Hanuman lowered his hands and watched as Rama paced a few steps this way, then that, his brow furrowed with thought. He wondered if he had said everything that ought to be said, and opened his mouth to say more. He stopped himself in time, remembering what he had been told oftentimes by everyone who knew him: Enough, Hanuman. Enough. You should know when to speak and when to be quiet. A request is like a huskraft floating on water. Put too much weight upon it and it sinks. Do not use more words than you need. Of course, it was advice he had rarely heeded. It was not for nothing that his fellow vanars had nicknamed him Hanuman Loosejaws! But on this occasion, he felt he would rather say too little than too much. Speaking to this mortal, he felt a great sense of confidence, as if anything he wished could be accomplished.
So when Rama finally spoke, the last thing Hanuman expected to hear was the very thing he said.
‘My friend, I have given your request due consideration. But I regret to tell you that my answer must perforce be nay. I cannot join your cause, nor accompany you back to your homeland. Your struggle appears to be a virtuous and righteous one. But I have only recently ended a long and difficult campaign of my own. In three seasons and a month, I am due to return to my own homeland in the north, where I will be expected to assume a position of great responsibility. My first duty is to that position and to my own people. I cannot commit myself elsewhere at such a crucial time. If I take on a task, I must see it through to the end. And if I were to join your master’s cause, I cannot tell if it will be won before my time comes to return to Ayodhya. In that case, I may well end up neglecting my own dharma. So with great regret and sympathy for your need, I decline your graciously worded request. Please, give your master my heartfelt regards. I am sure that as a virtuous man wronged by another, he will eventually triumph in his struggle.’
He hesitated, then smiled ruefully. ‘Of course, I meant to say, as a virtuous vanar. Excuse the error.’
Hanuman fought back the tears that threatened to blur his vision. The word-slip only reaffirmed his admiration for Rama, proving that he accepted vanars as being in no way inferior to his own kind. ‘Even your errors are auspicious, my lord. You pay my master a compliment, calling him a man.’
‘It is gracious of you to see it in that light, Hanumanji. I am truly sorry that I could not offer you more than words of commiseration and encouragement.’
‘I am sorry too, Ramji. I had great hopes.’ He tried to find the words to express the full extent of his disappointment, but for once, he was unable to find any. So Hanuman Loosejaws finally became Hanuman Tightjaws. If his heart was not so heavy with sorrow, he would have found it funny. As it was, he could barely think clearly. He had been so certain that Rama would agree. It had seemed so … ordained. He still could not believe that the yoddha had turned him down. ‘I had great hopes,’ he repeated.
Sensing the severity of his disappointment, Rama placed his hands on Hanuman’s shoulders. Hanuman felt Rama’s warmth pass from his palms into his own body like a benediction. ‘And you must keep those hopes alive. For you will succeed in your goal. I have known you but a short while, Hanuman, son of Anjan and Marut, and it may seem rash to judge a man so quickly, but even in this brief encounter, I have sensed a great goodness in your heart, and a powerful force of will. If you are an example of the kind of warrior who fights in your king Sugreeva’s army, then I have no doubt he will soon win his war and regain his throne.’
Hanuman hung his head, embarrassment colliding with his disappointment. So this was how it felt when someone praised you? Ah, but these praises were undeserved. ‘Nay, my lord Rama. You mistake me for that which I am not. I am but a humble messenger of Prince Angad, a mere novice in his service. I am not fit to fight in his army. Even the youngest recruit in my master’s army could put me down in a moment. That is why I am entrusted with only minor chores such as couriering messages and gathering information.’
Rama shook his head. ‘Nay, Hanumanji, do not denigrate yourself. There are no minor chores in this world, only people who call them minor. Why, even the toothless cripple who sits and sharpens the blades of the soldiers performs a valuable service to his army. Without a sharpened edge, a sword would be no better than a comb! And you are neither old, crippled nor feeble of mind or body. I see that you are young and invested with great strength of mind and body. I stand by my first impression, my friend. I think you are a person unaware of your own strength. When the time comes, I am sure you will discover that strength and learn to use it, and from that day onwards you will be a mighty yoddha yourself.’
