The Ramayana (41 page)

Rama said to Hanuman, “To keep my father's word, I may not enter any city, or village even, until the fourteen years of my exile are over. But let Sugriva be taken into Kishkinda and crowned.”

Rama turned to Sugriva, and said aloud before all the vanaras, “Don't waste your grief. If you are truly sorry, go into Kishkinda and take up the reins of kingdom. Crown Angada yuvaraja. He is a noble prince and he will bring honor to Vali's name and yours.”

Rama paused and looked around him at the trees of spring, festive with flowers, and the birds full of songs in their branches. He said slowly, “It is Shravana. The monsoon will soon be upon us. Lakshmana and I will find a cave on the mountain to live in until the rains have passed. For four months, it will rain without let. But when the month of Krittika arrives, you must keep your promise to me that you will find Sita. I will wait until then.

“But now, go into your city, O king of the jungle, and be crowned. It is a time of transition, when your people need you most of all. Be strong and sit upon your throne with dharma beside you. I know you will be a great king. Go my friend, go in peace.”

Sugriva knelt at Rama's feet for his blessing. But Rama raised him up and embraced him. The princes of Ayodhya went back into the forest from where they had come. Sugriva entered the hidden city of Kishkinda and was crowned king of the vanaras. At the same ceremony, he made Angada the yuvaraja and embraced him as if he were his own son. Bitterness had melted from Sugriva's heart; only remorse for his brother's death remained.

Then, at last, his wife Ruma came to him. Crooning in joy, he clasped her to him and his life began anew. Sugriva began a long and happy rule as king of the olden and free race of the vanaras.

 

11. The rains and after

Rama and Lakshmana went to the mountain called Prasravana. They found a large, dry cave, its floor so smooth and clean that it may have been created just for the princes of Ayodhya to live in. They had barely laid out beds of grass for themselves when the heavens opened. For four months, with hardly a day when they saw the sun, it poured on the world. The wind howled in the valley below the cave and great trees bent their crowns to the power of Vayu and Indra.

The jungle grew visibly with the succor of the monsoon. When the sun did emerge from behind scudding cloud banks and shone down into the world for an hour or two, the brothers marveled at the lush creepers that wound themselves around giant trees, almost a fresh foot each day, and thrust gaudy flowers and sensuous pistils at the steaming forest. The trees were covered in soft new leaves, and the grass and the foliage all seethed with warm, Wet life. The animals of the jungle mated in abandon during the rains, beside swollen rivers and on tangled hills. The birds in the trees were all lovers. Serpents entwined in damp nests, and insects mounted their mates under flowering bushes and slabs of rock, in fervent ritual.

Rama was lonely. His blood coursed madly for Sita during the nights of the waxing moon that flitted across the shrouded sky behind stormy rags of cloud. The prince lay sleepless at the cave mouth and every beam of renegade Soma was a shaft of longing in his heart, every streak of lightning a jagged impatience for the monsoon to end.

Once, past midnight, Lakshmana was roused from a deep slumber by the sound of his brother sobbing. He awoke to see Rama bereft at the silvery cave mouth: tears flowing down his dark face, grief having its way with him. In Rama's eyes was such torment it seemed he had taken the sins of all created beings upon himself, and suffered in their place. Lakshmana put his arms around his brother, as he would a child, and held him close.

Rama wept, “Our lives are ruined. Not without reason did Kaikeyi send us into exile. Sita, where are you, my love? With whom do you spend this night?”

Lakshmana stroked his head and said, “Rama, don't let your mind be swayed by wild suspicions, or your will broken by sorrow. The rains are almost over. In just a week, even sooner, Sugriva will begin his quest for Sita. Don't forget who you are in this dark jungle, O prince of all the world. You will kill the Rakshasa and have Sita back. Only be brave.”

Rama grew quiet. He smiled at Lakshmana and took his hand. “It has passed now, child. Like a storm my sorrow has passed. Lakshmana, there is no one like you in all the world: no one else could have saved me as often as you have done. You are right. I will wait for autumn, and then Sugriva will keep his word to me.” Rama sighed. “It is hard to wait, but wait I must.”

