BOOK FOUR

KISHKINDA KANDA

{In Kishkinda}

 

1. On Rishyamooka

Sugriva, the vanara, sat on one of the peaks of Rishyamooka. Beside him were four other vanaras who had once been his ministers. They had fled into exile with him when his brother Vali chased him from his kingdom. Sugriva was anxious and restless on the mountain. With keen jungle eyes, he had seen Rama and Lakshmana at the Pampa far below. When they began to climb toward him, he was afraid. Baring his fangs, Sugriva chattered his disquiet; his monkeys raised their faces and did the same.

Now these were not monkeys as langurs, baboons, or apes are, or any of the species of simians we find in our forests today. They belonged to an ancient race of jungle beings, rather human in their natures and very magical in their ways. Their blood was mixed of old with the blood of the Devas—for their women’s charms were legendary—and they were an evolved and enlightened folk.

But just now, their king in exile, Sugriva, hopped about on his tree branch upon the mountain more like a common monkey than a great ruler of his people. He gibbered nervously, and stared down in terror at the two hermits who had begun to climb the slope. When the kshatriyas were halfway up the mountain, Sugriva lost his nerve completely. He tucked his tail between his legs and scampered into the cave where he and his friends had sheltered since Vali chased them out of their jungle city, Kishkinda.

Sugriva breathed in the darkness, “Tapasvins carrying bows and swords! I am sure Vali sent them to kill me. My brother won’t rest until he has my head.”

Sugriva whimpered pitiably. Of his companions, only Hanuman was unmoved. He was the son of Vayu, the Wind God. He said in his soft, calm way, “You know that Vali cannot set foot on this hill, nor anyone who serves him.”

“You would also tremble, Hanuman, if you were hunted by your own brother!” Sugriva snapped. Then tears stood in his golden eyes, and he said, “And vanquished in battle, and your wife taken from you for your brother’s bed.”

“Vali cannot come to Rishyamooka,” said Hanuman gently. “By Rishi Matanga’s curse, this place is safe from him.”

“But I am afraid, Hanuman! Can I help that? Did you see those strangers? They look more like Gods than men. Did you see their bows and the swords glinting at their sides? Kings have all sorts of people they employ to achieve their ends. I am sure Vali sent these two to kill me.”

Hanuman said, “They may be harmless wanderers.”

“How can we be sure? Go to them, Hanuman. Work your charm on them and find out who they are. If they are evil run back to me, and we must flee. But if they are good men, win their friendship and bring them here.”

Hanuman already felt an inexplicably joyful instinct about the two splendid men who came slowly up the mountain. He went down gladly to discover more about them. Suddenly the princes of Ayodhya were accosted by a diminutive brahmana, clad all in white, with bhasma laid broadly across his brow and a beaming face from which two friendly, canny eyes shone out. Hanuman, son of the wind, could change his form as he chose.

“Good sirs, you seem to be rajarishis,” he cried, before they recovered from their surprise. “No, you seem to be Devas! I have been watching you scour the mountain. At first I thought you were sannyasis, for you wear valkala and jata. But then I saw the noble weapons flashing in your hands.”

Rama and Lakshmana stared at Hanuman. They felt strangely sure he was not what he appeared to be, but equally certain that he was harmless, at least to them. His shrewd eyes never leaving their faces, and sizing them up all the time, Hanuman went on chattily, “I see eagerness in your step, as if you were impatient to be somewhere else. But you are brave; I would venture that you are courage incarnate. Your radiance is like the sheen of gold. But every now and then a sigh escapes you as if some terrible sorrow sat on your hearts.”

He was thoughtful for just a moment; then again the flow of exquisite language: “You are brothers, certainly. Though you are dark, good friend, and slightly the older, and you, friend, are fair. But otherwise you might be twins. Your arms are bare, but if my mind does not play tricks on me, golden ornaments belong there. But tell me, my princes, for that you surely are, why have you come to this desolate place? To guard Rishyamooka against some danger, perhaps?

“I can see your bows were not fashioned in this world. I am sure, when you loose them, your arrows are of light and flames; and your swords are like serpents slumbering at your sides. Hanuman sees a great deal, Kshatriyas, because his eyes are clever. But I must not be rude, asking all these questions and saying nothing about myself. I can see you are not merely good men, but uncommonly good men. I will tell you who I am, as my master instructed me to if I found you were good.”

He went on, without drawing breath. “There is a just and valiant king of the vanaras called Sugriva. He was driven out of his kingdom by his brother, and Sugriva now lives upon this Rishyamooka in fear. I am his minister Hanuman, whom he sent to make friends with you. Yes, I am a monkey too. I became a brahmana to approach you, and to discover if you were good men or not. You see, I am Vayu’s son and can assume any form I please.”

And he stood smiling benignly at them. Rama gave a delighted cry when he heard who the little brahmana was. He took Lakshmana aside, and said, “How refined his voice is; how beautifully he speaks. Surely, he is a scholar of the Vedas. Nobody who does not have a sincere heart can speak so well. This Hanuman speaks from his heart, and he is intelligent and able. Sugriva is fortunate to have such a minister; success will attend all his endeavors.”

Lakshmana came back to Hanuman and said, “We have already heard of your master Sugriva. Indeed, we climb this mountain to seek him out and have his friendship. We trust you, O Hanuman, and we will do as you tell us.”

Hanuman clapped his hands happily, and the thought flashed through his mind that these princes had come seeking Sugriva with some woe of their own. Surely then, they could help his master against Vali.

Hanuman looked at Rama and said, “But how is it you wander these dangerous jungles that teem with wild beasts and rakshasas? Forgive me, Kshatriyas, for asking so many questions. But I am a monkey and my curiosity gets the better of me.”

Lakshmana glanced at Rama, and his brother nodded that Hanuman might be told everything. Lakshmana said to the little brahmachari, “There was an emperor called Dasaratha who ruled the kingdom of the north called Kosala. He was a king of dharma and never strayed from the truth. This dark prince is his eldest son Rama. Rama’s honesty and valor are a legend. But because of an old vow, Dasaratha sent his precious son into the jungle for fourteen years.

“For his father’s sake, Rama went gladly to the vana. I am Lakshmana, his younger brother, as you rightly guessed. I came with him because he is my life and my God. But not just we two came to the forest: my brother’s chaste wife, Sita, was with us. Ten days ago, a rakshasa abducted Sita from our asrama in Panchavati in the Dandaka vana.

“We came south in search of Sita, and in the Krauncharanya we came upon Dhanu, who told us to come to Rishyamooka and seek out Sugriva. Our destiny led this way, said Dhanu, and your king would help us. As you see, my brother is grief-stricken. If he can, let Sugriva help Rama who once needed nobody’s help; but time has brought him to this sorry pass.”

Hanuman saw that though Lakshmana spoke with restraint, and formally, his eyes filled with tears as he told their tale. Hanuman laid a hand on the prince’s arm. He said, “Sugriva will be honored to help one so noble as I see your brother is. Come, let me take you to him, for you have much in common. He was driven from his kingdom by his brother Vali, and his wife was taken from him as well. Sugriva will help you. I, Hanuman, give you my word on it.”

Lakshmana went back to Rama and said softly, “I trust this son of Vayu. Shall we go with him?”

Even as Rama nodded, Hanuman was a monkey again before their eyes: a towering vanara, tall as a tree! He scooped them up easily in his arms, set them on his wide back and set off up Rishyamooka for Sugriva’s cave.

Sugriva stood at the cave mouth. His face was strained and his eyes were full of fear, so Rama immediately felt compassion for him. Hanuman set them down and said, “This is Rama, a noble kshatriya in exile.”

Quickly, Hanuman drew the doubtful Sugriva into the cavern and told him the princes’ story. As he spoke, the monkey king’s face cleared of anxiety and his eyes shone in hope. Hanuman said, “And so, my lord, they have come to meet you.”

Sugriva emerged from the cave and embraced Rama and Lakshmana.

 

2. A friendship sworn

Sugriva said warmly to Rama, “I have heard of your valor. It is my good fortune that brings you to Rishyamooka; you would honor me by being my friend.”

He held out his hand. Rama took it, and they embraced again. At once Hanuman produced two arani twigs and lit a fire. He worshipped the flames with flowers and other jungle offerings. Hand in hand, Rama and Sugriva walked round the agni to solemnize their friendship. In the age-old way of the vanaras, they chanted together, “You are my friend. From now on we share everything, joy and sorrow.”

They embraced again and there was a feeling of great auspiciousness upon them, of a friendship well struck up. Sugriva broke a branch from a sala tree. He laid it on the ground and made Rama sit on it. At once, Hanuman tore another branch from a sandalwood tree and set it down for Lakshmana, who smiled at his thoughtfulness.

But then Sugriva’s eyes were full again, and he said to his new friend, “Rama, I am a miserable monkey. With fists like iron and fangs like daggers, my brother Vali drove me from my kingdom. And he has taken my wife, Ruma, for himself. Because of a rishi’s curse, he may not set foot on this mountain, and I have sought shelter here. But my courage is broken and every breath I draw is in fear.” He looked pleadingly at Rama. “Help me, my friend, I seek refuge in you.”

