The Ramayana (44 page)

“But we stand talking here and I make you weary travelers no proper welcome. You must eat some fruit from my trees and drink some wine to quench your thirst. Come, good vanaras.”

They sat in a grove of trees that breathed quite plainly. Svayamprabha served them the gleaming fruit, which none of them had ever seen before—which, indeed, did not grow in the world outside. They were succulent and sweet. But famished though they were, no more than a single fruit each could the vanaras eat. The tasty flesh restored the monkeys' spirits and stilled their hunger completely. The wine Svayamprabha served them tasted unearthly too. It fetched the color back to their faces and made them light-headed.

Svayamprabha asked, “What brings you to the heart of our forest?”

Hanuman said, “We came in search of Sita.”

He told her their story from the beginning, and of Rama's sorrow. When he had finished, he said, “You have been so kind, I am sure fate led us to you. If there is anything the vanaras can do to repay the debt, you only have to mention it, whatever it may be.”

But she smiled, and shook her head. Hanuman said, “Much as we would love to, we cannot tarry, for our quest calls us urgently. We hoped we might find Sita in this hidden place; but it seems the tide of fortune still runs against us. Shall we return the way we came, or is there any other way back into the world?”

Svayamprabha looked troubled. “Usually, no one who enters here may ever leave. If you search for the tunnel through which you came, you will not find it. But I am moved by your mission and I will help you. You must all shut your eyes and not open them until I tell you to. Link your hands and sit perfectly still.”

The vanaras obeyed her. Without feeling anything, never knowing how it happened, and so swiftly, they found themselves back in the outside world, though not in the jungle they had combed for Sita. Svayamprabha stood before them, tall and serene.

She pointed. “Beyond the shoulder of this hill lies the Mahodadi. Fare you well, and perhaps we shall meet again someday along the winding trails of time.”

And she vanished before their eyes.

 

17. Despair

Angada and his people had not far to go before they found themselves on a beach. The sea, which many of them had never seen, stretched away to the horizon and roared in their ears. Unknown to them, and by an intuition of her lucid heart, Svayamprabha had brought them to the western shore of Bharatavarsha.

The yogini had called the sea before them Mahodadi, and so it was: vast, as they stood forlorn, staring across its interminable majesty. They stood a long time, feeling helpless. The month that Sugriva had given them to find Sita was over. Another week had passed in the world while they ate with Svayamprabha: time in her enchanted garden was also unearthly. Winter was almost over and spring would soon arrive in all his gaiety.

Angada's monkeys watched the rhythmical waves crash and ebb against pale sands, and they trembled to think of Sugriva's wrath when they returned to Kishkinda without news of Sita. Angada called a council of his chieftains.

He said to those leaders of his people, “Every one of you is a warrior and a hero. But who can stand against fate, when she is against us? We missed no cave on the hill slopes of the jungles; there is no grove or thicket we did not comb. But we have not found Sita and we have failed in our mission. Most of all, my friends,
I
have failed.”

He drew a deep breath. “A sentence of death awaits us if we go back to Kishkinda. Sugriva will never forgive this failure. He is hard and cruel, our king. I know him; he has no love for me. It wasn't he who made me yuvaraja, but Rama who forced him to. At the first chance he gets, Sugriva will have me killed, as he did my father. I would rather stay here by this sea and fast to death than go back to Kishkinda and be murdered by my uncle.”

The handsome Angada spoke softly, and not in anger but in sorrow and despair. His vanaras' hearts went out to their prince on the windy shore, where gulls wheeled whitely above and the waves washed frothing over their long feet. Some of the monkeys raised their voices to agree with what Angada had said.

“You speak wisely.”

“Rama loves his wife so much that Sugriva will have our heads to please him.”

“It would be foolish to return to Kishkinda.”

“What prevents us from searching on for Sita?”

“If we fail, we can think hard of the world to come and starve to death.”

The vanara chieftain Thara cried, “Why should we despair and kill ourselves for the sake of a man who means nothing to us? Besides, he killed our king Vali. Let us find our way back to enchanted Rikshabila, where our joy was so great that a week passed like an hour. We can live out our lifetimes easily on the fruit of Mayaa's trees. We need not fear Sugriva there. Why, we need not fear Rama, or even Indra, in Rikshabila.”

