The Ramayana (36 page)

They went three krosas, laboriously, through that densest of vanas; while nameless creatures moved unseen through the thick undergrowth beside them, and above them through the matted branches. Then they saw sunlight ahead and came out into the open. They stood in a clearing, shading their eyes from the glare, until slowly their vision adjusted itself to the sun.

They saw a cave before them, and at its mouth stood a rakshasi gazing at them with interest. In fact, she stared just at Lakshmana. When she saw the princes noticed her, she detached herself from the cave mouth and came ambling toward them with long strides. She was all smiles and fluttering eyelashes.

Laying a hand on him enticingly, she said in her coarse, mannish voice to Lakshmana, “I am Ayomukhi. Come into my cave, fair stranger, I am a mistress of love. Let us range the green jungle and the hill slopes of Krauncharanya together, making love by daylight and darkness, moonlight and starlight.”

She stroked his cheek; she let her hand rove over his chest. With a cry of rage, Lakshmana drew his sword and lopped off not just her nose and ears, but her heavy breasts as well, and she fled shrieking and gushing scarlet into her cave. They walked on into the jungle before them, forbidding as the one they had emerged from. They crept forward, with Ayomukhi's howls ringing in their ears.

Abruptly, Lakshmana stopped in the dark. He whispered to Rama, “My left side throbs and my mind is full of fear. Something evil lies in wait not far ahead.”

A vanjulaka bird cried its thin, lilting cry. Rama touched his brother's arm: “By the omen of the vanjulaka's call, we will overcome whatever it is.”

More carefully than ever, they crept along through the darkness. Ahead of them the forest thinned and again some light shone through. They went gingerly toward the light; the feeling of threat was now a palpable thing. Then two enormous hands flashed out from the trees like lightning and seized them. Dragged over leaves, scraping against tree trunks and branches, struggling but held firm, they were hauled a long way toward brightness and the strangest monster they had ever seen.

He was mountainous. But he had no head or legs, just a huge barrel of a trunk with these arms, nearly a yojana long, attached to it. A single gigantic eye was set in the middle of his hirsute body. Below it was a fanged maw All around the rakshasa were splashes of blood, and bones picked clean, and the intestines and skins of creatures he had eaten, among them deer and boar, elephant and tiger. The giant eye regarded them hungrily and the slavering mouth grinned. The creature's breath was a fetid roar.

He said in a thick lisp, “Kabandha is lucky today. Long time since Kabandha has eaten human meat.”

He licked his lips and, yawning his mouth wide, its stench unbearable, he brought his captives slowly toward it. He paused and manipulated his fingers, each one thick as a young tree, to loosen the deerskin and valkala they wore. These he did not want to eat. Momentarily, the princes' arms were free. Quick as light, they drew their swords and hacked off Kabandha's hands at their wrists.

His eye rolled in shock; his roars shook the jungle. Kabandha lived by hunting with his hands and his eye, for he had no legs. But life went out of him now, with the gushers of blood from his severed wrists. His eye streamed tears and, through the rest of his screaming, he cried shrilly at them, “Who are you, humans? Who are you?”

The younger prince said, “We are Rama and Lakshmana. And who are you, awful one?”

A bitter laugh came from Kabandha. He blinked his eye several times in some deep remembrance. At last, in a voice transformed, he said, “It is my good fortune that brought you to me today. I think my long suffering is finally over. I was not always as ugly as you see me now, O Lakshmana. Once my name was Dhanu, and I was as handsome as Soma. And I was arrogant. I would frighten the rishis of the forest with my maya. I would assume one monstrous form after another, and roar at them from behind the trees.

“But one day, I startled a hermit who had a quick temper, and he cursed me: ‘Be this monster from now!' Since then, I have been like this. I begged him to take back his curse, and he said, ‘When Dasaratha's son Rama cuts off your hands and you die, you shall have your splendor back.'

“I also offended Indra, and he struck off my legs with his vajra. Brahma said to me, ‘Live hunting with your arms, Dhanu.'

“Cremate me, Rama; release me from my bondage.”

Rama said, “My wife Sita has been abducted by a rakshasa called Ravana. We only know his name. Do you know any more about him? You have been here for so long; you must know many things.”