Lakshmana said, “I am restless too. But it cannot be long now before these wretched rains pass and we can begin our search with the sun in our faces. How I long for the sun, Rama.”

Rama cried, “My loving brother, best among men!” and he hugged Lakshmana.

*   *   *

The next day, the sun shone from a cerulean sky that had not a cloud in it. In Kishkinda, Hanuman looked up and knew it was time Sugriva kept his word to find Sita. But the first months of his kingship saw Sugriva mired in an orgy of indulgence. As if to make up for his stark years of exile, the vanara left the governance of his kingdom to his ministers, and steeped himself in wine and women, as if to live just by them, to heal the wounds of his years of terror by them, to forget Vali's death by them—even as if to find immortality through pleasure.

When the sky cleared, Sugriva had forgotten all about Rama and his promise to him. They had a month of clear weather, of days when the sun dried the sodden forest, of nights when a charmed moon hung low in a lucid sky. Still, Sugriva made no move to keep his word to Rama; indeed he seldom emerged from his harem.

One day, Hanuman went to see his king, who lay drunk among his women. The son of the wind said quietly, “My lord, you have a kingdom now and your wife back. All the pleasures of Kishkinda and the power of its throne are yours to enjoy. But have you forgotten the friend who gave you all these things? What about your pledge to Rama that you would find his Sita as soon as the monsoon passed?

“The sun has shone on us for a month. It is time you called your vanaras to you and combed the earth for the prince's wife. He waits patiently in his cave for your help. Don't delay any longer, Sugriva, lest Rama's love turn to anger.”

Sugriva blinked his wine-red eyes. The merriment faded on his lips and he grew very still. For a moment, he seemed to struggle with some inner conflict; his eyes blazed briefly at being disturbed at his pleasure. Then his expression sobered, and he clapped his hands for a guard to fetch Neela, his Senapati.

When Neela came, Sugriva said to him, “Send our messengers abroad; summon my vanaras from every jungle in the world. In fifteen days, I want them all in Kishkinda. Those who do not come shall die. Let Angada collect our forces here in the city. Hurry, Neela!”

Sugriva turned to Hanuman with a smile, “Thank you, my friend, for reminding me. And now, if you allow me…”

Hanuman bowed and left the harem. Sugriva called for another flagon of wine as he turned back to the delectable Ruma and the others.

 

12. Grief and anger

More than a month had passed after the monsoon: a month of aching nights, when he lay awake, and Sita's face and her tender form drifted before his eyes like visions and stoked his despair. One day, Rama broke down.

Lakshmana returned from his foray into the jungle, where he had gone to hunt. He found Rama laid out at the cave mouth. His face was tear-stained and anguished; his mind had sought relief from its agony in unconsciousness. Lakshmana sprinkled sparkling stream water on his brother's face, and Rama revived. He sat up, shaking his head in misery, helpless pleading in his eyes.

Lakshmana cried, “I should never have left you alone. You must not torture yourself with memories; they only rob you of your courage. The rains are over. Sugriva must already have sent his people on the quest for Sita. Take heart, Rama, the way ahead is shorter than you think. You will be with her soon.”

But Rama said, “The season and the mood of the forest inflame me with longing. There are times when I cannot help myself. Lakshmana, she is in the hands of a devil. My heart tells me he is no ordinary rakshasa, but a great creature of darkness. And I fear for her life.

“Sugriva swore he would begin his search for Sita as soon as the rains broke. Sharada has been with us for more than a month, and there is no news from the vanara. These four months have been like a hundred years for me; but it seems Sugriva has forgotten his promise. He is indifferent now that he has what he wanted. You say I must be calm. But I cannot help myself any more; my body is on fire.

“Go to Sugriva and tell him from me: ‘The most contemptible man is he who forgets his friends after he has used them and has no further need for them.' Ask him if he wants to hear the sound of my bowstring again. Remind him how I killed Vali, and of the debt he owes me. Rouse him from his lust; wake him to my pain and my need.

“Tell Sugriva I said, ‘The portal through which Vali left the world is still open. If you break your word to me, you will follow your brother out of this life. Hurry, Sugriva, before despair becomes my master and I come to kill you. You are still my friend; but don't mock my friendship any longer.'”

