by Ramesh Menon
“But one day, I startled a hermit who had a quick temper, and he cursed me: ‘Be this monster from now!’ Since then, I have been like this. I begged him to take back his curse, and he said, ‘When Dasaratha’s son Rama cuts off your hands and you die, you shall have your splendor back.’
“I also offended Indra, and he struck off my legs with his vajra. Brahma said to me, ‘Live hunting with your arms, Dhanu.’
“Cremate me, Rama; release me from my bondage.”
Rama said, “My wife Sita has been abducted by a rakshasa called Ravana. We only know his name. Do you know any more about him? You have been here for so long; you must know many things.”
Kabandha said, “Dig a deep pit and cremate me in it. Then I will have my old powers back and know all things. Don’t hesitate, Kshatriyas: your apparent cruelty shall be kindness. For without my hands I will die anyway, and slowly. I beg you, hurry. Old memories already flood back into my mind, but I can’t see them clearly.”
The princes collected dry branches and twigs. They dug a pit deep enough to put Kabandha in and they burned him. The flames had scarcely begun to lick at the rakshasa when he was released from his curse. In a flash of light, a dazzling figure sprang up from that pit: Dhanu, the archer of the sky! Next moment a chariot, made of starlight and yoked to shining horses, flew down to bear him away to Devaloka.
Radiant Dhanu said, “Rama, I see all things again, in both place and time. I will show you the way that leads to Sita.
“There is a prince of vanaras called Sugriva. He lives on Rishyamooka, the mountain that casts its shadow over the Pampasaras. Your destiny and Sugriva’s are bound together. You must find him. He is the son of Surya Deva, the Ancestor of the Ikshvakus; he will be like a brother to you. He will ask for your help, but in return he will do anything to help you find Sita. Like his father the Sun, he knows everything that happens on the face of the earth. Swear an oath of friendship with him by a sacred fire, and he will certainly help you.”
Rama asked, “How will I find the Pampa?”
“This path we are standing on, which Kabandha once straddled, is lined with trees whose sires grow in heaven. At its end, you will come to a garden not less beautiful than the Nandana or Chaitra. Beyond that garden is as pristine a lake as you will find in this world.
“The lotuses that grow on it were once brought down to the earth by the Devas. The flowers of the Pampa never fade, nor do its fruit rot. Its water is as clear as the heart of a rishi, and you can see down to the white sand on its bed. Swans and cranes and birds from unknown lands come to drink from it. The Pampasaras is so sacred, Rama, that it will restore your faith.
“By that lake, once, the great Rishi Matanga lived, with his sishyas. In his asrama you will still find an old woman called Shabari.” A smile lit Dhanu’s face. “As I did when I was Kabandha, she also waits for Vishnu’s Avatara.” He laughed. “But only to worship you, not devour you! She is so pure that she has been called a hundred times to Swarga. But she waits to see the face and the human form of Rama of Ayodhya.”
Impatient to be away among starry fields, Dhanu’s horses tossed their shimmering manes. Dhanu patted their necks, and spoke to them in a resonant tongue.
He said to Rama and Lakshmana, “Farewell now, I have so much to do. West of Lake Pampa is the Rishyamooka. You will find Sugriva in one of the caves of that mountain. May your quest be fruitful, Rama. May you fulfill the destiny you were born for!”
The lustrous one bowed to the princes. Then his chariot rose into the air and flew straight toward the stars, leaving a silver trail across the sky.
21. Shabari
The path that Dhanu had showed them went meandering to the southwest. Rama was calmer now, and with every step they took he became more resolute. Scented flowering trees and trees laden with fruit flanked their way. They had left the dense and dark jungle behind them. They now walked through airy woods, their hearts lighter than they had ever been since Maricha died. Hope accompanied them again as they moved along as quickly as they could. When the sun had sunk low at the end of the harrowing day, the brothers settled at the foot of a hill for the night.
Rama had little peace even in sleep. Sita’s face filled his dreams, and more than once he saw a leering, demonic visage beside hers, mocking him. He awoke bathed in a sweat of fear, and found Lakshmana vigilant at his side, stroking his brow in tender concern, his eyes full to see him suffering.