Now it was Hanuman’s turn to stare in dumb embarrassment. Rama was serious, he could see that. He was not the kind to taunt a vanar with false praises; he actually meant what he said. But nobody had ever spoken such words to Hanuman before. He had no idea how to respond.
Rama spared him the need to speak. ‘Say no more, my friend. Already we have whiled away the remainder of the night with our discussion. I must return to my people, and you to yours. You are well met on this auspicious spring day. I thank you for your kind words and wish you luck and Godspeed on your journey back to your lands. If the devas will it, perhaps someday our paths shall cross again. Until then, live well and true.’
And with those words, he took his leave of Hanuman.
SIXTEEN
Hanuman watched as Rama and his two companions took their tearful leave of the other exiles. The mortal man with the ruined face, the one they called Bearface and Rama called Ratnakar, had left the very day after the battle of Janasthana. The rest had lingered this past week, unable to easily break the ties of fellowship that had bound them these past years. Hanuman knew something about the bonds that grew between warriors who had fought side by side. Even though he did not fight alongside the vanar sena of Sugreeva, yet he felt a part of that great force, however small and insignificant though he may be. He had only met Rama once and yet he could not bear to part from him. These people who had known him and fought and bled beside him for years, surely their hearts must burst with sorrow at this parting.
He was behind a patch of wildbreads, the coarse yeasty odour of the fruit irritating his nostrils. The place where the mortals were assembled was the same site where they had cut down the trees to use for stakes in their pit for the battle, a squarish patch almost thirty yards on each side, dotted with the stumps of felled trees. The mortals had gathered in the open patch, as mortals were wont to do. So Hanuman was forced to creep behind bushes and low boughs to eavesdrop and still could not come close enough to hear their words clearly. He consoled himself with the thought that there was probably not much left for him to overhear. He already knew that Rama, Sita and Lakshman had decided to travel to the vale of Panchvati where they intended to live out the balance of their exile. The others had wished to follow Rama wherever he went, but he had asked them not to do so. Instead, he had asked that they return to Chitrakut and meet with the sage Agastya. They would carry the news that the vast wildlands of Dandaka were cleansed of demons now and fit for human habitation. Agastya would spread the news to other sages and they would begin the task of purifying the wildlands to scour them of all asura influences, performing yagnas, penances, and other Brahmin rituals.
There would be a great deal of work to be done, he had told them, and Agastya and his fellow sages would require every able body to help them do it. Rama had requested the exiles to aid the sages in the cleansing and claiming of the Dandaka-van. On his return to Ayodhya, he would see to it that they were all granted amnesty in exchange for these services, as well as for the holy war they had waged against the rakshasas these past years. They would wait in Chitrakut until the end of his term of exile, and when he travelled northwards to Ayodhya once more, they would accompany him, ending their exile.
None had any objection. If anything, they were eager and willing to do as Rama bade them. It was the thought of parting from him that caused them pain. But Rama was adamant. He could not, nay, would not travel northwards with them, to wait out t
he rest of his exile, for he had vowed that he would not turn back towards Ayodhya until the last hour of the last day was ended. At first Hanuman could not understand such stubborn adherence to a thirteen-year-old oath, but he knew now that it was considered honourable in a mortal. He marked it mentally as yet another detail to report to his lord Sugreeva. After all, exile was something they both had in common, and he would be most interested to hear of this mortal Rama who accepted the terms of his exile so willingly, even enforcing them of his own volition. Then he sighed. He had hoped to carry much happier news to King Sugreeva. Sadly, it appeared that was not meant to be. The devas had willed otherwise. Even so, he felt blessed to have had an audience with the great yoddha. It was an encounter he would cherish to the end of his days, telling it to his grandchildren when he was old and silverbacked, the tale of how he, the humble courier Hanuman, had once met the legendary Lord Rama, for he had no doubt that Rama would become legendary over time. He was as certain of it as he was of his own insignificance.