They had heard of Sugriva's long debauch from some wandering vanaras. Lakshmana said softly, “The monkey does not deserve his throne. I will go and kill him in his harem. Let Angada rule Kishkinda. Vali was right: he would have helped you sooner than his brother has cared to. Sugriva has forgotten he owes you everything he has today.”

Lakshmana strapped on his quiver. At once, Rama said, “I wish I had not showed you my anger. You must not be hasty, Lakshmana. Give Sugriva every chance to justify himself, before you even think of killing him. Tell him gently that by the covenant we made with Agni as our witness, he and I are friends for life. He must have reason for his delay: be patient when you speak to him, speak kindly.”

Lakshmana bowed to his brother, as formally as he might have in the sabha of Ayodhya, and strode away through the jungle toward the secret city of the vanaras. As he went, his mind swung between reason and anger. He must obey Rama and give Sugriva every chance to explain himself. But if the monkey king could not satisfy him, Lakshmana would not wait for Rama to come and kill Sugriva; he would do it himself. Didn't the knavish creature know Rama's plight? Had he place in his heart only for his own grief? Such a selfish heart should be cloven with an arrow.

Lakshmana could not bear to see Rama as he had been these past months. He couldn't bear the hunted look in his eyes, the lines of pain that had appeared on his face. As all men do who love another as intensely as Lakshmana did his brother, he felt Rama's anguish as if it were his own. At times he felt it even more than Rama did: during the long nights when he sat and watched his brother toss and turn in his sleep, and wept for him.

His bow clasped in his hand, gleaming like a sliver of a rainbow with its jeweled inlay, Lakshmana stalked grimly toward Kishkinda.

 

13. Lakshmana goes to Kishkinda

Kishkinda lay between two green peaks. It was cleverly concealed in a valley, into which the only way was through a long tunnel, high on one hillside. As Lakshmana climbed to the mouth of the tunnel, he saw the fierce vanara guard posted outside it. Those vanaras did not know him, and when they saw him coming, they began to jump up and down as monkeys do when they are alarmed. They bared their fangs and danced about, waving long arms, snarling—frightened themselves, trying to frighten him away.

When they saw he came on, they scrambled to pick up rocks and tear up young trees with which to attack him. But his face burning like the flames of yuganta, Lakshmana approached in quiet fury. In his hand, and sensitive to its archer's mood, his bow burned with its own fire. When he reached behind him to draw an arrow from his quiver, the vanaras lost their nerve. They dropped their rough weapons and fled.

These monkeys ran to their king's wooden palace. One cried, “A warrior with death on his brow marches on your city, Sugriva.”

Another said, “His bow was not made in this world and his arrows shine like time.”

Another whispered, “He is no ordinary man. He comes like Yama.”

But Sugriva was drunk, and he was lost in the long embraces of Tara, his dead brother's wife, now his own favorite. Baring his fangs at them that they dared disturb him, he chattered angrily at the guards. He chased them out of his apartments, built quaintly half on the ground and half along the trunk and branches of an immense tree. But the king's ministers had gathered outside his palace. Terror-stricken, they called for Angada, and he quickly summoned his army to the several entrances to the city hidden in the mountain.

Lakshmana saw the vanara army marching out through the city gates. His eyes turned crimson and his hands shook on his bow. At the head of his legion, Angada came out to meet Lakshmana. The young vanara stood bravely before the kshatriya. But not a word came from him, because his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his body trembled at the awesome power that Lakshmana exuded.

But the human prince said gently to Angada, “Go and tell your uncle that Lakshmana has come to his gates. Ask him why he has not kept his word to my brother. If he has a shred of dharma, he should not break his solemn pledge. Give him my message and tell me what he says.”

Though the prince spoke gently, Angada sensed Lakshmana's mood and the menace of him. He turned and ran back to Sugriva, who was at his endless pleasure while death had come to his gates. Angada burst in on the king, his uncle, who was making love with the prince's mother Tara.

Angada turned his gaze away and cried, “Lakshmana is at our gates!”

But Sugriva was so drunk he could hardly open his eyes. By now, all the monkeys of Kishkinda were shouting outside the king's palace. Sugriva heard the noise through his stupor and it roused him.