With piteous little cries, he bent himself at the prince’s feet. Rama was moved. By Sugriva’s gentle appearance, he felt certain the monkey king’s cause was just. He said, “Sugriva, I will kill your brother for you.”

Sugriva danced for joy. “With your coming, Rama, I have hope again! I feel certain I will gain my kingdom back, and my wife. You shall be the end of my fear. After years, I will sleep in peace, without being tormented by dreams of death.”

As Rama and Sugriva spoke, far away in Lanka, Sita’s left eye, like a lotus petal, throbbed; and Vali’s tawny eye in Kishkinda; and Ravana’s coppery one as well.

Sugriva said, “Hanuman told me about you, Rama: how your Sita was kidnapped. My friend, whether she is hidden in Patala or in Swarga, I swear my people will find her for you.” He smiled at the prince and stroked his cheek. Then he continued, “Have no doubt fate intended our paths to cross. Let me tell you what we saw a few days ago. We sat on the loftiest branches of that sala tree when, suddenly, the sky above was rent with the shrill cries of a woman. When we turned our eyes up, we saw a strange sight. A rakshasa, dark as a raincloud and as big, flew across the firmament. As the thundercloud does the streak of lightning, he held a beautiful woman in the crook of his arm. She wriggled like a queen of serpents to get free, but he held her fast. She cried, ‘Rama! Lakshmana!’ and we did not know who she was, or to whom she called. But all at once, a little bundle fell on us out of the sky. It was her ornaments, tied in yellow silk. We kept the bundle safely, in case anyone came for it.”

Rama was on his feet. “Why didn’t you tell me before? Show me the bundle, Sugriva!”

One of the monkeys loped into the cave and brought back a silken bundle. With trembling hands, Rama took it from the vanara. He saw at once that it was Sita’s. He touched it to his eyes, and undid the knotted square of silk. When he saw the ornaments inside, poor Rama fainted.

The monkeys sprang away to fetch water to revive the stricken kshatriya. Slowly, at Sugriva’s long-fingered ministrations, he regained consciousness. Rama held the jewels out to Lakshmana and said, “My eyes are blurred, child, but I think these are her ornaments. Do you recognize them?”

Lakshmana said quietly, “I don’t know the bangles and the necklace, but the anklets are Sita’s. All these years, I saw them every morning when I knelt at her feet and she blessed me.”

Rama sat up; his face was grim. He said to Sugriva, “Tell me more about the demon who took my Sita from me. Tell me where he lives and I will go and send him to Yama’s city.”

Sugriva, who was a loving and kindly monkey, wiped his own eyes. He touched Rama’s arm and said gently, “I know nothing else, Rama, only that he was a rakshasa. But I swear to you, I will discover everything there is to know about him. Sooner than you think, Sita will be with you again and you will be rid of your grief. Calm yourself, my prince, sorrow does not suit you.”

Rama was so touched at Sugriva’s solicitude he fell quiet. He even managed a wan smile, and said, “I am sorry, my friend. Your concern warms my heart; and my heart tells me that, like seeds sown in fertile ground, your words will bear rich harvest. In adversity it is rare and fortunate to find a friend like you. From now, I depend on you to find Sita for me. And I swear to you on our friendship, I will do anything to make you happy, anything to remove your own sorrow.”

Sugriva cried, “The Gods smile on me at last, that they brought you to me. Looking at you, I feel that with your love I can have heaven for the asking. What then is a mere monkey kingdom? I have your friendship sworn by a sacred fire; I could have no greater blessing. I will help you, Rama. I swear it in the name of our friendship.”

 

3. The vanara brothers

For some time, Sugriva and Rama spoke together. Slowly Rama’s composure returned, as if seeing someone else who suffered as much as he did restored his equanimity. Rama, Sugriva, Lakshmana, and Hanuman sat in a circle on branches laid on the ground. Now it was the vanara king’s turn to recount his tale of woe.

“For years, since he chased me out of Kishkinda, I have lived in mortal fear of Vali. From forest to forest I fled, until I arrived here in Rishyamooka where he cannot come. But even here my mind is not at rest. Rama, I see my wife in my brother’s arms and that vision torments me. I have nightmares in which Vali stalks me through evil forests. He ambushes me under eerie trees, cuts my throat, and drinks my blood. I cannot bear it any more. I must have peace of mind again, or I will go mad.”

Rama said, “You are my friend and your grief is mine. Your brother is no brother any more, but an enemy.” He laid his silver quiver before the vanara. “Look at my eagle-feathered arrows. Vali shall feel their points, Sugriva; he will lie dead at your feet.”

Sugriva embraced the kshatriya and said, “He drove me from my throne and my kingdom. He imprisoned all my people who were loyal to me. He sent his own vanaras after me into the jungle; but we five killed them. When I first saw you climbing the mountain, I thought he had now found the help of men to hunt me. When I saw your weapons, I was sure you had come to kill me. How grief dements one: a man in dread is afraid of the breeze that blows by him. Rama, my days have been so dark that only the comfort of these four friends has kept me alive.”

“Tell me more about Vali.”

“He is my older brother. He was my father’s favorite and I was devoted to him. When our father died Vali was crowned king, and no one was as pleased as I was. In those days we were united and happy.” He sighed, remembering.

“In our forest, there was an Asura called Mayavi. For many years there was enmity between Mayavi and Vali, over a woman. One night Mayavi came to our city gates, roaring to my brother to come out and fight. When Vali heard the demon, he sprang from his bed.

“His wives and I begged him not to go out after the Asura at that hour; but he would not listen. I went with him. When Mayavi saw the two of us come out together, he ran. The night was lit by a full moon and we chased him easily through the pale forest.

“The Asura ran a long way, with Vali and me in pursuit, until suddenly he vanished before our eyes. He had run into a cave.

“Vali’s blood was up. He cried, ‘I am going in after him. Wait here until I return. Guard the cave mouth, Sugriva, let no one past you. I must kill him tonight!’

“He went in and then all was quiet. Rama, not for an hour or a day did I wait there for Vali, but a whole month. I ate whatever fruit I could pluck from the trees around me, and I waited in terror of what went on within the black cavern. But I did not leave my place.

“One day, I saw blood come seeping from the cave, and with it, I heard my brother’s voice crying out in what I was sure were his death throes. I was terrified that the Asura would come and kill me also. I rolled a boulder across the cave mouth; with tears streaming down my face, I offered tarpana to Vali’s spirit and came back to Kishkinda.

“At first I told no one anything; but slowly they prized the truth from me. Our ministers decided they would crown me king in my brother’s place. For some weeks, I ruled Kishkinda peacefully; then Vali came back! You should have seen his face when he found me on the throne. I fell at his feet, and cried, ‘How lucky I am that you have returned. Here, take the throne; it is yours.’

“I told him how I had waited outside the cave for a month; how blood flowed out one day and I heard what I thought were his dying cries. I told him of my fear of the Asura, who had slain as great a warrior as my brother, and how I rolled the boulder across the cave mouth and went home. Seeing his suspicious, angry face, I begged him not to doubt me.

“But Vali mocked me in court. ‘This traitor told you only half the story. After a month’s battle, I slew the Asura and it was his blood that flowed from the cave. But when I tried to come out, I found its mouth sealed with a boulder. I was too weak to move it and I called Sugriva’s name; but there was no reply. I wandered through a maze of caves, seeking a way out; I could not find any. One day, when I had recovered my strength, I smashed the rock with my fist and here I am. And what do I find here, but this wretch upon my throne!’

“Vali threw the ministers who had crowned me into prison. He tried to have me killed, but I fled Kishkinda. He chased me through five forests, until I heard that by a rishi’s curse he cannot set foot on Rishyamooka. My friends and I came here and took shelter. But I live in dread. I can still see my brother’s blazing eyes, seeking me in the dark to have done with me.”

Sugriva sobbed.

Rama said quietly, “It is plain that only Vali’s death will bring you peace. And I swear to you, he will die.”

 

4. Dundubhi

But Sugriva said, “Rama, my brother is no ordinary vanara. He can leap across the sea; he can break a peak from a mountain and cast it into the waves. When we roamed the jungle together, in our happier days, he would draw out great trees by their roots, in exuberance, as if they were blades of grass.

“Once, many years ago, there was another Asura called Dundubhi. He was as strong as a thousand elephants. He had sat long years in tapasya and had a boon of strength from Brahma. Dundubhi came to the ocean and cried to Varuna, ‘Come out and fight. I can find no one else strong enough to do battle with!’

“But Varuna knew about Brahma’s boon, and replied, ‘You are too strong for me, Dundubhi. In the quarter of the Gods there is a mountain called Himavan. He is the lord of all mountains; he will fight you.’

“Like an arrow, Dundubhi flew to the Himalaya. He plucked off a few peaks from that icy range and hurled them down or smashed them to dust with terrific fists. Himavan appeared upon his loftiest massif, like a great white cloud. Like thunder, he said to the Asura, ‘Why do you disturb my peace? I am a tapasvin and know nothing of war. I cannot fight you.’

“Dundubhi roared, ‘Like it or not, you shall fight me! Or you must find someone else who will.’

