The Ramayana (37 page)

When they came out of the lake, Lakshmana saw his brother's eyes were wet with tears. Rama said hoarsely, “Go alone to the Rishyamooka. I will stay here; my heart is full of Sita. She smiles before my eyes, she whispers to me from the water. I feel her fingers on my skin!”

The tears spilled down his face. Spring was in the air. A malaya breeze blew down from Rishyamooka, velvet-fingered, and the lotuses, crimson, magenta, and dark cyan, swayed in it.

Rama cried, “Lakshmana, this mountain breeze unhinges me. My heart is weak, and my limbs. Go on by yourself, my brother, and seek out Sugriva. Spring is a cruel time for lovers parted by fate. The scent of the sandal tree makes my blood course. Kama seems to play with the flowers on the trees and vines, and the honeybees are in tune with him. The branches are entwined so they seem to make love. Looking at that karnikara in bloom, how can I not think of Sita?”

Lakshmana did not know what to say. But this grief of Rama's was gentler, and he saw no harm in it. His brother cried, “Listen to the waterfowl: how their awkward songs used to make her laugh. She once took me by the hand to show me these birds at their games. Ah, I can hear her laughter now and it burns me like fire.”

There was a lively symphony by all the birds. Some honked in quaint voices; others warbled effortlessly, golden-throated and mellifluous. The peacocks were the most tuneless singers of all. Yet somehow, all together, the birds' music made strange and perfect sense: an atonal but sublime song.

Rama said, “The koyals are in pairs; the peacocks strut for their hens. This breeze of Vasantha is fire to my body. I ache for Sita, for her soft eyes, her voice and the touch of her hands. Oh, Lakshmana, she must also yearn for me. How will we stay alive without each other?”

Rama sat on the ground and sobbed. Lakshmana sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. So they remained, for a long time, and his brother let Rama cry out some of his sorrow.

After a while, Lakshmana said, “Your dharma is to tread the winding path that leads to Sita. Don't abandon your courage. Fate is leading you down a strange road. Rama, you are the kshatriya who gave up his kingdom for the sake of dharma; you don't need me to tell you that there is no resisting fate. Why you are led along this painful way is mysterious. But there it is, and you must negotiate all its twists and turns bravely. Don't give in to grief; remember this path leads all the way back to Ayodhya.”

Lakshmana spoke softly, persuasively. “Let your sorrow flow out from you like a river to the sea. Believe me, you will find Ravana and kill him. And Sita will be with you again, forever.

“Shed your sorrow and arise. You are not an ordinary man, that you can let anguish overwhelm you. You are Rama, the king of this world. There is an enemy whom destiny has set before us, and our way winds on past his death. But we must find him first.”

Rama heard him out in silence while he stared out across the waters of the breeze-stroked lake. Abruptly, he wiped his eyes and rose. He hugged Lakshmana and said, “Yet again you have restored my courage. It was surely written that you would come with me into exile. For without you I would have been lost long ago, and wandering the wastes of madness. Come, my wise, precious brother, let us find the monkey on Rishyamooka.”

Arm in arm, they walked toward the mountain ahead.

BOOK FOUR

KISHKINDA KANDA

{In Kishkinda}

 

1. On Rishyamooka

Sugriva, the vanara, sat on one of the peaks of Rishyamooka. Beside him were four other vanaras who had once been his ministers. They had fled into exile with him when his brother Vali chased him from his kingdom. Sugriva was anxious and restless on the mountain. With keen jungle eyes, he had seen Rama and Lakshmana at the Pampa far below. When they began to climb toward him, he was afraid. Baring his fangs, Sugriva chattered his disquiet; his monkeys raised their faces and did the same.

Now these were not monkeys as langurs, baboons, or apes are, or any of the species of simians we find in our forests today. They belonged to an ancient race of jungle beings, rather human in their natures and very magical in their ways. Their blood was mixed of old with the blood of the Devas—for their women's charms were legendary—and they were an evolved and enlightened folk.

But just now, their king in exile, Sugriva, hopped about on his tree branch upon the mountain more like a common monkey than a great ruler of his people. He gibbered nervously, and stared down in terror at the two hermits who had begun to climb the slope. When the kshatriyas were halfway up the mountain, Sugriva lost his nerve completely. He tucked his tail between his legs and scampered into the cave where he and his friends had sheltered since Vali chased them out of their jungle city, Kishkinda.

