The Ramayana (46 page)

Jambavan, who alone was old enough not to be overwhelmed, cried, “We will wait upon this shore for you, Son of the wind. Remember our lives are in your hands.”

Hanuman smiled. “Fear not, uncle, great Jambavan. My prince Angada, give me leave: I go now to find Sita in Lanka. But the soft ground will be riven if I leap from here. I must climb to the top of Mahendra where the rock is firm for a thousand hands. From there I will fly and cause the earth no injury.”

With a few strides, climbing nimbly as monkeys do, he gained the summit he sought; his people stood on the beach below, watching him. He waved from his height, and it seemed to them he was bigger than the mountain. Far away were the eyes of the son of Anjana and the wind: in his mind, he had already reached Lanka and discovered Sita. With each foot on a different peak, he straddled Mahendra. Hanuman stood, swaying in his father's lofty gusts, whistling around him in exhilaration. Back and forth he swayed, readying himself for the leap of a hundred yojanas across the plumbless sea.

BOOK FIVE

SUNDARA KANDA

{Hanuman's adventure}

 

1. The leap of faith

Hanuman was a tremendous beast, straddling the Mahendra. As he craned toward the sky, the sinews on his neck and back stood out like cobras. Restlessly, the son of the wind paced the mountaintop. Tigers, bears, and leopards that lived near the summit scurried out from their caves and fled down the mountain: this was not a monkey they would care to contend with. Mahendra, which stood unmoved by tidal wave and typhoon, shuddered beneath Hanuman's footfalls. Elephants blundered down the slopes. Gandharvas and kinnaras who lived in some of the caves flew into the air in flashes, or fled with the animals.

The mountaintop swirled with gusts of wind, as Vayu enfolded his son in his airs. No one had made this leap before; only birds had ever gone this way to Lanka. Hanuman saluted the Lokapalas, the guardians of the four quarters: he worshipped Surya, Indra, Varuna, and Kubera with folded hands. Again he turned to the east and worshipped his father Vayu. He thought of Rama and Lakshmana; he prayed to them in his heart. He paid obeisance to the holy spirits of the rivers, and the mother of them all, the ocean. He worshipped Varuna Deva.

The trees on Mahendra shook at Hanuman's advent and the mountainside was covered with a colorful mantle of flowers that fell from their branches. Still, Hanuman grew. As he paced the mountain's summit, rocks cracked under his feet, while the peaks echoed with his quest for an unyielding place from which to launch himself. Smoke issued from those cracks.

Cowering in caves in the lower reaches for terror of the monkey a hundred hands tall, the animals of Mahendra gave throat to their fear. Some roared, some bayed, some howled; but they all huddled together: tiger and deer, elephant and panther, the great bears of those hills, Jambavan's cousins, and hissing, venom-spitting serpents. A thousand flights of birds flew screaming from their nests in caves and crannies, and the sky was full of their dark wheeling alarm. On the mountain's summit, Hanuman paced and paced, gathering himself.

It is said even the rishis of Mahendra scuttled off that massif, and secret vidyadharas flew into the sky and hovered there like strange birds to watch Hanuman's leap. Then the awesome vanara stood still on a spot that did not give below his feet, as if it had once been created just for him. He turned his face to the sky and roared like the wild creature he was, lord of them all, while above him the sky recoiled at the sound. Behind him, longer than the longest hamadryad pulled out of its hole by Garuda, his tail coiled and twitched with life of its own. Far below on the seashore, Angada's vanaras stopped their ears with their hands.

When the echoes of his roar had died away, suddenly Hanuman squatted down, his hands resting on two jagged peaks beside him. He thrust his neck out at the sky. He shook the final shred of doubt from his head and turned his eyes across the endless sea. He drew a deep, deep breath and crouched, quivering in readiness.

“God speed, Hanuman!” the vanara army cried from below.

He thundered at them, “Like an arrow from Rama's bow I fly to Lanka! If Sita is not there, I will fly to Devaloka to seek her.”

A clap of thunder rent the air and the vanaras below saw the most amazing sight they ever had: swift and steep as a thought, gigantic Hanuman rose into the firmament. With him, pulled up by their roots by his velocity, rose a thousand flowering trees, as if to see him off on his auspicious journey and keep him company part of the way. Then their flowers fell out of the sky in a cascade, an enchanted shower onto the calm sea. The waves washed ashore in every color imaginable, and they carried their soft cargo to the sands at the feet of Angada and his army.