There were murmurs of approval; then a silence fell. All the chieftains looked at Angada, asking silently for his opinion of Thara's plan. Hanuman did not like Thara's plan: it was the way of weakness.

He said to Angada, “My prince, you are as brave as your father. No, I think you are even braver than Vali was. You will be a great king of our people someday. Yet you have the youthful impetuosity of all the noble and the openhearted. Because they are afraid to face Sugriva, these vanaras agree with what Thara says. But we monkeys are renowned for our fickleness. What will happen when, tomorrow, these same vanaras begin to miss their wives and their children? And let me tell you, not all our common soldiers will like Thara's plan.”

He paused and scratched his fur ruminatively with a fine finger. “Then some of us are such old servants and friends of Sugriva's that nothing could make us disloyal to him. Let me remind you, we should not make enemies of those who are measurelessly more powerful than we are. We should not act in bad faith toward Rama and Lakshmana. Thara may say what he likes, but I, Hanuman, tell you that no cave or garden in the three worlds shall be a sanctuary if we make enemies of Rama and his brother. Svayamprabha said that Indra's vajra drove Mayaa from his garden. Can you imagine, then, what one of Lakshmana's astras would do to us?

“When that time comes, Angada, all these monkeys will abandon you. And who could blame them? I say we should go back to Kishkinda like brave vanaras and tell Sugriva that, though we left no forest or cave unexplored, we could not find Sita. I know Sugriva better than anyone does. His manner is sometimes harsh, for what he has suffered. But having suffered as he has, his heart is kind. I don't agree that he made you yuvaraja only to please Rama. Didn't you see how he cried, when your father lay dying? He wanted to relinquish the kingdom.

“Also, think how much he loves your mother Tara; he will never harm you. Do not let fear cloud your judgment. Sugriva has no son and he loves you like his own child. We must take courage in both hands and go back to Kishkinda. All of us will go with you; we will beg Sugriva to spare your life.”

But Hanuman had barely finished when Angada cried, “Your loyalty to my uncle blinds you, Hanuman! Sugriva is not nearly as noble as you make him out to be. He is neither pure nor kind; he is not straightforward or manly, but selfish. Just think how quickly he has taken his dead brother's widow for his wife—my mother. This is what he always wanted. Years ago, even, he sealed the cave where my father fought the Asura. He came home with the lie that Vali was dead. Is such a vanara trustworthy?

“What about this very quest? Rama secured a kingdom for Sugriva. But once he sat on Kishkinda's throne, did Sugriva remember Rama? You, Hanuman, reminded him of his dharma. And this after the fickle monkey had sworn friendship with Rama before a holy fire. Is such a vanara trustworthy? I tell you, but for the terror the sound of Lakshmana's bowstring struck in Sugriva's heart, we would not be here at all.

“Whatever you say, I will not trust a coward. Perhaps if we return, Sugriva will spare my life for my mother's sake, since she warms his bed. But he will imprison and torture me.

“I am not a fool that I will go back to Kishkinda. I will sit here and cast my life away before the sea. If any of you wants to return, he may. If you all want to go, do so with my blessing. Tell the princes of Kosala about me, then my uncle, and at last my mother. I hardly think she will survive this news.”

As he spoke, tears filled Angada's eyes and trickled down his face. When he had finished, he began to pull up stalks of darbha grass that grew behind the sand line, to make a bed for himself to die on. Angada's impressionable monkeys were so moved that they, too, went and touched the sacred waters of the sea with their fingers. They sat around their prince, to die beside him themselves.

By the hypnotic wash of the waves the stricken vanaras sat, and they recalled the events that led to their being out here, in these dire straits. They spoke about Rama's childhood, of Kaikeyi's boons and of Dasaratha. These monkeys had roamed in distant lands, and they knew all about the blue prince of Ayodhya. About the exile of Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita in the Dandaka vana they spoke, about Panchavati and the massacre of the rakshasas of Janasthana. They reminded each other of the golden deer and the abduction of Sita. Then they spoke of Jatayu's death, as the scarlet sun sank into the sea, setting the waves alight. They remembered how Rama came to Rishyamooka, and the death of Vali. The wind carried their solemn narration, and twilight earth and livid sea heard the tale of Rama.