“Himavan said, ‘In the south, there is a beautiful city called Kishkinda. Vali the vanara rules it. He is Indra’s son. You shall have little satisfaction from water, rocks, or trees. But Vali will give you the fight you crave.’

“Dundubhi assumed his favorite fighting form: a stupendous bull bison’s. He flew through the air like a thundercloud in a storm and reached Kishkinda at twilight. At the gates of our city, he roared his challenge to Vali. He stood snorting and lowing horribly, and pawing the earth. When he bellowed, he sounded just like a grating dundubhi.

“Vali was in his harem when the Asura challenged him. He came storming out to the palace gates, bringing his women with him, his arms still around them. He cried, ‘Stop your bellowing, Asura! Leave my gates if you love your life.’

“But Dundubhi had come for battle, and he replied, ‘You can boast before your women if it makes you feel bold. You can even have a whole night with them; I can wait until morning. Just remember to indulge yourself to your heart’s content, because this will be your last night on earth.’

“Vali bared his fangs and snarled at the Asura. To provoke him, Dundubhi cried, ‘Himavan said you would give me a good fight. Looking at you, I doubt it. But we shall see as soon as you come out from behind your women’s skirts.’

“Vali grew very still. He led his women back to the harem. Putting on the golden garland his father Indra once gave him, he came forth, chattering his rage as we vanaras do. Horns and long, mighty arms locked; they wrestled and gored and struck each other so savagely the earth shook around them. But slowly, that immense Asura, the bison, lost ground to my brother. With a ringing cry, Vali lifted the demon into the air and dashed him on the ground, and again, and again; until life fled his shattered body and Dundubhi lay dead at Vali’s feet. The jungle rang with Vali’s roars.

“But my brother was not satisfied, as if he wished he could have had a longer battle with Dundubhi. Still beating his chest, dancing, he lifted up the Asura’s body once more. Whirling it round over his head, he flung it into the sky. It flew aloft for yojanas. But when it flew over Pampa and Rishyamooka, the black blood from the demon’s corpse fell on Matanga’s rishis. When the carcass struck the earth, the sage’s precious trees and plants, which he thought of as his own children, were crushed.

“With mystic sight, Matanga saw who had done this. He cursed my brother: ‘Let Vali and his vanaras die if they set foot in this forest or the mountain above my asrama.’

“All Vali’s vanaras in the jungle around the asrama came scurrying back to Kishkinda. He was amazed to see them swarm to him in such panic. They cried out all together, so he could not make head or tail of what they said. He roared at them to be quiet.

“Then one old monkey said, ‘You desecrated holy ground with the Asura’s carcass. Rishi Matanga has cursed you that neither you nor any of yours may set foot in his forest, or you die.’

“Vali flew to the muni and lay at his feet. ‘Forgive me, my lord, I did not realize what I did.’

“But Matanga only rose and walked away, and the curse remained. Vali fled back to Kishkinda: he felt his limbs grow weak as a woman’s in the muni’s asrama. Not since then has my brother come to Rishyamooka, or near the Pampasaras. Protected by that old curse, I live here today in safety. Come with me, Rama, I want to show you something.”

He led the prince to a towering sala tree, its bole as thick as ten men. “Vali could shake all the leaves from this tree with his hands. He could pull it up by its roots. Rama, I feel anxious about your fighting him.”

Lakshmana laughed, “You worry too much, Sugriva. But tell us, what can Rama do to convince you he is stronger than your brother Vali?”

 

5. Seven sala trees

Sugriva was briefly shamefaced; yet he knew he was right to doubt that any man could quell his awesome brother. He said, “Don’t mistake me, Lakshmana. It isn’t that I doubt Rama’s prowess, just that I am so afraid of Vali.”

He fell quiet for a moment, as if debating whether or not to speak his mind. He seemed to decide for it, and said slowly, “Once we came hunting together on this mountain, long before the curse was laid on him. You see these seven sala trees growing in a crescent? Vali shot them with seven arrows and the shafts went right through their trunks. Look, the scars are still on them.”

His eyes darted from Lakshmana’s face to Rama’s. “Don’t be angry, Kshatriyas. But I would hate to see my brother kill you: that would break my heart. Come with me.”

Around the corner from the cave mouth lay the skeleton of a creature that had been as tall as five men. Its huge bones glinted dully in the sun. Lakshmana cried, “What is it?”

Sugriva said, “Dundubhi’s skeleton. If Rama can lift this skeleton and throw it for a yojana, I will believe he is as strong as Vali.”

Rama smiled kindly. “It is natural for you to be full of doubt after what you have suffered. I will do my best to convince you that I am stronger than Vali; though I fear it won’t be easy.”

He strode up to the skeleton and lifted it with one hand. Effortlessly he flung it high into the air. It vanished into the sky, and then they saw it as a dim speck, falling beyond the horizon ten yojanas away. Four of the vanaras gasped. Hanuman was the most round-eyed of them; he alone began to guess who this dark prince really was. But Sugriva hopped around the place where the rakshasa’s skeleton had lain; he chattered to himself.

Finally he explained, “When Vali flung the rakshasa here from Kishkinda, Dundubhi was much more than a skeleton. He was immense with meat and gristle: at least five times greater than his bones and ten times as heavy. But if you can also shoot an arrow through one of the sala trees, I swear I will believe you are as strong as Vali. My brother shot seven arrows through the boles of all seven.”

Rama put an arm around Sugriva. He said quietly, “I will try to convince you.”

He drew an eagle-feathered arrow from his quiver. He strung his bow so quickly the vanaras stepped back a pace from him. Rama bent his bow in a circle and shot one arrow of uncanny trajectory through all seven trees. Sugriva gave a hoarse cry. His monkeys leaped into the air, gibbering in amazement. Rama’s arrow, which had entered the earth beyond the seventh sala, flew up from the ground behind him and settled back into his quiver.

Sugriva whispered, “Vali is dead.” Then he shouted so the mountain echoed with his cries: “Vali is dead! Rama has killed Vali!”

He turned to Rama and grasped his hands. He danced around him, crying, “Forgive me that I doubted you. You are among archers what the sun is among planets, what Himavan is among mountains, what the lion is among beasts!

“But why waste time? Let the thorn in my heart, which has lodged there for so long, be removed today. Let me sleep this night in peace, knowing my enemy is dead. I can’t wait a moment to be free of fear. Let us go and kill Vali!”

Rama smiled at his excitement. He embraced Sugriva fondly, and said, “Let us go then.”

They set out for Kishkinda. At times the vanaras loped along beside the kshatriyas on the ground, and at others they swung through the branches of the trees, picking ripe fruit for Rama and Lakshmana on the way.

 

6. An arrow from the leaves

Sugriva stood at the gates of Kishkinda and roared a ringing challenge to Vali. Rama and Lakshmana hid themselves behind some trees and waited. Vali was amazed at what he heard: his cowardly brother, whose nerve he thought he had broken forever, had come to fight. He would show him; he would mangle him. He laughed aloud in his court. Great Vali cried, “Sugriva has come to challenge me. Has he gone mad? Or is he so sick of exile that he prefers to die?”

Vali came out of his city gates like the sun. He was Indra’s son, a mighty vanara in his prime. He did not say a word to his brother. With a roar, Vali charged Sugriva as bull apes of the jungle still do, and knocked him to the ground. Emboldened by the thought of Rama hidden in the jungle, Sugriva jumped up and fought back.

As they fought, both vanaras grew tall as trees. They rained blows like thunder and lightning on each other. Like Budha and Angaraka, who fought across the sky in ancient times, the brothers battled in the jungle outside the secret city. Each blow was like Indra’s vajra striking, and the forest shuddered.

Rama fitted an arrow to his bow. He drew the bowstring to his ear and waited his chance. But he could not tell Vali from Sugriva! They were like twins, as alike as the Aswins of heaven. Rama waited, trying to distinguish vanara from vanara in the hot fray of curses and blows; but he could not. When he saw that no golden arrow flashed out from the jungle to deliver him from his brother, Sugriva panicked. He cringed from the fight, and at once Vali unleashed a flurry of blows to his head. Sugriva spat blood. He turned tail and fled howling through the forest.

Vali chased him until he reached the boundary of Matanga’s curse. He roared after his brother, “Don’t come back or I will kill you!”

Not pausing even to look over his shoulder, Sugriva flew screaming back to Rishyamooka. He did not see Rama anywhere. Only when he had scampered up the loftiest peak did he sit sobbing his sense of betrayal on a wind-worn crag.

Shortly Rama, Lakshmana, and Hanuman arrived on the mountain. Sugriva was just a terrified monkey now. He shivered and bared his fangs. He growled; he turned away from Rama. At last he whined, “You came here offering me friendship. You showed me how strong you were. But instead of killing Vali, you stood by while he almost killed me.”

He was so angry he would have attacked the prince. He wiped the blood from his nose and mouth and studied it briefly, moaning. He shivered at how close he had come to dying.

Tears in his eyes, Rama cried, “I couldn’t tell you and Vali apart! You look so alike; you walk and even fight exactly like each other. My bow was bent, my arrow was ready: but I could not tell if I aimed at Vali or at you. I did not want to kill you instead of your brother.”

