The Ramayana (45 page)

The great eagle wiped his eyes with his ruined wing tips. He drew himself to his full height, and he was tall indeed; he towered over the vanaras. His eyes flashed a semblance of their piercing fire of old, and Sampati said, “I, too, saw the lovely Sita as Ravana carried her across the sky. She cried out and struggled, but the Rakshasa held her helpless. Her ornaments fell from her in a golden shower, and again and again she cried, ‘Rama! Lakshmana! Save me!' Her garment was a streak of lightning against the ominous cloud that was the Demon. Now I remember; it must have been Sita: she cried out her husband's sacred name.”

He paused; their eyes lighting up, the monkeys craned to him. Sampati said, “Indeed I know where Ravana lives; I know the place well.”

Sampati looked around him again in the gathering twilight, and he saw hope flare on the monkeys' faces. The eagle continued, “Ravana is Visravas's son and Kubera's brother. He rules the island of Lanka, a hundred yojanas from this shore. Viswakarman created wonderful Lanka for the Rakshasa.”

As he spoke, Sampati peered out across the sea and his eyes narrowed in concentration. With his burned wings, he waved the vanaras who blocked his view out of his way. The monkeys also peered where Sampati did. They saw nothing except smoky waves stretching to the horizon. But Sampati stood very still, his eyes keened, his feathers quivering.

Suddenly he cried, “I see her! I see her in Ravana's garden, surrounded by rakshasis. I see her crying.”

Then he grew slack again, and looked around at the disbelieving vanaras. His eyes shone. “I belong to the eldest race of eagles; Garuda is my kinsman. Our kind can see a mouse from the moon if we set our minds to it, for we hunt from the air. Though I am old and my vision is not what it used to be, at a hundred yojanas I can still see the lustful eyes on Ravana's ten heads, and the tears in Sita's, soft as lotuses.”

Sampati's face grew dim again with his own grief, and he said, “Help me to the water's edge. I must offer tarpana to my brother.”

When he had finished offering solemn tarpana, he came back to the shoreline of dry sand. He glowed with some ineffable joy. Angada, who saw this, cried, “O Sampati, a great light is upon your feathers! Can you tell us how we can reach Lanka in the sea?”

But the eagle shook his head. “My part in this adventure is over. This is the evening I have waited for, for more than a thousand years. My friends, in the old days a rishi lived on this mountain. Once, I despaired at my Sightlessness and my dependence on my son Suparshva, who has looked after me as if he were the father and I the son. In that despair I thought, as you did just now, of taking my own life. But even as I stood in this very place and decided to walk into the waves to drown myself, that rishi came up behind me and took my wing.

“He said, ‘You shall fly again one day, Sampati. Be patient, you have a great task ahead of you still: for one day, you will be the eyes that help Vishnu's own Avatara find his love. When that day comes and you have shown an extraordinary army the way to Lanka, your wings will sprout alive again. Sampati, be patient until then.'

“So here I am, my vanaras, and here you are; and I have shown you the way to Lanka. I feel a great burden lift from my spirit, I feel a light in my heart.”

Even as he spoke, a golden lambency was upon the eagle's body and he shone like a piece of sun on that dusky shore. As the vanaras watched, Sampati's wings sprouted fresh young plumage before their eyes. His stooped back grew erect; his sunken eyes blazed again. He cried his shrill hunting cry in the ecstasy of his transformation, and the beach echoed with it. When the uncanny illumination left his body, it left Sampati young again and his wings whole once more.

“It is done!” he cried, dancing for joy. “Vanaras, look at me: nothing is impossible with faith. You will surely find Lanka, if only you believe you will.”

Then, launching himself with a few running steps, he spread his splendid new wings and, crying out rapturously, flew up into the darkening sky and vanished.

 

19. Who will cross the sea?

The vanaras cheered Sampati on his way into the sky he had not flown in for a thousand years. They jumped up and down on that shore. Even when he had circled above them once and disappeared, flashing away like an astra, their joy did not wane. For they also celebrated the news Sampati had given them. At last they knew where Sita was; even if they did not yet know how to cross the dark sea that lay between themselves and her.

Shouting and dancing, as monkeys will, they leaped down from the embankment where Sampati had stood and went to the water's edge. They gazed out at the sullen, silver-crested expanse before them, and they fell somber and silent. The vista of waves was awesome and they did not have eagle's eyes that they could discern Lanka anywhere, let alone Sita in her garden of confinement.