Now he wanted to be on his way. It had been weeks since he had seen his lord. His senses ached for the familiar scents, sounds and sights of his homelands. He suspected this would be the last sight he had of Rama and other mortals. There was nothing to be gained from further observation. He steeled his heart to depart, listening to Rama’s last words.
‘Go in peace, my friends,’ Rama was saying. ‘Travel safely, and work diligently in the service of our Brahmin allies. For in that service you will cleanse yourself of any sins committed. I will see you again when the sunlord Surya completes a full circuit of privthvi-lok, and the next season of spring has returned anew. Go in peace now. I bid you well.’
And he turned away and began walking southwards, accompanied by Sita on his left and Lakshman on his right.
The outlaws wailed their anguish at Rama’s departure, but he kept walking. A knot formed in Hanuman’s throat as he watched the yoddha disappear into the woods. Suddenly, his longing for his homeland and own kind faded to insignificance. He wanted desperately to follow Rama, to see where he went, what he did and said, how he lived. Why, he would like to even follow him back to his mortal city at the end of the exile. It was all he could do to keep himself from bounding through the woods in pursuit of that crow-black hair and straight back. Only his awareness of his own duties and loyalty to Sugreeva kept him from darting forward and following Rama.
The exiles cried and spoke some more, but in time, their voices fell silent. After a while, they began gathering their belongings and preparing to embark on their own journey northwards. They did not interest him.
Hanuman sighed, glancing one last time in the direction that Rama had gone. Perhaps he could follow Rama just a little way, until he reached the vale of Panchvati. Or until he and his companions had built their dwelling and settled in. He shook his head sadly. It was already past his time to return home. Already, his lord Sugreeva would be wondering why he tarried so long. It had been almost an entire moon since he had last shown his face. And perhaps the rebel effort had picked up momentum again. Perhaps his lord was preparing for yet another assault and needed his presence in the coming battle. The knowledge he had gained of fighting tactics in the battle of Janasthana could be of invaluable help to their cause. It was important that he carry back his knowledge at the earliest.
With a last glance southwards and a final sigh of regret, the vanar turned his back upon the world of mortals and began making his way steadily through the jungle, heading eastwards towards the redmist mountains that separated his homeland from the place where mortals lived. In time, his gait increased and he began loping, then leaping from tree branch to tree branch, resuming his natural vanar mode of travel. But in his mind, there still flashed bright, vibrant, burnished images of the mortal yoddha and as he flashed through the trees like a streak of brown fire, he repeated a single word over and over again, like an instinctive chant that came unbidden to his thick lips. ‘Rama Rama Rama Rama …’
***
Jatayu stirred itself at the sound of someone approaching. The ageing bird-beast blinked at the harsh afternoon sunlight bathing the surrounding forest for yojanas in every direction and pondered its options. Moving painfully, it tried to extrude its claws. Only two emerged, shakily, from the tips of its rear limbs, the yard-long talons cracked and scored from countless conflicts. It struggled to rise up to a squatting posture, feeling every wound, every scar, every blow it had sustained in a thousand fights and battles. But none had caused as much damage as the wave of Brahman unleashed by the release of the brahm-astra at Mithila, thirteen years past. That event had marked the last day of Jatayu’s virile, vigorous life and the start of the end. What the brahm-astra had begun, the years of fighting rakshasas alongside Rama and the exiles had completed. Today, the bird-beast was but a pathetic, crippled shadow of the magnificent awe-inspiring creature it had once been: lord of vultures, raja of the airwaves, leader of the winged armies of Ravana, scourge of mortalkind.
It roused itself with difficulty, bewildered and confused by waking in the middle of the day, and pondered how best it might defend itself against the approaching visitor. At one time, it had intended to keep a cache of rocks up here in this nest, in preparation for times like this. Had it followed through on that plan, it could now roll down the rocks upon the creature climbing steadily up the bloodwood and knock it down to certain death. But the last time Jatayu had left its nest in search of food, it had taken every last bit of strength simply to carry its own decrepit carcass back up here, let alone carry so much as a smooth river pebble. Far from defending itself, Jatayu was now barely capable of sustaining itself. It didn’t recall the last time it had eaten anything substantial. The scored bark of the trunk of the bloodwood testifed to its desperate scrabbles for something, anything, to fill its tired belly.
