi had then enlightened the bird with spiritual knowledge. He had told him that bodily sufferings must be borne by everyone as a reaction to their own past deeds. One should nevertheless realize that the real self is different from the body. Without being overly attached to the body one should try to fix the mind on the Supreme Lord, with whom all beings have an eternal relationship. Thus Sampati should not lament for his broken body. He should live there patiently, thinking of Rāma and waiting for his chance to render him some service.
Sampati concluded, “That was eight thousand years ago and I have survived here all this time, being brought food by my son. Now at last I have performed my service to Rāma.”
Even as Sampati spoke a beautiful pair of wings sprouted from his body. He rose at once into the air and called down to the monkeys. “O Vanaras, Chandrama Ṛṣi told me you would succeed in your mission. Indeed he said that the servants of Rāma could easily cross the terrible ocean of birth and death; what then of this small sea? Take heart and go to the south. Cross the ocean and you will find Lanka, where Sītā is held. Farewell.”
The bird disappeared into the sky, leaving the monkeys to continue their search. They were overjoyed. Abandoning all thoughts of fasting until death, they leapt into the air, raced down to the beach and roared with glee. Then they saw the billowing waves. How could they possibly cross the ocean? They did not possess the power of flight. The vast sea stretched into the distance looking as insurmountable as the sky.
Aṅgada asked, “Which one among us can leap across this sea? Who shall become the deliverer of the monkeys today? If any among you can jump over the ocean and reach Lanka, speak out and remove our fears.”
The monkeys all remained silent, gazing with unblinking eyes at the roaring sea. Aṅgada spoke again, trying to inspire them with confidence. “I have no doubt any one of you is capable of this feat. As far as I am concerned, I can certainly leap eight hundred miles, but I do not know if I shall be able to return safely.”
Aṅgada looked around at the party. Among them was Jambavan, a great leader of the bears, who replied, “It is not right that you, our Prince Regent, should go on this expedition, although you could leap a thousand or even ten thousand miles if you wished. One of us should go instead.”
Jambavan said that he himself could only cover seven hundred miles, having grown old. Each of the monkeys then stated how far he could leap. Some said one hundred, some two hundred and some five hundred miles. But none said they could leap the full distance and return again.
Jambavan then spoke to Hanumān who was sitting silently. “O valiant monkey, you have not told us of your strength. I know you to be possessed of tremendous ability.”
Jambavan described Hanumān’s birth and power. The monkey was begotten by Vāyu and soon after his birth he had leapt into the sky for thousands of miles, wanting to catch the sun. At that time he had been struck down by Indra. Hanumān’s father, the wind-god, became aggrieved at seeing his son killed and had ceased to blow. All created beings then began to suffocate due to the stoppage of air in the universe. The gods sought to appease Vāyu by bringing Hanumān back to life. They had also blessed the monkey with many wonderful powers.
On the strength of the gods’ blessings Hanumān had become fearless even as a young child. He had played in the hermitages of the ṛṣis, mischievously throwing about their paraphernalia and stopping their sacrifices. To check him the ṛṣis had uttered an imprecation. “You will forget your great power. Only when you hear your powers described by another will you again remember them.”
Jambavan concluded his narration about Hanumān. There was no doubt that he could leap to Lanka. Why then was he sitting there indifferently? Could he not see the monkeys plunged in despair?
Hanumān stood up. Jambavan’s speech had ended the ṛṣis’ curse. He remembered his great prowess and felt encouraged by Jambavan. With a great roar he said, “I shall jump across this mighty ocean!”
He then expanded his body to fifty times his normal height. Stretching his arms and yawning, he spoke in a voice that resounded like thunder. “I claim my descent from the mighty Vāyu, who circulates through all of space and easily smashes down mountain peaks. I could leap to the outer limits of the universe. I am quite able to overtake the blazing sun as it moves from the east across to the western mountain. Today I shall leap from Mount Mahendra, scattering the clouds, shaking the mountains and drying up the sea. I will swiftly and easily reach Lanka in one great bound. Have no fear.”
Hanumān roared again and again, filling the monkeys with joy. Jambavan replied, “Our grief is now dispelled. We are depending on you, O gallant monkey. We shall stand on one foot in yogic meditation here upon the seashore, praying for your success, until you return.”
Hanumān reassured the monkeys further. He asked them what he should do. Should he annihilate the entire Rākṣasa horde and rescue Sītā? Or should he single-handedly kill Rāvaṇa, uproot Lanka and carry it, along with Sītā, back to Rāma?
Aṅgada asked him to first locate Sītā and then report back, for that was Sugrīva’s order. In consultation with Rāma and Sugrīva they could then decide on their next course of action.
Hanumān bowed to that instruction and bounded to Mount Mahendra a few miles away, its peak piercing the clouds. He ranged up the side of the mountain and stood on its summit. As he stood there roaring, gods and Siddhas assembled in the sky above him uttering benedictory hymns. They dropped celestial flowers and beat their drums.
The huge monkey folded his hands to the east and offered respects to Vāyu, his father. He concentrated his mind and gazed south toward Lanka. Hanumān felt honored to have such an opportunity to render Rāma a service. From his first meeting with the prince he knew Rāma to be his eternal master. He felt Rāma’s ring bound in his cloth. Sītā would be overjoyed to receive that token and know that Rāma would soon arrive to rescue Her. With a sense of elation Hanumān contemplated approaching Rāma with news of Sītā. He squatted down and prepared to jump.
With a great cry of “Victory to Rāma!” Hanumān sprang upwards with tremendous force, pressing the mountain deep into the earth. Animals rushed down the mountainside in all directions. The ṛṣis engaged in meditation in the mountain forests were startled and rose into the air. Great serpents moving about on the side of the mountain became furious and bit the rocks, which then glowed red from the serpents’ virulent poison. All the trees shook and shed their blossoms, and the whole mountain appeared covered with flowers. Large fissures appeared in the mountain and different colored streams issued out. As Hanumān leapt upwards, Mount Mahendra presented a beautiful sight and the monkeys gazed up in wonder and awe. Then they went down onto the beach to begin their wait for Hanumān’s return.
(Continued ...)
(My humble salutations to the lotus feet of Brahmasree Krishna Dharma and I am most grateful to Swamyjis, Philosophic Scholars and Ascetic Org. for the collection of this great and wornderful Epic of the world. )
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