Sugriva stopped whining. He scratched his head and considered this. The vanara laughed nervously, as the truth of what had happened dawned on him.

Rama said, “You must not lose heart; we will kill Vali before tomorrow’s sun sets. Lakshmana, make a garland for Sugriva with some gajapushpi vine. So I can tell him from his brother, and I will know which one to kill.”

Drawing his sword, Lakshmana severed a length of the colorful elephant-flower creeper. Tying its ends together, he made a garland for Sugriva and draped it around the vanara’s neck. They slept that night without much comfort. Often Sugriva groaned in his sleep, when his dreams showed him his brother, fangs bared, hands outstretched to throttle him.

*   *   *

The next day, the rising sun saw them at the gates of Kishkinda once more. Rama had to reassure Sugriva repeatedly, hugging the wounded vanara, comforting him. At last, Lakshmana said bluntly that the choice was either to trust Rama or to return to his life of terror on Rishyamooka. Again the kshatriyas hid themselves behind a tree entwined with a dense creeper. With them were Hanuman, Nala, Thara, and Neela, who was once Sugriva’s Senapati. For a clearer view, Rama climbed onto one of the leafy branches.

Sugriva drew a deep breath. Taking the last shreds of courage in his hands, he rattled the wooden gates. He kicked those gates and roared his challenge to his brother within the city.

In his wife’s bed, Vali awoke in surprise. The coward he had given such a thrashing had come back roaring for more fight. Vali leaped out of bed and clothed himself. He would not let Sugriva off alive today.

But his queen, the sage and comely Tara, said, “Only yesterday you gave Sugriva a beating, and he is back already. If I know him, he would sit licking his wounds for a year before he dared return. I am sure he has not come alone. Be careful, Vali, my every instinct warns me of danger.”

Vali stared at her in surprise. Tara said, “Angada told me two kshatriyas have been in the jungle lately. Their names are Rama and Lakshmana. I am sure Sugriva has their help that he dares come so boldly to our gates. I have heard Rama has no equal as an archer, that he blazes like the fire at the end of the yugas. Listen to me today, Vali: befriend Sugriva and crown him yuvaraja; end this enmity, it will benefit us all. After all, he is your brother who once loved you. Perhaps he did not lie about the cave and the Asura. My heart quails for you, my love: don’t make an enemy of Rama!”

But Vali was too angry at being woken from his morning dreams in her arms to pay Tara any heed. He cried, “How can I let him taunt me at my gates? What kind of king shall I be if I don’t respond with a fight? As for Rama, I have heard he is an embodiment of dharma. Even if he could, how will such a prince kill me when he has no quarrel with me? But for your sake, I won’t kill my foolish brother. I will only give him a sounder beating than he had yesterday, and he will never come back.”

Tara came out into the passage with Vali. She had tears in her eyes as she clasped him tightly, her slim form quivering in his arms. He laughed, “You are frightened for nothing! Go back inside. I will come back to you as soon as I have chased that fool away with the thrashing he is howling for.”

Helpless, Tara went back into her apartment.

Vali swaggered out of his gates, roaring for Sugriva. His brother sprang at him with fresh courage, now that the actual moment of battle was here. Raging like two storms they fought; their blows were like earthquakes.

Rama waited in his tree hoping that, by a miracle perhaps, Sugriva would kill his brother without his help. He knew if he shot Vali down with his arrow, that karma would cling to his name forever; and a stain on white cloth is always starker for being on otherwise taintless fabric. Tensely, Rama waited. Vali struck Sugriva with fists of thunder, and Sugriva uprooted a young sala and struck his brother back. They had grown tree-tall again, in titanic combat.

Rama waited for a miracle. But again, it was Sugriva who tired first: perhaps because he relied on the strength of another, while Vali counted just on himself. Suddenly courage failed Sugriva. Vali struck him three awful blows on his temples and his knees buckled. He swayed on his feet and began to fall. Then Rama shot Vali through the chest from his tree; the sound of his bowstring was like the end of the world.

The sky and the earth shook at Vali’s scream when Rama’s arrow pierced him like fire. He toppled like a great tree felled by an ax. With a crash, Vali fell to Rama’s cunning shaft, and at once the sky was dark as dusk over Kishkinda. They say Vali the vanara fell as the Indradhanush falls onto the earth on the paurnima day of Asvayuja, when the rainbow is pulled down after the festival of the king of the Devas.

 

7. Vali’s anguish

Vali looked like a fallen God with Rama’s arrow in his chest. Kishkinda’s heartbeat stopped around its stricken king; silence fell on the jungle kingdom. The trees strained down over the wild warrior. The birds in their branches were hushed; no vanara made a sound. Nothing stirred as Vali lay there like a sunset cloud edged with the gold of his father Indra’s garland. His chest heaved; his breathing was agonized.

Magnificent Vali lay upon the earth like Yayati of old, who fell when his punya was exhausted; like the sun fallen into the world at the end of the yuga. He was a smokeless flame, incandescent and pure. A dancer in a dream, Rama emerged from hiding like a vision at the hour of dying. With Lakshmana at his side, he came softly toward Vali. The silence in that place was complete: an ocean of quiet, the heart of death. Rama stood over Indra’s vanara son.

Vali had shut his eyes in anguish and disbelief. Now he let them flicker open and stared at Rama, who stood unstringing his bow. Vali waited for the prince to come near. Then the fallen vanara spoke, and his voice was clear though death was upon him.

“How did you shoot me down from hiding like a coward? I fought my brother, not you, and suddenly you struck me with your arrow. You have killed me, Rama. Why?” It was no empty question; life ebbed swiftly from Vali. “What do you gain by my death? You are a noble king’s son, a prince from a renowned and flawless line. I have heard you are generous and brave, truthful and just. I have heard your compassion and your courage are hardly of this earth. Why, I have heard you are an incarnation of dharma.

“A kshatriya should be a master of his emotions. Patience should adorn his character, manliness, truth, and valor. Just before I came out to fight, my wife Tara warned me Sugriva must have made you his ally. But I scoffed at her fear; I thought you were a man of honor. What should I fear from you, with whom I had no enmity? But, oh, how wrong I was.

“You are the worst kind of sinner: the one who pretends to be dharma itself. You are a dark well covered with green grass; treacherous prince, no one knows what you really are until it is too late. I have done you no wrong. Did I come to your kingdom and insult you? Sugriva and I are not even of your human kind. We are vanaras, monkeys of the jungle, living here, fighting our own battle. Yet you have killed me today: you who are a kshatriya and know every nuance of dharma. You came here and took it upon yourself to string your bow with my death and strike me with it from hiding. Why, Rama?”

His eyes welled over. Vali shook his head slowly, from side to side. “We are monkeys of the forest. To us, fighting over a kingdom, a flashy bauble, or a woman is part of our nature. How does our quarrel concern you so much that you kill me for it? You have not even heard both sides of our story. And look at me: all my glory is as nothing now, that you have struck me down, Rama of Ayodhya. What will you say when the rishis of the earth ask you why you lolled Vali? A king may hunt an animal of the jungle. But for what do you kill a monkey? Not his meat or his hide, not his bones or his hair. Brahmanas and kshatriyas may eat the flesh of animals with five nails. But look at my hand; it has just four. Why have you killed me, Rama?”

His chest heaved again and speech came tortured from him. “Dasaratha is cursed that he has a son who is addicted to killing; and killing by stealth and deceit. If you had challenged me openly, I would have crushed you. But you crept upon me like a serpent in the grass and you shot me down.

“I have heard something of your story from my vanaras. I know you want to please Sugriva, so he will help you find your wife. But if only you had come to me first, I would have brought her to you in a day, and Ravana with a rope round his neck. Instead, you have killed me. When I am gone Sugriva will have my throne; and that much, at least, is lawful. But not that you killed me. That torments my spirit as it leaves this broken body, because I don’t know why I have been shot down like a beast on a hunt.”

His eyes were blurred and his voice had grown weak. But Vali spoke quietly, with no rancor. He said, “Rama, tell me before I die why you have killed me. I want to know, I truly want to know.”

Sugriva stood by, silent, his eyes not dry. Now that Vali lay helpless, all Sugriva’s terror had vanished, and nostalgia and love surged in him again. Vali’s breath rasped in his throat, and his natural splendor grew dim like a fire that had burned down.

 

8. The light beyond

For a long moment, Rama stood silent and grave over the dying Vali. Then he said quietly, “I fear you don’t understand everything about dharma. Lakshmana and I belong to the House of the Sun. It is our dharma in the name of the king, my brother Bharata in Ayodhya, to punish those that sin. We are kshatriyas of the earth: the solemn power to judge is vested in us.

“You speak of dharma. But you don’t seem to know that by dharma a man has three fathers in the world: his own father, his guru, and his older brother. In this world, an older brother should treat his younger brother like a son. Sugriva was a loving and obedient brother to you. But you drove him from your kingdom; worse still, you took his wife Ruma for yourself.