Sugriva breathed in the darkness, “Tapasvins carrying bows and swords! I am sure Vali sent them to kill me. My brother won't rest until he has my head.”

Sugriva whimpered pitiably. Of his companions, only Hanuman was unmoved. He was the son of Vayu, the Wind God. He said in his soft, calm way, “You know that Vali cannot set foot on this hill, nor anyone who serves him.”

“You would also tremble, Hanuman, if you were hunted by your own brother!” Sugriva snapped. Then tears stood in his golden eyes, and he said, “And vanquished in battle, and your wife taken from you for your brother's bed.”

“Vali cannot come to Rishyamooka,” said Hanuman gently. “By Rishi Matanga's curse, this place is safe from him.”

“But I am afraid, Hanuman! Can I help that? Did you see those strangers? They look more like Gods than men. Did you see their bows and the swords glinting at their sides? Kings have all sorts of people they employ to achieve their ends. I am sure Vali sent these two to kill me.”

Hanuman said, “They may be harmless wanderers.”

“How can we be sure? Go to them, Hanuman. Work your charm on them and find out who they are. If they are evil run back to me, and we must flee. But if they are good men, win their friendship and bring them here.”

Hanuman already felt an inexplicably joyful instinct about the two splendid men who came slowly up the mountain. He went down gladly to discover more about them. Suddenly the princes of Ayodhya were accosted by a diminutive brahmana, clad all in white, with bhasma laid broadly across his brow and a beaming face from which two friendly, canny eyes shone out. Hanuman, son of the wind, could change his form as he chose.

“Good sirs, you seem to be rajarishis,” he cried, before they recovered from their surprise. “No, you seem to be Devas! I have been watching you scour the mountain. At first I thought you were sannyasis, for you wear valkala and jata. But then I saw the noble weapons flashing in your hands.”

Rama and Lakshmana stared at Hanuman. They felt strangely sure he was not what he appeared to be, but equally certain that he was harmless, at least to them. His shrewd eyes never leaving their faces, and sizing them up all the time, Hanuman went on chattily, “I see eagerness in your step, as if you were impatient to be somewhere else. But you are brave; I would venture that you are courage incarnate. Your radiance is like the sheen of gold. But every now and then a sigh escapes you as if some terrible sorrow sat on your hearts.”

He was thoughtful for just a moment; then again the flow of exquisite language: “You are brothers, certainly. Though you are dark, good friend, and slightly the older, and you, friend, are fair. But otherwise you might be twins. Your arms are bare, but if my mind does not play tricks on me, golden ornaments belong there. But tell me, my princes, for that you surely are, why have you come to this desolate place? To guard Rishyamooka against some danger, perhaps?

“I can see your bows were not fashioned in this world. I am sure, when you loose them, your arrows are of light and flames; and your swords are like serpents slumbering at your sides. Hanuman sees a great deal, Kshatriyas, because his eyes are clever. But I must not be rude, asking all these questions and saying nothing about myself. I can see you are not merely good men, but uncommonly good men. I will tell you who I am, as my master instructed me to if I found you were good.”

He went on, without drawing breath. “There is a just and valiant king of the vanaras called Sugriva. He was driven out of his kingdom by his brother, and Sugriva now lives upon this Rishyamooka in fear. I am his minister Hanuman, whom he sent to make friends with you. Yes, I am a monkey too. I became a brahmana to approach you, and to discover if you were good men or not. You see, I am Vayu's son and can assume any form I please.”

And he stood smiling benignly at them. Rama gave a delighted cry when he heard who the little brahmana was. He took Lakshmana aside, and said, “How refined his voice is; how beautifully he speaks. Surely, he is a scholar of the Vedas. Nobody who does not have a sincere heart can speak so well. This Hanuman speaks from his heart, and he is intelligent and able. Sugriva is fortunate to have such a minister; success will attend all his endeavors.”

Lakshmana came back to Hanuman and said, “We have already heard of your master Sugriva. Indeed, we climb this mountain to seek him out and have his friendship. We trust you, O Hanuman, and we will do as you tell us.”

Hanuman clapped his hands happily, and the thought flashed through his mind that these princes had come seeking Sugriva with some woe of their own. Surely then, they could help his master against Vali.