But above them, Hanuman did not fall back to the earth. Up he flew and away, carried by the power unleashed by his mighty legs and arms, borne on the swift currents of his father the wind: truly like the manavastra of Rama of Ayodhya. They heard the peals of his exhilarant laughter, floating down like more blooms from the sky.

Like a thundercloud sped along by a tempest, Hanuman flew through the air. His arms were stretched before him like two streaks of lightning. The Devas saw his flight and gathered on high to watch. On flashed the vanara, and they whispered among themselves in awe, the immortal ones. They said he might swallow the very sky with his cavernous mouth. Hanuman's shadow on the placid ocean was thirty yojanas long, as he flitted across the firmament like a mountain in the days before Indra sheared their wings.

Through fleecy clouds, like a plunging moon he flew; and eager for his success, the Devas showered unearthly petal rain over him. Not wanting him burned, the sun shone softly on his back as he arrowed along. And, of course, his father Vayu held him precious in his arms, heart to heart. Never before had he felt his son so near him, so much his own, and he sped him on with a timely gust.

Varuna, the ocean below, watched Hanuman's flight and thought, “I would not exist, but for the Ikshvaku kings; and this monkey flies on a mission for the finest prince of that line. I will give him a place to rest on, and then he can gain his destination with ease.”

Varuna summoned Himalaya's son, Mainaka, who lay submerged deep below his waves. The Lord of waters cried to the mountain, “Rise up into the air; become a resting place for Hanuman.”

That legendary mountain, with the peak of gold for which he was called Hiranyanabha, plowed up like another sun rising out of the sea, and stood gleaming in Hanuman's path. But the son of the wind thought Mainaka was a demoniacal obstacle and, with a nudge of his chest, thrust him aside. Suddenly, Mainaka's spirit appeared on his golden pinnacle, refulgent before the flying vanara.

Mainaka cried to the monkey, “Varuna bade me rise to be a resting place for you. The Lord of waves would like to be of use to you, Hanuman, and to the prince of the House of the Sun whom you serve. Your father Vayu saved me from Indra's vajra, when the Deva king severed the wings of all mountains. The wind hid me under the ocean when Indra hunted my kind. Look!” And silver wings shimmered behind that resplendent being. Mainaka said again, “Come, Hanuman, rest a while upon me. Then you can fly to Lanka from my summit.”

Hanuman replied, “I am moved by your love and by the ocean's kindness. But my time is short and I have none to rest. Farewell, good mountain, we shall meet again someday.”

Hanuman waved to the golden one. As Mainaka sank under swirling waves again, the vanara streaked on through the sky. But then the Devas of light are never content to leave any hero untested in his most difficult hour. They called Surasa, who is the mother of all serpents.

The Devas said, “We want to see how great this monkey really is. He is the wind's son; just this leap is too easy for him. But we can test his mettle if he finds someone dreadful in the sky barring his way. Become a rakshasi in the air, Surasa. Let us see how worthy Hanuman truly is.”

Soon, spread across the sky like a thunderstorm, Hanuman saw a rakshasi who dimmed the brightness of the sun. She grinned, baring fangs big as hills. She licked her lips when she saw him, and bellowed, “How hungry I have been! But here comes a fair feast, flying into my mouth. Come to me, little ape, and be my lunch.”

Hanuman folded his palms to the awful one. He said humbly, “Devi, I am on a sacred mission. On my way back I will fly into your mouth. You have my word.”

But she cried, “By Brahma's boon no one can pass me without going through my mouth! Brahma's boon shall not prove false.”

She yawned her mouth wide as the horizon. Exasperated, Hanuman cried, “Rakshasi, your mouth is too small to contain me. Open wider, so I can fit in it.”

She yawned her firmament of a mouth still wider; she let it gape a hundred yojanas. In a flash, Hanuman was the size of a man's thumb and, before the demoness realized what was happening, he flashed in and out of her plumbless maw. Outside its darkness again, Hanuman grew vast once more.

He bowed to Surasa. “I flew into your mouth. Now let me pass.”

Surasa laughed; she liked this clever monkey in the sky. She cried to him, “Pass in peace, Hanuman, it was only the Devas testing you. May your journey be fruitful; may all your missions succeed.”