“That is why I shot you down today, Vanara: you broke dharma by taking your brother’s wife. I could not but judge you, and kill you for what you made Sugriva suffer. He and I have sworn friendship by an oath of Agni. He is as dear to me as Lakshmana. If anyone treated my brother as you have done Sugriva, I would kill him. The oaths I swear are not empty; they bind me in honor.

“It is not appearances by which we judge, but by the soul. Sugriva is a pure and untainted soul; while you, who are so powerful, who are a great king of your people, are lost in darkness. You are beyond the pale of dharma: a king like you must not be left alive.”

Vali’s breath wheezed painfully, and his eyes shone with unworldly knowledge streaming into his heart at what the Avatara said. Now he heard transcendent echoes in the blue prince’s words, and they enfolded him, consoled him on the threshold of death.

Rama was saying, “The princes of Ikshvaku rule the world. You say I shot you from hiding. But through time, the kings of the earth set traps for wild creatures of the jungle. We hunted them from trees or with nets. You are strong and valiant. But as you say yourself, you are a vanara, an animal. I did not break dharma when I hunted you.”

Not by what Rama said was Vali assuaged, but by his unearthly voice, and the visions that unfurled in the vanara’s head as he listened: like golden lotuses, thousand-petaled. Rama’s love washed into him in a tide. The dying monkey saw hidden realms of life opening before him, and he knew Rama had killed him in compassion and in forgiveness of all his sins. He knew death was only the beginning of a deeper, more glorious existence. It was redemption. Rama’s voice opened a path of light out of the bondage of the body; and when he had a glimpse of what lay beyond, Vali understood who this dark prince was, who stood before him. A smile touched his lips and his eyes softened. He knew Rama had not only killed him, but also delivered him to eternal life.

Then he thought of his son, and Vali was snatched back into anxiety. He took Rama’s hand, held it tightly, and breathed, “Now I know who you are, my lord. Forgive me that I doubted you. But a great care holds my spirit back in this world. My son Angada is still tender. He is my only child; he has much to learn yet and he will pine for his father’s love. I am not worried about anyone else, not even my queen.

“Who has you has everything, prince of light. What is a vanara kingdom, when he who has your love can be a king in heaven? Protect my son, Rama; let him be as dear to you as Lakshmana or Bharata. And my Tara, don’t let Sugriva harm her.”

The light around Rama grew blinding, and the dying vanara saw it was the light of his own soul. His heart was awash on the sea of splendor, flowing in waves from the blue kshatriya; only Vali saw Rama as he truly was.

In ecstasy, Vali cried, “I answered Sugriva’s challenge just to die at your hands! If I lived a thousand lives, each time I would not die any other way. Look after Angada, Lord; let your blessing be upon him.”

Vali’s breath, came in ragged gasps as Rama knelt beside him and took his hand.

Rama said, “Only fate decides how a man shall die. When he is born, already deep in his body the secret of his death nestles; no man may live a moment longer than he was born to. I swear Angada shall have my protection, and he will be as dear to Sugriva as he was to you. I will see to that.”

Suddenly, they heard heartbroken wailing from within the walls of Kishkinda. They heard the shrill yowls of the vanaras’ panic when they learned their king was slain. The monkeys fled into the jungle in every direction, for fear that they too would be killed. Above the bedlam, Rama and Vali heard the ululating lament of a queen. Tara came out of the palace, bringing her son Angada with her.

 

9. Tara’s grief

As Tara came wailing out of Kishkinda, someone cried to her, “Tara, save yourself and your son. Vali is killed, and our enemies are at our gates.”

But she snarled at that vanara, “My husband lies dying outside the city and you speak to me of saving myself. My life has already gone from me.”

Crying his name, she ran to where Vali lay with Rama’s arrow in his chest. Never before had anyone vanquished Vali in battle. He had cast great rocks at his enemies as his father of light did his vajra of a thousand joints. He had killed countless Asuras. Vali’s roar had been like thunder; his courage had been deeper than Indra’s. Tara could hardly believe her eyes when she saw he lay on the ground, gasping his last, and his killer so terribly bright above him.

Tara fell on her knees beside Vali and clasped him to her. Angada wept as loudly as his mother. Tara gazed at the arrow plunged into her husband’s chest. She felt it gingerly with her fingers, and sobbed. Vali’s eyes were shut; he had drifted off on the sweet pain and the uncanny peace of his death.

Tara cried, “Why don’t you open your eyes and look at me? It is I, Tara, your wife. Come, my lord, let us go back to the palace. I will wash your face with cool water and you can sleep for a while. Then you will be well again.”

But Vali said nothing. Only his breath still rasped cruelly from him, rattling his torn chest. Tara stared at him for some moments, her tears flowing as if they had life and passage of their own. She sighed, “This bed you lie on is hard; you are not used to such a hard bed. But perhaps a more wonderful Kishkinda calls you from another world. Oh Vali, am I so unfeeling that I can see you like this and my heart doesn’t break and my life fly out of my worthless body?

“Why didn’t you listen to me when I warned you this morning? Vali, I am afraid: Angada will be at Sugriva’s mercy now. Your brother cannot love you for what you have done to him. Angada, look at your father for the last time!”

She turned her face up to Sugriva, who stood hugging himself as if he was very cold. He crooned to himself, shifting from one foot to the other: a restless, anxious monkey.

Tara said to him, “How happy you must be, Sugriva. Your brother is dead and the kingdom is yours. With your human friend’s help, your long ambition has been fulfilled.

“Vali, why don’t you speak to me? It is I, Tara, who kneel beside you.”

She sobbed; she cried she would fast to death from this moment. Hanuman came to her and said kindly, “All of us reap the fruit of our karma. Why should we mourn anyone else? When we are all pitiable, like bubbles riding briefly on a current until they burst. This whole world is a transient place, a dream. Tara, your dharma is not to die for Vali, but to live for Angada. Your husband was noble and gracious, save for one crime. He will find the heaven meant for the brave.

“Your people look to you for strength, and Angada must perform the last rites for his father. My queen, it is a time when your womanly strength must give solace to others. Let Angada fulfill his sacred dharma as a son, and then let him be crowned yuvaraja. Tara, compose yourself.”

But Tara only sobbed louder. She called out to Vali again and again; she cried that she would die beside him. Suddenly, Vali’s eyes flew open, blazing with death, and his gaze lighted on his brother who stood guilty as a murderer.

Vali called softly, “Sugriva, come near. I want to speak to you.”

Sugriva padded warily up to him, on tiptoe. Vali whispered, “Now I feel sorry that I hurt you for so long. My arrogance and the fear in my heart made me mad. Fate was envious of our old love, my brother; she conspired to set us against each other. Take the kingdom from me, Sugriva. I give it to you gladly, because I know you will make a good king. But come nearer and hear my last wishes.”

He reached out and grasped his brother’s hand, and Sugriva’s eyes brimmed over. Vali said, “Now Angada has only you to depend on; look after him like your own son. He is more precious to me than my life, and I leave him in your care. He is brave, if young, and a fine warrior; he will prove himself noble. And Tara. Sugriva, my Tara is wise and seasoned in statecraft. Consult her about everything you do: she has been most of my wisdom while I ruled.”

He paused, in pain, before continuing, “Then there is this Rama who has come among us like providence. Be sure to help him with all your heart, for he is great and glorious beyond our understanding. He has come to the world to dispel its darkness. Help him with all your might: nothing is more important!

“Now take my garland and wear it round your neck. Take it quickly before life leaves me, or its power will fade.”

Sugriva wept like an orphaned child. Gone was any joy he had felt that Vali was slain; gone any eager anticipation of kingdom. His hands shaking, he gently removed Indra’s golden garland from Vali’s neck and draped it around his own.

Vali called his son to him. He drew Angada close, and kissed him. “My child, your life has changed. Don’t chase after pleasure any more. Accept whatever comes to you, joy or grief, calmly. From now you must please your uncle Sugriva. He may not cosset you as I did; but obey him in all things and treat his enemies as yours. Don’t be too attached to anyone, nor coldly detached; adopt a middle course. Remember, listen to Sugriva and grow used to his guardianship.”

Vali reached out to stroke his son’s cheek a last time, and life went out of him. Tara screamed long and piercingly. The vanara chieftain Neela went up to the dead king’s body and drew the arrow from his chest. Tara made Angada prostrate himself at his father’s feet.

Sugriva came to Rama with folded hands and tears flowing down his face. “You have kept your word and Vali is dead. But I feel no joy when I see Tara weep, Angada fatherless, and my brother lying on the earth as a corpse. I caused Vali’s death from my greed, and I regret it bitterly. I want no kingdom any more; I must seek the peace of my soul. I will return to Rishyamooka and sit in penance for the crime of killing my brother.

“How many times we fought each other, Vali and I. How often he held my life in his hands, and always he cried, ‘Leave my sight! I haven’t the heart to kill you.’ My brother loved me, but I did not understand him. I should never have wished him dead. I am a terrible sinner; I am not fit to rule.”

Fingering the garland around his neck, he sobbed, “Look at my brother’s generosity even after I had him killed: he made me wear this heavenly thing. Rama, I will tell my people to seek out your Sita for you. And they will find her. But I cannot bear to live any longer; not even on Rishyamooka will a sinner like me find peace. There is only one way for me: I will make a pyre for myself and die!”