After a moment, it gave up all notions of self-defence, and fell to wondering idly who the visitor might be. Which foe could have ferreted out Jatayu high up here on this remote perch?
It was unlikely to be human. This tree, while not the tallest of bloodwoods in Dandaka, certainly ranked as one of the tallest. It was hard enough for winged Jatayu itself to fly the three hundred feet to its nest atop the tree, which was why it almost never left the nest. These past years there had not been much reason to do so, apart from the occasional rare foray for nourishment and even its need for sustenance had diminished in direct proportion to its progressive wasting illness. After a grievous injury to its right wing in one of the many conflicts between mortals and rakshasas in Janasthana, Rama himself had tended to Jatayu’s wound and told it to retire to a suitable eyrie and rest for as long as it took. That had been some four years past, and still Jatayu had not recovered fully. In point of fact, it never would. Its time for healing and rejuvenation was long past. Even a bird-beast descended from mighty Garuda himself, Lord of all Birdkind, winged ally of the devas, could not expect to live forever. It was enough that Jatayu had spent his last days fighting to redress some of the wrongs it had committed earlier in its foolish, wasted lifetime. Some days it wished it could do more, much much more, but good intentions were not enough. It had no strength of limb or mind left to accomplish anything other than the slow, painful task of survival.
The sound of the visitor climbing grew steadily closer, until Jatayu marvelled at the approaching visitor’s determination. It was no small feat for any mortal to climb a bloodwood tree three hundred feet high. It wondered briefly if the climber could be that vanar. It had spied the ape-man swinging through the woods only a few days ago. But no, the vanar had been heading eastwards, moving with the enviable agility of its kind, like a being on a mission. At that rate of travel, it would be well beyond the redmist mountains by now, safely in its own homeland. Besides, this new arrival working his or her way steadily up the bloodwood’s trunk could not be a vanar. An ape-man would have swung and leaped from branch to branch, not used a rope-coil to haul himself up the length of the trunk.
Feeling some sembla
nce of control of its senses at last, Jatayu ventured to lean out cautiously over the edge of its nest, peering down through the woven foliage and straw until it spied movement several yards below. It caught a glint of a metallic reflection, caught by the afternoon sun. Ah, no. That was no vanar. Vanars carried no metal. A moment later, it smelled a familiar odour, the amalgam of herbs and fruits and cloth and unmistakably, mortalflesh. Mingled with the cold, deadly tang of metal that had not too long since drawn blood.
SEVENTEEN
Jatayu could do little more than wait for the visitor to climb into sight. Once, it could have accurately predicted the very sex, age, health, and likely longevity of the mortal, merely by the body odours he emitted. But now, it was all it could do to say surely that he was a mortal and not some asura assassin seeking to destroy Jatayu for having turned against its former master, Ravana.
And yet it sensed something. Nay. This was no foe, seeking out Jatayu to redress some past misdeed. This was a friend. The last and best friend Jatayu had left in this sorry world.
Just then the man’s head and shoulders came into sight, his body limned with sweat from his long, hard climb. When it spoke, it tried to keep its voice level and as pleasant as possible, but the ravages of time and injuries had turned its naturally guttural sounds to a hoarse croaking that better befitted a crow-dog than a man-vulture. Even so, it balanced the harshness of its tone with the sweetness of its words.
‘All you had to do was call out from below, old friend, and Jatayu would have come down to you. Little need was there for you to climb this long way in the afternoon sun-heat.’
The dark, almost bluish face of Rama looked up from the branch below, a faint smile parting the thin lips. ‘Among us Aryas, when we visit an old king, we do not expect the king to bow to us. Instead, we offer our bowed heads to the king!’
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