She vanished out of the sky and Hanuman flew on. His path was many thousands of feet high. It was the skyway of the birds he flew along, the subtle path of rishis and gandharvas. Vayu had wafted his son up to where he flew as swiftly as he wished. It was damp today, the celestial skyway, and raindrops fine as dew moistened his face pleasantly as Hanuman flashed along.

Farther ahead, there was a real rakshasi called Simhika who lived in the ocean. Suddenly Hanuman felt himself slowing and then coming to a standstill in the air. He felt himself being dragged down, and when he looked at the sea below he saw that a rakshasi's curved claw clutched his shadow on the water. Even as he watched, amazed, she parted the sea like another mountain and rose, lion-faced and terrible, out of the waves. Her mouth yawned from horizon to sky to swallow him.

Now Hanuman lost his patience. With a roar, he plummeted down into her jaws like a fishing hawk. Down her throat he plunged, becoming tiny again so she could not find him with her fangs. Down into her belly he flew. Beginning to grow again, he clutched two handfuls of her intestines and flashed back up again, dragging her stomach out through her mouth. Simhika died screaming, and her entrails floated like dark garlands on the waves.

Like Garuda himself, Hanuman flew on and the wind flew with him, making his passage effortless. He saw a dark speck appear on the horizon, and, at the speed at which he flew, it grew rapidly. Soon a lush island lay below him, a jewel in the sea. Within its undulating green confines, he saw a mountain that thrust its way up toward the clouds, and the sun-dappled gardens of that Mount Trikuta. Lower and lower he circled. He saw rivers, streams, and silvery waterfalls. He wondered at the richness of this Lanka he had reached after flying a hundred yojanas through the sky.

Quickly Hanuman thought, “I cannot land here like this. I am so big the rakshasas will never let me into their city without a fight. Then how will I find Sita?”

In the twinkling of an eye, he was a little monkey three feet high, and softly he set himself down on the peak of the Lamba hill. Roundeyed at the beauty of Ravana's island, Hanuman stood chattering approvingly at what he saw around him. He heaved a sigh of relief that his fantastic journey, his momentous crossing, was accomplished. To find Sita now should be no great matter.

 

2. Lankini

He had achieved the impossible; but the vanara was humble and he did not waste any time admiring what he had done. Indeed, apart from profound relief that he had not failed, Hanuman felt little else. That was his nature. In the distance, on the hill called Trikuta, he saw Ravana's city basking in the light of the afternoon sun and set out toward it. On his way, he marveled at the lushness of Lanka. He walked through thick grasslands, full of life, and swung his way through woods of flowering trees of fragrances he had never known before. To be safe, Hanuman had landed quite a way from the Rakshasa's city, and now he needed to cover a fair distance before he arrived at his destination. Gazing around with bright eyes, Hanuman loped along toward Ravana's city.

The sun was sinking on the horizon when, through the trees ahead of him, he saw its scarlet and golden shafts reflected from the crystal windows of the mansions of Lanka. He saw the deep moat that encircled the fortress city in protection, the vigilant patrols of rakshasas that guarded its entrances, the wide, clean roads that wound their way into the lofty gates; and he was all admiration for what he saw. Hanuman had the feeling that Lanka must be as beautiful as Indra's Amravati. And he was not far wrong; Viswakarman himself had built this city for Ravana.

At the foot of the Trikuta hill, Hanuman paused. Above him, in the evening mists that had gathered round it, the rakshasas' city seemed to float on air!

Lost in thought and in the grandeur of this Lanka before him, wondering what manner of demon its king was, who lived in such splendor yet could stoop to abduct Sita, Hanuman came to the city gates. The rakshasas who stood guard there were ten feet tall. They were fierce, and carried weapons of fire, nestling at their sides like organs of their bodies. There were so many of them outside the gates, hundreds, and Hanuman saw there were twice that number within. He thought that not even the vanara army, if it ever arrived here, could hope to fight their way past that guard; he saw every man of it was a veteran of many wars. All of them wore shining battle scars like ornaments on their arms, faces, and deep chests.

The vanara thought, “How ferocious they look; not even Indra's Devas could pass these rakshasas.” Then, most awful thought of all, “Will even Rama be able to fight his way into Lanka? For sure, no more than four of our vanaras can make the leap across the sea: Angada, Neela, Hanuman, and Sugriva, our king.”