Hanuman looked at Rama and said, “But how is it you wander these dangerous jungles that teem with wild beasts and rakshasas? Forgive me, Kshatriyas, for asking so many questions. But I am a monkey and my curiosity gets the better of me.”

Lakshmana glanced at Rama, and his brother nodded that Hanuman might be told everything. Lakshmana said to the little brahmachari, “There was an emperor called Dasaratha who ruled the kingdom of the north called Kosala. He was a king of dharma and never strayed from the truth. This dark prince is his eldest son Rama. Rama's honesty and valor are a legend. But because of an old vow, Dasaratha sent his precious son into the jungle for fourteen years.

“For his father's sake, Rama went gladly to the vana. I am Lakshmana, his younger brother, as you rightly guessed. I came with him because he is my life and my God. But not just we two came to the forest: my brother's chaste wife, Sita, was with us. Ten days ago, a rakshasa abducted Sita from our asrama in Panchavati in the Dandaka vana.

“We came south in search of Sita, and in the Krauncharanya we came upon Dhanu, who told us to come to Rishyamooka and seek out Sugriva. Our destiny led this way, said Dhanu, and your king would help us. As you see, my brother is grief-stricken. If he can, let Sugriva help Rama who once needed nobody's help; but time has brought him to this sorry pass.”

Hanuman saw that though Lakshmana spoke with restraint, and formally, his eyes filled with tears as he told their tale. Hanuman laid a hand on the prince's arm. He said, “Sugriva will be honored to help one so noble as I see your brother is. Come, let me take you to him, for you have much in common. He was driven from his kingdom by his brother Vali, and his wife was taken from him as well. Sugriva will help you. I, Hanuman, give you my word on it.”

Lakshmana went back to Rama and said softly, “I trust this son of Vayu. Shall we go with him?”

Even as Rama nodded, Hanuman was a monkey again before their eyes: a towering vanara, tall as a tree! He scooped them up easily in his arms, set them on his wide back and set off up Rishyamooka for Sugriva's cave.

Sugriva stood at the cave mouth. His face was strained and his eyes were full of fear, so Rama immediately felt compassion for him. Hanuman set them down and said, “This is Rama, a noble kshatriya in exile.”

Quickly, Hanuman drew the doubtful Sugriva into the cavern and told him the princes' story. As he spoke, the monkey king's face cleared of anxiety and his eyes shone in hope. Hanuman said, “And so, my lord, they have come to meet you.”

Sugriva emerged from the cave and embraced Rama and Lakshmana.

 

2. A friendship sworn

Sugriva said warmly to Rama, “I have heard of your valor. It is my good fortune that brings you to Rishyamooka; you would honor me by being my friend.”

He held out his hand. Rama took it, and they embraced again. At once Hanuman produced two arani twigs and lit a fire. He worshipped the flames with flowers and other jungle offerings. Hand in hand, Rama and Sugriva walked round the agni to solemnize their friendship. In the age-old way of the vanaras, they chanted together, “You are my friend. From now on we share everything, joy and sorrow.”

They embraced again and there was a feeling of great auspiciousness upon them, of a friendship well struck up. Sugriva broke a branch from a sala tree. He laid it on the ground and made Rama sit on it. At once, Hanuman tore another branch from a sandalwood tree and set it down for Lakshmana, who smiled at his thoughtfulness.

But then Sugriva's eyes were full again, and he said to his new friend, “Rama, I am a miserable monkey. With fists like iron and fangs like daggers, my brother Vali drove me from my kingdom. And he has taken my wife, Ruma, for himself. Because of a rishi's curse, he may not set foot on this mountain, and I have sought shelter here. But my courage is broken and every breath I draw is in fear.” He looked pleadingly at Rama. “Help me, my friend, I seek refuge in you.”

With piteous little cries, he bent himself at the prince's feet. Rama was moved. By Sugriva's gentle appearance, he felt certain the monkey king's cause was just. He said, “Sugriva, I will kill your brother for you.”

Sugriva danced for joy. “With your coming, Rama, I have hope again! I feel certain I will gain my kingdom back, and my wife. You shall be the end of my fear. After years, I will sleep in peace, without being tormented by dreams of death.”

As Rama and Sugriva spoke, far away in Lanka, Sita's left eye, like a lotus petal, throbbed; and Vali's tawny eye in Kishkinda; and Ravana's coppery one as well.