Rama stood disconsolate to hear Sugriva raving like this. Tara rose from Vali’s side and came to him.

“Rama of Ayodhya, I have heard you are merciful. Take pity on me and kill me with the same arrow that took my husband’s life. We shall be united again, and he will be happy. You have been separated from your wife; you can understand my pain. Noble prince, you cannot want Vali to suffer as you do. Send me to him, Rama, he needs me. No sin will cling to you, I swear, not even the one of killing a woman.”

Rama said to her, “You are a great king’s wife: you should not give in so tamely to despair. Fate rules this world, and all that happens here is by Brahma’s will. Once Angada is crowned yuvaraja you will be happy again. Fate is all there is in this world; all of us are her playthings. We begin and end by her dictates; then how can we resist her during our brief lives? Only fate knows what is best for us and what our ends are. Only she knows which fork on the long road we must take; only she knows why, and what lies around the next corner. All that is, is by fate. And at last, she takes us into heaven, as she has taken Vali today.

“Put away this despair. No woman whose husband was a warrior, and whose son is a warrior, should give in to grief. Be brave, O queen, and perform the last rites for Vali.”

Lakshmana spoke to Sugriva, and they arranged for the royal palanquin to be fetched from the city. When they heard about the final reconciliation between Sugriva and Vali, and of Sugriva’s remorse, the vanaras gathered around again. Near where Vali had fallen, they heaped a tall pyre with fragrant sandalwood. When they had bathed his body in the river, they laid their dead king upon it with honor. Holding back his tears, Angada touched his father’s pyre alight with a flaming branch. They prayed for the peace of Vali’s soul, as the flames licked him into ashes.

They went back to the river and bathed, and offered tarpana to the departed one. Then they returned to Kishkinda.

 

10. King of the vanaras

The vanaras gathered outside Kishkinda, outside the cave that led into the secret city. The monkey chieftains were all there; anxiety was writ large on their faces; it was plain in their uneasy movements and nervous chattering. At the cunningly concealed cave mouth Hanuman came to Rama, and said, “By your grace, Sugriva has the kingdom of his ancestors. Advise him what to do next. He feels guilty and talks of killing himself. Our people are alarmed; they want a strong king to rule them.”

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.

Sugriva’s ministers ran in to him in panic. Their king rose unsteadily. He asked for water, with which he splashed his arms and face. The water stung him; he squealed at its coldness and shook his fur. At last, the vanara king was more or less awake. He stood swaying slightly before his nephew and his ministers. But now his eyes were wide open, and he asked in a clear voice, “What is all the fuss about?”

Hanuman said, “Rama and Lakshmana are princes of dharma. You swore friendship with them and they helped you recover your kingdom. Lakshmana stands at your gates with his bow in his hand, and our army is terrified because the unearthly thing shines so brightly. The prince’s eyes burn in wrath, Sugriva. Tell him you mean to keep your word to Rama, or we are all dead.”

Suddenly Sugriva grasped the peril he was in. He gave a moan and cried, “I have done nothing to offend the princes of Ayodhya. Why does Lakshmana come here with anger in his eyes? Some enemy of mine has poisoned his mind against me. Not that I am afraid of him; I am not afraid of him or of Rama. But it pains me that our friendship is at risk. Oh, the mind is fickle, and the smallest slip is enough to kill sacred friendship. And you all know I owe Rama everything I have today.”

Hanuman said, “You must reassure Lakshmana that you have not forgotten your debt of gratitude. Rama is not really angry, only anxious. But you have lost track of the seasons. The monsoon is over, when skies were dark and rivers turbid; it has been tranquil Sharada for more than a month. While you have been happy at love and wine, Rama has pined for his wife. He counts not the seasons and months, but each moment of his life that passes without Sita; and every one is like a wretched year to him.

“He has sent Lakshmana to you in anguish. Don’t be offended if the messenger’s words are harsh; he has cause to be aggrieved. You say you are not afraid of Rama. But if he strings his bow, the three worlds cringe, because he can extinguish them with his arrows. He loves you, Sugriva; keep that love. Rama is more than you or I can imagine.

“Forgive me if I speak too plainly, but it is my dharma to save you from folly.”

Sugriva stood staring thoughtfully at his quiet minister. Slowly, the wine-sodden fog lifted from his mind. The vanara king bowed solemnly to Hanuman, to acknowledge his wisdom. Sugriva sent his doorkeepers to escort Lakshmana through the king’s own underground passage.

Like the sun entering a rain cloud, Lakshmana came into Sugriva’s palace. Along carved wooden terraces, curling corridors, and polished halls, he was led through the labyrinthine edifice. He paused at the threshold of the antapura. He heard exquisite music within, and saw the beautiful women of the vanara’s harem. The tinkling of their silver anklets, the warm, breathy whispering of their voices, the fragrance of their delicate bodies invaded him like a seductive army.

Growing confused, he pulled violently on his bowstring and Kishkinda shook to its foundations.

 

14. The diplomacy of Tara

Sugriva turned pale when he heard the thunder of Lakshmana’s bowstring. For all his boasting, he dared not face the angry prince. Terror gripped the vanara king and his fur stood on end. He turned to the lovely Tara and said, “My queen, this kshatriya’s real nature is gentle, and he is as easily calmed as he is roused. Go to him, Tara; he will never show his anger to a woman. Pacify him, then bring him here and I will speak to him.”

Lakshmana waited alone in a corner, away from the eyes of the women of the harem. When the lovely Tara came to him in the wooden hall where he stood, she sensed his tenseness and his fury. Hesitantly she came, her long eyes cast down and only half open from all the wine she had drunk with Sugriva. Her slender body quivered with fear, like a lotus in a breeze. Yet she came with great poise, and was entirely queenly. Lakshmana knew who she was, but not why she had come. Thinking, even, that she had been sent to seduce him, he turned his back on her and stood glaring out a window. But Tara came softly up to him.

She said, “Be welcome to Kishkinda, O Kshatriya. But, great Lakshmana, you come in anger. Tell me, what is the cause of your rage, at which our city trembles? Who has been foolish enough to light a fire in a forest of dry trees?”

She touched him swift and deep. What man could ignore Tara’s beautiful voice or her utterly feminine presence? This was not the kind of battle Lakshmana relished. With an effort, he steadied himself and quietened the disconcerting tumult in his body.

He said to her, decorously, “My lady, your husband has sent you to placate me. But don’t be blind to what he has done. Once he became king, he has forgotten my brother Rama, who restored his kingdom to him. Wine and women are all he remembers, and dharma is far from his mind. These months that Sugriva has spent indulging himself, Rama has languished in the forest, with grief driving him to the edge of madness. Is this the friendship that Sugriva swore, with Agni as his witness? He has betrayed us, and an ingrate comes to a bad end.”

Lakshmana spoke quietly. But there was truth in his words and his eyes still smoldered dangerously. Tara did not reply at once; she considered what to say. Her task was a delicate and grave one, and she knew it.

At last she said, “Kshatriya, even great rishis fall prey to the temptations of Kama. What, then, of a fickle monkey whose nature you well know? After years of being denied in the wilderness, Sugriva could hardly help indulging himself. He fell so avidly to pleasure that he left even the governance of the kingdom to his ministers.

“But, noble Lakshmana, Sugriva had no desire to hurt Rama or you. It isn’t that he does not value your friendship; he was merely lost in a sensuous dream. You have woken him from his stupor; now let Rama, who is tolerance embodied, forgive him.”

Lakshmana looked at this bewitching queen, and thought, who could refuse her anything she wanted? But he also made no immediate reply, only gazed evenly at her.

Tara said, “I think you should also know, my lord, that Sugriva has already ordered his vanaras to come to Kishkinda. He means to send them forth in every direction on the quest for Sita. He did this even before you came here. Hundreds of thousands of monkeys from all over the world already fly to us at their king’s command.”

She saw Lakshmana give a start at this news she had subtly kept for the last. She saw his eyes soften and knew her little battle was won: she had saved Kishkinda and its king from immediate danger. Tara said, “Come with me to the antapura. I can see you are pure and strong, and will not be tainted by its sights. Sugriva is waiting for you.”

She walked before him through winding, climbing, simian corridors, along knotted branches of the ancestral tree into which the complex palace was built; and they came to the antapura, Sugriva’s harem. Inside, the vanara king sat upon a couch of gaudy brocade. He wore fine ornaments. He sat among his women, with his arms around the delectable Ruma. Lakshmana’s fury sparked alive again, and Tara sighed to herself at how indiscreet her lord was.

Sugriva sprang up when he saw Lakshmana. The kshatriya’s eyes sparked with anger. But the ways of monkeys and men are a world apart, and little could Sugriva understand that seeing him with Ruma could infuriate the human as it did. He came forward guilelessly to greet the fair prince, shambling up to him, his long arms trailing the floor. He folded his hands solemnly to Lakshmana, and stood silent, his moist brown eyes gazing at the warrior’s face.