 

18. Sampati

On the mountain behind the vanaras, in a cave swept by ocean winds, lived Sampati the eagle. He was hungry, and when he saw the monkeys on the beach below his roost, he said to himself, “Fate is kind to me today. I don't have to go in search of my next meal: it has come to my cave mouth.”

But Sampati was so old, and deaf as well, that he spoke aloud to himself. The wind, which blew at this hour from land to sea, carried what he said into Angada's sharp ears. The vanara prince jumped up with a shout. “Yama has come as an eagle to take us!”

Angada was so distraught he began to babble: “All the birds and beasts of the jungle loved Rama. Why, Jatayu gave his life for the prince of light. And for Rama's sake, we will also be devoured by death. But Jatayu was fortunate; the Rakshasa killed him and he didn't have to face Sugriva's wrath. But if you think of why we are about to die, Uncle Hanuman, it is because of Kaikeyi. She is the root of all this misfortune.”

As he came nearer, for his dinner, Sampati heard everything Angada said. In his gravelly voice Sampati called, “Who speaks of Jatayu? Who says Jatayu is dead? It is a thousand years since I heard my brother's name. Who is the rakshasa that killed him? Who is Rama? I am old and weak, and I can hardly climb down this mountain. Help me, someone. Help me down to the ground and tell me about my brother.”

At first the vanaras did not trust the eagle. But Angada went nearer and began the story of Rama again for Sampati's benefit. The ancient bird wept when he heard how Jatayu sacrificed his life for Sita. Angada told Sampati how Rama cremated Jatayu, and sent his soul to his ancestors. The monkey prince described how Rama came to Rishyamooka, and their own fruitless quest for Sita.

At last, he sighed, “Searching for Sita is like seeking the sun at midnight. And we have come to this final shore to die.”

The eagle, who had wanted to make his meal of them, now said gently, “Jatayu was my little brother. Once, I would already have flown to Ravana's city to have revenge. But, alas, I am too old and infirm now.”

His feathers shook; he sobbed like a child, and all the vanaras gathered around the great bird. He saw their eager faces by the dying light; he saw their keen eyes. Sampati, who had lived alone for so long, was moved to tell the monkey folk the story of his own life, in his resonant, rambling way.

“I am old, ah, I am older than you can imagine, my vanaras. Would you believe me if I told you that with these eyes I have seen the Vamana Avatara of the Lord Vishnu, when he measured the worlds with three strides? Swarga, Bhumi, and Patala! And now there is Rama. I was there when the Devas and the Asuras churned the sea of milk to obtain the amrita from under the waves. I was there when the Halahala was churned up and began to consume the sky. I saw Siva quaff it, and it burned his throat blue; then they called him Nilakanta.

“I wish I could help Rama, who has come as a man now. But look, my wings are burned stumps and I cannot fly any more. It was at least a thousand years ago. Jatayu and I were much younger then; we were in our prime. We competed fiercely at everything. Once we challenged each other to prove who could fly higher, and nearest the sun. It was around the time when Indra slew Vritrasura. Angling our youthful wings, we flew into the sky like two arrows. Up and up we flew, for a night and a day, and the sun scorched us; still, we flew on. We were proud then, and each wanted to show he was the stronger one.

“As we matched each other, wing beat for wing beat, suddenly I saw Jatayu began to fall behind me. Dizziness overcame him, and I turned and clasped him in my wings. In our arrogance we had flown too near the sun: his body blazed with the wrath of the star. The moment I paused in my flight, the breeze no longer blew around me to cool my feathers. My wings took fire. Still holding the unconscious Jatayu in my arms, I plummeted down to the earth. A long, long time I fell, burning, and I also swooned. I awoke rudely when I crashed on this mountain. My wings were charred flightless, and there was no sign of Jatayu anywhere.”

Again Sampati's eyes filled, as he remembered the vertiginous fall that had changed his life. He said, “Never since, have I seen or heard anything of my brother; until today, when you, my friends, bring these sad tidings.” He wept with grave dignity, that aged bird.

Angada said, “You say that if you were younger and could fly, you would have attacked Ravana in his city. Do you know where the Rakshasa lives?”