Angada was quick to sense the despondency that gripped his people when they gazed out at the swollen waves. Turning away from that forbidding sight, he said to the vanaras, “Peering at the sea will serve no purpose. Our answer doesn't lie there, but within ourselves. We are tired. The day has been a long one and we have knocked at death's door. Night is upon us and this sand will serve as a soft bed tonight. When we wake up in the morning, we will think again of how to cross the ocean. Good night, my sweet vanaras. Sleep in peace tonight, because fortune finally smiles on our enterprise.”

One by one, lulled by the drone of the waves, the vanaras fell asleep. The moon rose regally behind them, over the shoulder of the mountain. Long after the last vanara soldier was asleep, the leaders of that force sat huddled together around Angada, deliberating in quiet voices the impossible task before them: to cross a hundred yojanas of water. Past midnight, when the moon was at his zenith, Angada, Hanuman, and the other chieftains also fell asleep. The beach presented a strange spectacle as Soma Deva passed above: wrapped in his spectral light, a teeming army of monkeys covered the white sands.

*   *   *

The next morning, the vanaras rose with the sun's first rays slanting across their faces. They washed in the velvet sea, which lay like an interminable dream before them. There was no sign, even by daylight, of any southern shore to the ocean; no speck of island dotted the vacant horizon. Standing on the embankment, Angada raised his arms to call his people to him.

When they thronged around him, he said to them, “We are an ancient and magical race. Many of us have Devas for fathers and grandfathers. Some say the roots of the tree of the race of vanaras plunge deeper into time than those of the tree of men. I want to know who among you can leap across this yawning sea, find Sita, and leap back again? A hundred yojanas and death by drowning if you fail! Who can do it? Which of the vanaras will make the leap of faith?”

Only the dawn waves, washing ashore, answered him. Angada's call echoed there and the sea seemed to mock him.

He cried again, “I know there are great heroes among you; why have you all fallen silent? Let us hear of your prowess, vanaras. Let us hear how far each of you can leap.”

Gaja of the monkey folk raised his voice above the ocean's ceaseless roar. “I can leap ten yojanas!”

Gavaksha shouted, “With my ancestors' blessing, I can leap twenty!”

Another vanara cried, “And I, thirty!”

Thus they shouted their abilities, one after another. Until one of the mightiest of them, Dwividha, cried, “I can jump seventy yojanas!”

Jambavan, the old king of the reekshas, the black bears, had journeyed from Kishkinda with the monkey force. Now he cried, “Once, I made a pradakshina around our Lord, the Dwarf Trivikrama of the three strides. And that was a great way indeed. Now the journey of my life draws near its end, and I stand on the brink of another ocean and another shore. Yet for Rama I will leap at least ninety yojanas, even at my age.” He paused in doubt. “But a hundred, I wonder if I can leap a hundred. But if need be I can try!”

Then Angada himself cried, “I can cross the hundred yojanas easily!” His monkeys broke into loud cheers. He held up a hand for silence. “But I don't know if I can cross back again.”

Jambavan said, “Angada, my child, I am certain you can cross to Lanka and back. Why, I am sure you could fly a thousand yojanas. For aren't you great Vali's son? But this task is not yours. It is not for a crown prince to risk his life, leaping into a strange land ruled by a rakshasa.”

At once, Angada's eyes welled up. He said gently, “I thank you for your love, Jambavan. But who else will make this gravest leap? And you know it must be made. What is our solution, wise one? You think of a way.”

Jambavan said quietly, “I shall, my prince.”

He turned to where a solitary vanara sat upon a smooth rock, outside the throng of monkeys around their leaders. Hanuman sat all alone, gazing out over the implacable waves.

 

20. The son of the wind

Jambavan said to the moody Hanuman, “Why, O Son of the wind, do you doubt yourself so much? But it is the curse of all the greatest. Those who cannot do a tenth of what you can, those who haven't a shadow of your strength, stand up and boast about their prowess, while you sit here listening to them and say nothing. Hanuman, we need a hero to leap across the sea and bring glory to the vanaras.”

But Hanuman was so unconfident, he said with a nervous laugh, “You have too much regard for me, good Jambavan.”