Between his teeth, Lakshmana said, “A compassionate king, who is concerned about the suffering of others, gains fame for himself in the world. A truthful king, who remembers favors he has received and is grateful for them, deserves his renown. But a king who strays from dharma, who forgets his solemn oath sworn to his friend: there is no one worse than him. There is redemption from every sin in this world, prayaschitta for even the murder of a brahmana. But where is the salvation for an ungrateful man?

“Sugriva, you lied to us when you swore you would help find Sita. Rama kept his word to you; for your sake, he took Vali’s life. But when you had what you wanted, you ignored Rama’s need. The gates through which Vali went are not shut. If you don’t honor your oath sworn before Agni, Rama’s arrows will send you after your brother. Rama bids me tell you there is still time for you to relent. But hurry, Sugriva; before both your time and his mercy run out.”

Lakshmana spoke fiercely. It seemed the calmness that Tara had brought to his spirit was shaken at the sight of Sugriva at his dalliance, while Rama was waiting in anguish for the vanara to find Sita. Tara wanted Sugriva to be quiet, lest, in his inebriated anxiety, he say the wrong thing.

She said quickly, “You leap to the wrong conclusions, my prince. Sugriva is not a liar, nor has he forgotten his oath. Sugriva loves Rama. For Rama this vanara will sacrifice everything, even his kingdom. Why, he would gladly abandon Ruma and me, for Rama’s sake. Even in my bed, my husband speaks of Rama. I have told you, mighty Lakshmana, Sugriva has already called his legion vanaras to him, to send them to the corners of the earth to seek Sita out. Shed your anger, good Kshatriya. The vanaras will discover Sita swiftly, wherever she may be hidden.”

As Tara spoke of Sugriva’s devotion to Rama, the transformation that came over Lakshmana was quite marvelous. His body grew calm and a smile lit his handsome face like the sun breaking through dark clouds. Sugriva breathed a sigh of relief; his drunkenness had left him. He took Lakshmana gingerly by his hand and led him into his apartment.

He sat him down on a couch and, crooning in affection, said, “How can you ever think I would forget Rama, when I owe him everything I have today? Nothing can repay my debt to your brother. I may be just a vanara, but I am not such an ingrate. Not that a kshatriya who can shoot one arrow through seven sala trees needs my help. But for what it is worth, all my resources are Rama’s to use. Why, my very life belongs to him.

“And when he sets out to kill the rakshasa who took Sita, I will follow him with my army. I will follow Rama anywhere: let him forgive me just this once.” Wringing his hands, he stood before Lakshmana.

The vapors of anger had risen away from that prince’s mind. He said slowly, “With you at his side, loving Sugriva, Rama will surely vanquish his enemy. But now come with me to Prasravana. Rama needs to see you to restore his faith. As for me, I spoke harshly only because I have watched my brother’s anguish these five months and found it hard to bear. Sugriva, forgive me for what I said impetuously.”

There was genuine sorrow in the vanara’s eyes as he heard about Rama. He turned to Hanuman: “My monkeys from Vindhya and Himavan, Mahendra and Kailasa, march on Kishkinda even now. Send word to them to make haste. Fifteen days was the limit I set. Five have already passed. Rama is in pain; my people must be here in ten days.”

Before he had finished speaking, they heard an alarm in the streets below them, and the noise came toward the palace. Through the window, Sugriva saw that his colorful people had begun to arrive from far-flung parts of the earth. They came to his door with gifts for their king, and he welcomed them graciously.

When he had seen to the comfort of those first troops, Sugriva called for his palanquin. He climbed into it with Lakshmana and they set out for Prasravana. The hefty, long-limbed vanara carriers loped through the forest, flying lightly through the lower branches of the trees when passage was difficult on the ground. They arrived at the cave to which Lakshmana guided them with jungle directions of tree, rock, and stream. By now he was no stranger to the vana, and he knew how those who lived here found their way.

Sugriva alighted from the wooden litter; he came nervously into Rama’s presence. As soon as the vanara saw the prince, he gave a low cry and stretched himself on his face at Rama’s feet, his tail coiled, his eyes lowered for shame. But Rama raised up the great monkey and embraced him. Only gently did he chide him, saying with a smile, “My friend, dharma, artha, and kama should be of equal importance in one’s life. To be aware only of kama is as dangerous as falling asleep on the brittle branch of a tree. I hope you remember your promise to me, Sugriva, that you would find my Sita.”

His eyes wandering everywhere except to Rama’s face, Sugriva said, “You are like a God to me! Everything I have today is because of you. How can I forget what I promised you, Rama? Even as we speak, thousands of vanaras converge on Kishkinda. The first monkey tribes have already arrived. Soon the city and the hillside will swarm with my people.

“When they are all here, I will give the command and they will fly to comb the world. Wherever Ravana has hidden her, my vanaras will discover your Sita.”

Sugriva took Rama’s hand and stroked it. “You shall not have long to wait; bear with me just ten days more.”

Rama saw he spoke the truth. He saw the monkey king’s love in his eyes and, knowing his simple nature, he gladly forgave Sugriva. He put the delay down to his own karma, and hugged his friend. At least now he knew what arrangements Sugriva had made to find Sita. This was infinitely better than the hell he had been in, not knowing if the vanara meant to keep his word at all.

 

15. The quest for Sita

In swinging legions, the vanaras of the world poured into the cradleland of their race. By the tenth day after Sugriva met Rama at Prasravana, the hillside reverberated with their exuberance at being all together in the forest of their ancestors, as they had not been for centuries. The trees flashed bright fur, shining eyes, glittering jewelry, vivid scarves, caps, and clothes. Indeed great, they said to each other, must be the cause that brings all the monkey people on earth together at their king’s gates. They were not particular about shelter and every tree in the forest housed ten husky males.

Sugriva came again to Rama’s cave that overlooked the sea of vanaras on the hill below. Bowing to him, the monkey king cried, “My people have answered my call. Think that I have a hundred thousand bodies myself; for it is my spirit that goes abroad as my people to seek out Sita. Rama, the vanaras of the earth and their king are yours to command!”

Rama said, “My loyal friend, let your people find where Ravana lives. Let them discover whether Sita is alive. But command your great army yourself, Sugriva: they are your people and you are their king.”

Sugriva summoned a vanara chieftain called Vinata. He said to Vinata, “Take a fourth of our army and go west. On the mountains, and in their every cave, search for Sita. Seek her as you might seek your very life if it were lost. Seek her in jungles, across rivers, and upon hills. Cross the Ganga, the Yamuna, and the Saraswati on your quest; cross the Sindhu. If you still don’t find her, cross into alien lands. Scour the frontier countries for her and fly back to me in a month. May success attend your search. For your life shall be forfeit, Vinata, if you do not find Sita.”

Sugriva sent Hanuman to the south, with Angada to lead that expedition. He sent Tara’s father, Sushena, to the east, with a teeming force, and Shatabali to the north. To each vanara chieftain, Sugriva described all the lands and nations he would search in astonishing detail. Rama wondered at how widely Sugriva had ranged over the earth, and how well he remembered everything he had seen on his journeys. This was not knowledge acquired from stories he had heard: it was the learning of sight and sound, touch, scent, and adventure.

Then Sugriva called Hanuman to him alone. “Wherever she may be, there is no one more likely to find Sita than you. Not the mottled face of the earth, not the sky with its realms of clouds, not the seven seas can contain you, Son of the wind. O ablest of all my people, not even the worlds of spirits are inaccessible to you, who can fly as swiftly as your father of light and air. Do you remember the day she dropped the bundle of her jewels down to us on Rishyamooka? The Rakshasa took her south that day. While all the others may fail, I know that you, Hanuman, will find Rama’s Sita for him.”

Rama went to Hanuman and put his hands on the loving monkey’s shoulders. He smiled at Sugriva’s wisest minister. “I believe that, of all the vanaras, you will find Sita.”

Rama took a golden signet ring from his finger and pressed it into Hanuman’s long hand. “Show this to her when you find Sita, and she will know you have come from me.”

Deep peace came over the spirit of Rama when the vanara received that ring and prostrated himself before the prince. Rama was strangely certain that when Hanuman headed south to seek Sita, the quest for her would truly begin. Hanuman went down the hill and gathered his vanaras to him; and to Rama he seemed briefly like the moon with a thousand stars twinkling around him. Rama called out again to the vanara who had, from the first, impressed him as being the sagest of his kind.

“Hanuman,” he cried, waving, “remember I count on you!”

Sugriva’s army flashed away across the earth on its quest. The monkeys went through the world like fireflies through a jungle.

 

16. In the south

The vanara armies went in pageant from Prasravana, some under the trees, some over the leafy, nimble ways of their branches; and the hillside was emptied of a hundred thousand monkeys.

At the cave mouth, Rama turned to Sugriva and said with a smile, “When you described the far countries to your chieftains, I felt you had seen them all with your own eyes. How do you know so much about the earth, Sugriva?”

Sugriva said, “Rama, when my brother Vali pursued me in anger once, I fled through the world. Through forests and across rivers, over mountains and through mazes of caves I flew, with him after me. He chased me across the earth and I fled for my life with my four ministers. Finally, Hanuman reminded me of Matanga’s curse, and we came out of the north to Rishyamooka. My eyes saw the world in terror. Fear held them wide open and every detail is engraved on my memory. For years Vali chased me, Rama, and for years I flew before him.”