Morning came and they marched on. Thus they traveled for many days, until one midmorning they arrived at the banks of a great lake at the foot of a mountain. This had to be the Pampa that Dhanu described; surely there could not be two lakes as lovely as this one in the same part of the earth.
They knelt and bathed their hands and faces in the sweet, sparkling water. At once, their hearts were full of hope. For the first time in all the days since Sita had been taken, Rama put an arm around Lakshmana and favored him with a slow smile. Lakshmana hugged him, crying, “We will find her, Rama. We will certainly find her.”
Rama nodded in belief. They walked around the lake and came to its western bank. There they saw what they had been looking for: a small asrama nestled in a cool grove of fruit trees. Shabari had sure intuition of their arrival and came out to welcome them, her wizened face wreathed in smiles.
She knelt at Rama’s feet and then at Lakshmana’s. Taking her hand, Rama said sweetly, “Shabari, has your service to the munis borne fruit? Has your karma been made ashes by your tapasya; have you found moksha?”
Her eyes alight to see him, Shabari said, “Today my tapasya is fruitful because I have seen your face. And because your eyes have looked at me today, I will find moksha as well. Rama, the rishis whom I served ascended into heaven in chariots of the sky. They said to me, ‘Shabari, stay here until Rama and Lakshmana come to our asrama. Serve them, and only then come to Swarga.’ Long have I waited for you, my prince; long have I plucked the fruits of our trees, to feed you when you came. They never become dry or rot, and I have kept them all for you.”
Years and years ago, Shabari had been born a huntress, a vetali. Now Rama saw how clear and lambent her spirit was. He still held her hand in his, and said affectionately, “Shabari, you are the first of your kind to find the highest Brahmi. Dhanu told me about your tapasya and I would love to look around your asrama.”
She laughed like a little girl. By his hand she led him around the hermitage, its meager dwellings and its rich garden. He was content to be shown around thus: the holding of hands was a sweet, sacred link between them.
Shabari said, “This place is called Matangavana, after the rishi Matanga, whose sishyas all the others were. Oh, they performed such penance and sacrifice here that their blessings will last a million years upon the earth. In the end, their hands so shook with age the flowers they offered on the vedi fell out. Come and see the vedi, Rama.”
Moss covered the vedi where the rishis had made their offerings of old. Flowers lay upon it and grew wild around it. But when the princes looked, they saw that the stone altar blazed like a drop of the sun, and they had to shield their eyes.
Shabari said, “Finally, our rishis were so old they could not move, but they still made their offerings. They could not get up to fetch water for their worship; so the waters of the ocean fell out of the sky for them. That is how this lake was formed. They bathed in it, and look, here is the valkala they wore: the robes have still not dried. And look at the lotuses on the vedi. They were offered by those munis, and they have not faded. Nothing fades here. I, too, am much older than I even look!” She smiled again, toothlessly, and in ecstasy that they had come to see to her. “Come, Rama, Lakshmana; eat some of the fruit I have kept for you.”
They sat with her and she brought an assortment of fruit: mango, purple grape, pomegranate, apple, pear, and some others that grew only in that place. They were as juicy as if they had just come off their trees.
Lakshmana said, “These are the sweetest fruit I have ever tasted.”
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sp; “By far,” agreed Rama.
Shabari glowed, and her gaze never left Rama’s face. When they had eaten, her eyes still on him, Shabari said to Rama, “I am at peace now. I have fed you the fruit of Matangavana and I am ready to leave this world.”
Taking her hand again, Rama said, “You are the purest of the pure. Being with you has renewed my heart and eating your fruit has made my faith strong in my time of fear. May you reach the heavens of the rishis whom you looked after while they lived in the world. Dear Shabari, you have my blessing.”
She was a Brahmagyani, free of any attachment, and she worshipped Agni Deva now. She touched holy water with her fingers. Before Rama’s eyes, she yoked the inner fire and, with agneyi, made herself a mass of flames. Soon she was white, murmuring ashes. From those ashes rose a youthful woman, of ethereal beauty, and prostrated herself before Rama. When he blessed her, Shabari rose immortal into Devaloka.
Rama and Lakshmana looked on, tears of exaltation in their eyes.