Kabandha said, “Dig a deep pit and cremate me in it. Then I will have my old powers back and know all things. Don't hesitate, Kshatriyas: your apparent cruelty shall be kindness. For without my hands I will die anyway, and slowly. I beg you, hurry. Old memories already flood back into my mind, but I can't see them clearly.”

The princes collected dry branches and twigs. They dug a pit deep enough to put Kabandha in and they burned him. The flames had scarcely begun to lick at the rakshasa when he was released from his curse. In a flash of light, a dazzling figure sprang up from that pit: Dhanu, the archer of the sky! Next moment a chariot, made of starlight and yoked to shining horses, flew down to bear him away to Devaloka.

Radiant Dhanu said, “Rama, I see all things again, in both place and time. I will show you the way that leads to Sita.

“There is a prince of vanaras called Sugriva. He lives on Rishyamooka, the mountain that casts its shadow over the Pampasaras. Your destiny and Sugriva's are bound together. You must find him. He is the son of Surya Deva, the Ancestor of the Ikshvakus; he will be like a brother to you. He will ask for your help, but in return he will do anything to help you find Sita. Like his father the Sun, he knows everything that happens on the face of the earth. Swear an oath of friendship with him by a sacred fire, and he will certainly help you.”

Rama asked, “How will I find the Pampa?”

“This path we are standing on, which Kabandha once straddled, is lined with trees whose sires grow in heaven. At its end, you will come to a garden not less beautiful than the Nandana or Chaitra. Beyond that garden is as pristine a lake as you will find in this world.

“The lotuses that grow on it were once brought down to the earth by the Devas. The flowers of the Pampa never fade, nor do its fruit rot. Its water is as clear as the heart of a rishi, and you can see down to the white sand on its bed. Swans and cranes and birds from unknown lands come to drink from it. The Pampasaras is so sacred, Rama, that it will restore your faith.

“By that lake, once, the great Rishi Matanga lived, with his sishyas. In his asrama you will still find an old woman called Shabari.” A smile lit Dhanu's face. “As I did when I was Kabandha, she also waits for Vishnu's Avatara.” He laughed. “But only to worship you, not devour you! She is so pure that she has been called a hundred times to Swarga. But she waits to see the face and the human form of Rama of Ayodhya.”

Impatient to be away among starry fields, Dhanu's horses tossed their shimmering manes. Dhanu patted their necks, and spoke to them in a resonant tongue.

He said to Rama and Lakshmana, “Farewell now, I have so much to do. West of Lake Pampa is the Rishyamooka. You will find Sugriva in one of the caves of that mountain. May your quest be fruitful, Rama. May you fulfill the destiny you were born for!”

The lustrous one bowed to the princes. Then his chariot rose into the air and flew straight toward the stars, leaving a silver trail across the sky.

 

21. Shabari

The path that Dhanu had showed them went meandering to the southwest. Rama was calmer now, and with every step they took he became more resolute. Scented flowering trees and trees laden with fruit flanked their way. They had left the dense and dark jungle behind them. They now walked through airy woods, their hearts lighter than they had ever been since Maricha died. Hope accompanied them again as they moved along as quickly as they could. When the sun had sunk low at the end of the harrowing day, the brothers settled at the foot of a hill for the night.

Rama had little peace even in sleep. Sita's face filled his dreams, and more than once he saw a leering, demonic visage beside hers, mocking him. He awoke bathed in a sweat of fear, and found Lakshmana vigilant at his side, stroking his brow in tender concern, his eyes full to see him suffering.

Morning came and they marched on. Thus they traveled for many days, until one midmorning they arrived at the banks of a great lake at the foot of a mountain. This had to be the Pampa that Dhanu described; surely there could not be two lakes as lovely as this one in the same part of the earth.

They knelt and bathed their hands and faces in the sweet, sparkling water. At once, their hearts were full of hope. For the first time in all the days since Sita had been taken, Rama put an arm around Lakshmana and favored him with a slow smile. Lakshmana hugged him, crying, “We will find her, Rama. We will certainly find her.”

Rama nodded in belief. They walked around the lake and came to its western bank. There they saw what they had been looking for: a small asrama nestled in a cool grove of fruit trees. Shabari had sure intuition of their arrival and came out to welcome them, her wizened face wreathed in smiles.

She knelt at Rama's feet and then at Lakshmana's. Taking her hand, Rama said sweetly, “Shabari, has your service to the munis borne fruit? Has your karma been made ashes by your tapasya; have you found moksha?”