Teasingly, Rama asked, “Isn’t it time you returned to your palace? Tara waits for you, Sugriva, and Ruma and many others. I will see you in a month, when the moon is full again.”

In hope, Rama waited. When he grew dejected, Lakshmana was beside him to divert him from his grief. His brother took Rama on long walks through the jungle of endless fascination. Lakshmana would always say that sooner than Rama thought, Sita would be found.

*   *   *

Vinata in the west, Sushena in the east, and Shatabali in the north combed those quarters for Sita. Great vanara legions poured through forests and across rivers, over mountains and into deep caves, questioning the wild folk they met along the way, cajoling or threatening them as they saw fit. The monkeys scoured the corners of Bharatavarsha for Ravana’s kingdom or lair. But they found no trace of him, or of her whom they sought. After the month given them was over, they came back, disappointed and apprehensive, to Kishkinda and Prasravana.

Sugriva stood on the hill’s shoulder with Rama, overlooking his forces that had returned to him empty-handed. He said quietly, “These I never expected to find Sita. Didn’t we see the Rakshasa bear her away to the south? Be of firm faith, Rama. Vayu’s son Hanuman will return with news of your wife.”

*   *   *

The force of vanaras that went south with Hanuman, Angada, and Thara at its head, traveled across all the lands that Sugriva had described to them. They were exactly as he said. The intricate caves of the Vindhya mountains, its thick jungles, the hidden fissures behind many falls that plunged down mountain slopes—they searched all these, but found no sign of Ravana or Sita, nor gleaned any news of them from the denizens of those parts. Forest after forest they combed, and with each one they passed without finding her their dejection grew.

Once they wandered into the strangest vana any of them had ever seen. The trees of that forest had neither leaves nor flowers. Riverbeds they saw here, but no drop of water between their banks. It was a dead forest, where no blade of grass grew, where no living creature drew breath. The silence of the lifeless realm was absolute and Angada’s monkeys were unnerved. Huddling together, the vanara army crept breathlessly through that wasteland, and at its very heart they saw a rishi sitting in tapasya. His austere face shone, his jata was piled high, and near him was a charming pool on whose bank flowering trees grew, and trees laden with fruit.

They did not know it, neither did they dare disturb the solemn muni at his tapasya, but he was Kandu. Years ago, his son of sixteen summers had been lost in this same forest. When, after days of searching frenziedly for him, the rishi did not find the boy, he cursed the forest and everything in it to be desolate forever.

Silently, the vanaras passed through the eerie place. They went farther south. Quite suddenly, they saw trees ahead of them full of lush green leaves. They heard all the sounds of a living jungle: streams full of gushing water and branches full of birds that sang among brilliant flowers and their scents. Fierce tigers, elephant, and deer they saw, and the monkeys heaved a sigh of relief that the bizarre zone of death had ended.

But they had hardly entered the living jungle when a rakshasa, whose body faced one way and his head another, attacked them with a roar. Gibbering in fright, all the vanaras save Hanuman and Thara scampered into the nearest trees. Not that their perches were safe, because the rakshasa was as tall as any tree that grew there. Angada faced the strange monster alone.

In a wink, Vali’s son grew as tall as the demon, and cried to Hanuman, “It is Ravana, uncle, and I will kill him!”

Before the rakshasa had recovered from his surprise, Angada smashed his head with a blow. The rakshasa fell, oozing blood and brains. As he died, he told them he was not Ravana, but the Rishi Marichi’s son. Would they please release him from the bondage of his fiendish body by burning him? A thousand monkeys dug a pit for the rakshasa. In no time, they covered him with dry branches and set him alight. They saw a spirit form rise from the fire and, hands folded, ascend into the sky.

*   *   *

On they pressed. This was a jungle of endless hills, and each one had a honeycomb of caves scooped into its side. Patiently, the vanaras searched every hill and cave, flowing into those mazes in a tide of monkeys; and they came out again, shaking their heads, chattering in frustration. When they had combed that southernmost jungle without success, Angada’s vanaras gathered around a great tree that grew in a clearing at the forest’s limit. Restless and despondent, wave upon wave of the monkey folk stood around their prince.

Angada said to them, “The wise say that unwavering resolve in adversity leads to success. Don’t be discouraged, we still have a week left. Let us forget our tiredness and begin again. We may have overlooked the one cave in which the Demon holds her.”

The vanaras cheered him loudly. Like a golden river, they flowed away from the conclave around the solemn tree. Shouting encouragement to each other, they climbed the silver hill, Rajata, which was named for its pale color. Cautiously, they peered into every cave on that silvery hill. Each one they entered and searched, and they finally reached the summit. But they found no Sita, nor any clue of her.

They returned to Vindhya through the dead forest. Cave by cave, they searched that mountain, wood by wood; but not even here did they find the princess. The last week of the month Sugriva had given them elapsed. Hunger, thirst, and the weakness of the final week’s frantic efforts had taken their toll on the monkeys. The army was exhausted. Great were the numbers and the appetite of that force, and they had denuded the jungles through which they passed of all their fruit.

Suddenly, a young vanara at the foot of the mountain they were combing cried to Angada and Hanuman, “My lords, come and look! A cave we haven’t seen before.”

They scrambled down the slope and saw that there was indeed a cave mouth, overgrown with foliage and flowering creepers, and veiled by a stand of trees, as well, as if nature had conspired to keep that cavern hidden from the eyes of strangers. As they stood gazing, they felt a gust of air blow at them. The bushes across the mysterious opening were agitated and the vanaras leaped back in alarm. But only a white stork and some painted teal winged their way out from the cave, squawking at the congregation of monkeys.

A delicious fragrance wafted around the vanaras invitingly. By now hunger churned their stomachs as much as failure did their spirits, and they were desperate to discover what lay within the cave mouth. They pulled away creepers, bent bushes and small trees, and in single file, slowly, and often painfully when some thorny plants scratched their hands and faces, managed to push their way in.

That cave was called Rikshabila; but Angada’s monkeys did not know this. All was dark inside. When the creepers and bushes outside sprang back into place, no glimmer of light penetrated the blackness within. The monkeys held tightly on to one another’s hands, forming a long chain of vanaras. Now they crept forward, so no one was afraid or lost in that perpetual night. Outside, hearing that an unexplored cave had been discovered, more and more vanaras arrived at the cave mouth. Bending back tree and bush, pulling aside creepers, they also crawled into Rikshabila.

For an hour and a yojana, the vanaras crept along the perfectly dark tunnel. Where the roof was low they were forced to crawl on all fours. As they went they were swathed in the ethereal scent, always wafted to them from ahead. Then Angada, who led the way, cried, “Light!”

The vanaras at the head of the chain emerged into another cavern with a high, sloping roof. They gasped when they shaded their eyes against the glare: before them they saw a garden bathed in mellow light. A profusion of trees grew here; but they were golden trees! Their blooms shone with colors that stirred the soul: calescent colors that were not any of the rainbow, nor of this world, but beyond both. From these flowers the quintessential fragrance that had swept over them seeped all the way to the cave mouth.

Clear pools dotted the garden, their water scintillating as if they were made of droplets of diamonds and pearls. An exuberance of water birds swam on these and warbled in joy. But there was more: imposing mansions of gleaming silver stood among the groves of golden trees. In awe, the vanaras stole forward. They saw the paths at their feet were of beaten gold and, like the mansions, encrusted with thousands of tiny precious stones. Apart from the bird’s songs, a deep silence hung over the garden of enchantment, which was surely a relic from another age of the earth.

On soft feet, the wide-eyed monkey folk ventured cautiously into the first palatial edifice. They found it deserted. They came out and went into another; but that, too, had no living soul within its splendid walls. The vanaras roamed the wonderful streets for some time and they saw no one; until, all at once, Hanuman and Angada felt they were being watched.

Hanuman glanced at his prince. Angada’s eyes roved up and down the airy street. He said, “Someone is here.”

The next moment there was a quaint flash of light and a very tall woman stood before them: an ascetic wearing deerskin. She and they all stood still for a moment, staring at each other. Then she smiled at them and folded her palms. Hanuman answered her, folding his own hands and bowing deeply to her.

“Greetings, Swamini. We came through a dark tunnel and we do not know where we are. We were hungry and thirsty, and we saw water birds fly out of a cave mouth on the hillside. We followed their flight and arrived in this wonderful place. What is this garden, and who are you, holy one?”

She raised her fine hand in a blessing. “In olden days, great Mayaa, the architect of the Asuras, who built the fabled Tripura, created this garden. Mayaa worshipped Brahma with a long tapasya and the Pitama gave him the magical knowledge of architecture, which once only Usanas possessed.

“But Mayaa and Indra had battle between them over a woman, and Indra drove Mayaa from here with his vajra. Brahma gave that woman, Hema, these gardens and mansions. As for me, I am Svayamprabha, Merusavarni’s daughter, Mena’s friend, and the guardian of this Rikshabila.

“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?”

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.

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.