22. Rama’s grief
As the brothers walked around the lake, with a fragrant breeze caressing their senses and their minds, Rama sighed, “Lakshmana, this place where the seven seas flowed has calmed me. I feel we are close to finding some news of Sita.”
They walked briskly toward the Rishyamooka, which loomed ahead. Through charmed woods, through fragrant forests of asoka, punnaga, bakula, tilaka, and others nameless and resplendent with blooms, they came again to the banks of the Pampasaras, in another, wilder place. The lake was heavy with lotuses, some white as fresh snow and others dark as twilight skies. The water was transparent and they saw the spotless sand on the lake’s bed.
Tiger and deer roamed the banks of the Pampasaras together, the predator calmed of his bloodlust in this zone of enchantment, where the ground was mantled with unfading flowers in every resonant hue. This place was nearer heaven than earth; touched by its deep rapture, Rama and Lakshmana bathed in the clear water while curious peacocks watched them, with royal plumage unfurled. Silvery fish nibbled delicately at their bodies, and little songbirds made a feast of music in the living trees.
When they came out of the lake, Lakshmana saw his brother’s eyes were wet with tears. Rama said hoarsely, “Go alone to the Rishyamooka. I will stay here; my heart is full of Sita. She smiles before my eyes, she whispers to me from the water. I feel her fingers on my skin!”
The tears spilled down his face. Spring was in the air. A malaya breeze blew down from Rishyamooka, velvet-fingered, and the lotuses, crimson, magenta, and dark cyan, swayed in it.
Rama cried, “Lakshmana, this mountain breeze unhinges me. My heart is weak, and my limbs. Go on by yourself, my brother, and seek out Sugriva. Spring is a cruel time for lovers parted by fate. The scent of the sandal tree makes my blood course. Kama seems to play with the flowers on the trees and vines, and the honeybees are in tune with him. The branches are entwined so they seem to make love. Looking at that karnikara in bloom, how can I not think of Sita?”
Lakshmana did not know what to say. But this grief of Rama’s was gentler, and he saw no harm in it. His brother cried, “Listen to the waterfowl: how their awkward songs used to make her laugh. She once took me by the hand to show me these birds at their games. Ah, I can hear her laughter now and it burns me like fire.”
There was a lively symphony by all the birds. Some honked in quaint voices; others warbled effortlessly, golden-throated and mellifluous. The peacocks were the most tuneless singers of all. Yet somehow, all together, the birds’ music made strange and perfect sense: an atonal but sublime song.
Rama said, “The koyals are in pairs; the peacocks strut for their hens. This breeze of Vasantha is fire to my body. I ache for Sita, for her soft eyes, her voice and the touch of her hands. Oh, Lakshmana, she must also yearn for me. How will we stay alive without each other?”
Rama sat on the ground and sobbed. Lakshmana sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. So they remained, for a long time, and his brother let Rama cry out some of his sorrow.
After a while, Lakshmana said, “Your dharma is to tread the winding path that leads to Sita. Don’t abandon your courage. Fate is leading you down a strange road. Rama, you are the kshatriya who gave up his kingdom for the sake of dharma; you don’t need me to tell you that there is no resisting fate. Why you are led along this painful way is mysterious. But there it is, and you must negotiate all its twists and turns bravely. Don’t give in to grief; remember this path leads all the way back to Ayodhya.”
Lakshmana spoke softly, persuasively. “Let your sorrow flow out from you like a river to the sea. Believe me, you will find Ravana and kill him. And Sita will be with you again, forever.
“Shed your sorrow and arise. You are not an ordinary man, that you can let anguish overwhelm you. You are Rama, the king of this world. There is an enemy whom destiny has set before us, and our way winds on past his death. But we must find him first.”
Rama heard him out in silence while he stared out across the waters of the breeze-stroked lake. Abruptly, he wiped his eyes and rose. He hugged Lakshmana and said, “Yet again you have restored my courage. It was surely written that you would come with me into exile. For without you I would have been lost long ago, and wandering the wastes of madness. Come, my wise, precious brother, let us find the monkey on Rishyamooka.”
Arm in arm, they walked toward the mountain ahead.
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?