Her eyes alight to see him, Shabari said, “Today my tapasya is fruitful because I have seen your face. And because your eyes have looked at me today, I will find moksha as well. Rama, the rishis whom I served ascended into heaven in chariots of the sky. They said to me, ‘Shabari, stay here until Rama and Lakshmana come to our asrama. Serve them, and only then come to Swarga.' Long have I waited for you, my prince; long have I plucked the fruits of our trees, to feed you when you came. They never become dry or rot, and I have kept them all for you.”

Years and years ago, Shabari had been born a huntress, a vetali. Now Rama saw how clear and lambent her spirit was. He still held her hand in his, and said affectionately, “Shabari, you are the first of your kind to find the highest Brahmi. Dhanu told me about your tapasya and I would love to look around your asrama.”

She laughed like a little girl. By his hand she led him around the hermitage, its meager dwellings and its rich garden. He was content to be shown around thus: the holding of hands was a sweet, sacred link between them.

Shabari said, “This place is called Matangavana, after the rishi Matanga, whose sishyas all the others were. Oh, they performed such penance and sacrifice here that their blessings will last a million years upon the earth. In the end, their hands so shook with age the flowers they offered on the vedi fell out. Come and see the vedi, Rama.”

Moss covered the vedi where the rishis had made their offerings of old. Flowers lay upon it and grew wild around it. But when the princes looked, they saw that the stone altar blazed like a drop of the sun, and they had to shield their eyes.

Shabari said, “Finally, our rishis were so old they could not move, but they still made their offerings. They could not get up to fetch water for their worship; so the waters of the ocean fell out of the sky for them. That is how this lake was formed. They bathed in it, and look, here is the valkala they wore: the robes have still not dried. And look at the lotuses on the vedi. They were offered by those munis, and they have not faded. Nothing fades here. I, too, am much older than I even look!” She smiled again, toothlessly, and in ecstasy that they had come to see to her. “Come, Rama, Lakshmana; eat some of the fruit I have kept for you.”

They sat with her and she brought an assortment of fruit: mango, purple grape, pomegranate, apple, pear, and some others that grew only in that place. They were as juicy as if they had just come off their trees.

Lakshmana said, “These are the sweetest fruit I have ever tasted.”

“By far,” agreed Rama.

Shabari glowed, and her gaze never left Rama's face. When they had eaten, her eyes still on him, Shabari said to Rama, “I am at peace now. I have fed you the fruit of Matangavana and I am ready to leave this world.”

Taking her hand again, Rama said, “You are the purest of the pure. Being with you has renewed my heart and eating your fruit has made my faith strong in my time of fear. May you reach the heavens of the rishis whom you looked after while they lived in the world. Dear Shabari, you have my blessing.”

She was a Brahmagyani, free of any attachment, and she worshipped Agni Deva now. She touched holy water with her fingers. Before Rama's eyes, she yoked the inner fire and, with agneyi, made herself a mass of flames. Soon she was white, murmuring ashes. From those ashes rose a youthful woman, of ethereal beauty, and prostrated herself before Rama. When he blessed her, Shabari rose immortal into Devaloka.

Rama and Lakshmana looked on, tears of exaltation in their eyes.

 

22. Rama's grief

As the brothers walked around the lake, with a fragrant breeze caressing their senses and their minds, Rama sighed, “Lakshmana, this place where the seven seas flowed has calmed me. I feel we are close to finding some news of Sita.”

They walked briskly toward the Rishyamooka, which loomed ahead. Through charmed woods, through fragrant forests of asoka, punnaga, bakula, tilaka, and others nameless and resplendent with blooms, they came again to the banks of the Pampasaras, in another, wilder place. The lake was heavy with lotuses, some white as fresh snow and others dark as twilight skies. The water was transparent and they saw the spotless sand on the lake's bed.

Tiger and deer roamed the banks of the Pampasaras together, the predator calmed of his bloodlust in this zone of enchantment, where the ground was mantled with unfading flowers in every resonant hue. This place was nearer heaven than earth; touched by its deep rapture, Rama and Lakshmana bathed in the clear water while curious peacocks watched them, with royal plumage unfurled. Silvery fish nibbled delicately at their bodies, and little songbirds made a feast of music in the living trees.