“Do I indeed? Have you forgotten who you are, Vayuputra? Let me remind you of your ancestry, and let these monkeys hear who our modest Hanuman truly is. Once, Anjana, the apsara of heaven, was born as a vanari. She was so beautiful the wild wind was smitten by her. She could not resist him either, for their love was destined.”

Jambavan grew thoughtful. “Yes, just as it was destined that one day you would sit here on this shore, doubting yourself with all your heart. Even as Anjana lay in Vayu Deva's coiling embrace, a voice spoke to her out of the sky: Anjana, a soul of matchless glory will be born as your son. He will have no equal in goodness or valor, wisdom or strength. Being his father's son, he will fly more swiftly than Garuda!'

“You have forgotten who you are, Hanuman. You have forgotten how, when you were just a child, you leaped into the sky because you thought the sun was a fruit you could eat. You flew three hundred yojanas into the air. Indra thought you were arrogant, and flung his thunderbolt of a thousand joints at you. But, Son of the wind, the awesome weapon merely grazed your cheek: for Brahma had blessed you to be immune to every ayudha. When the vajra fell away tamely, your people named you Hanuman: Invincible One.

“Vayu was incensed at Indra and he would not blow at all through the three worlds. At last, Indra realized it was only a child's fancy and not arrogance that had made you leap up like that. He was so charmed by your leaping for the sun that, laughing aloud at the thought, he also blessed you. He blessed you that you can summon your own death, like a servant, whenever you choose!”

Hanuman had risen beside Jambavan on that golden beach. Every word the king of bears said seemed to sever a link in the chain that bound his spirit. His eyes shone; his back was very erect. Hanuman smiled, and his doubts left him like mist before the sun.

Jambavan continued, “We stand not just on the shore of a sea, but at the brink of despair. You are Vayu's son, powerful as the wind himself. Don't hesitate, Hanuman: fate is calling you to make your name immortal. You are our hope; only you can save us all from death. Shed your unconfidence; your moment of glory has arrived.”

There was a stirring of air above them. The vanaras sensed another implacable presence there. They huddled together and whimpered in fear. But caressed by his father's subtle fingers, Hanuman began to grow before the monkeys' eyes. His body shone with uncanny splendor and, moment by moment, as if Jambavan's words had unleashed the mahima siddhi, Hanuman grew bigger, and bigger still! As he grew, his expression also changed: from despondency to one of imperturbable joy. Now grown into a gigantic savior of his race, he smiled benignly down at the astounded vanaras.

He was tall as a hill; he was bright as the morning. He growled deep in his throat and shook his body like some unimaginable lion. The vanaras clutched at one another for comfort. They no longer saw Sugriva's wise and gentle, faithful and quiet minister Hanuman. This was another elemental being who towered over them, his great eyes glowing. This was Hanuman, the wind's magnificent son; and the challenge of the sea was no longer as daunting as it had seemed.

He was titanic already. Still he grew, until it seemed to the monkeys, dwarfed at his feet, that the sun would ignite his mane. He was like some great flame, and he bowed to the monkey elders and to his prince Angada. When he spoke to them, his voice was thunder.

“Agni's friend Vayu is powerful,” boomed that immense vanara. “He is tameless, and he pervades the universe. I am that Vayu's son. No one can leap as far as I can. I can fly a thousand times around Mount Meru. I can fly around the world with the moon!”

It was as if a stranger spoke in their Hanuman's voice. The ocean trembled when he cried, “Do you know the strength of these arms with the sinews of the wind in them? I can thrust the mountains down into the earth and plunge the jungles into the sea. I can crush the greatest peaks into dust with my hands. And I, Hanuman, serve my Rama!”

The stupendous monkey smiled from ear to ear. “And now I will fly across this little sea to find Sita. I will cross the waves in a moment and carry her back to safety. If need be, I will draw Lanka up by its roots and bring it to Rama. I go now, I go!”

No monkey stood on that shore who was not slightly relieved that he went. Though he was always kindly, he was so awesome now they could not help being afraid of him. Yet they also rejoiced. Seeing him like that, they had no doubt that wherever she was, Hanuman would find Sita. It seemed that he was always intended to find her, none but he. Only he had to be pushed to the edge of despair before he summoned this other Hanuman from within himself: this pristine vanara who neither doubted nor knew the meaning of fear.