The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

  Farther ahead, there was a real rakshasi called Simhika who lived in the ocean. Suddenly Hanuman felt himself slowing and then coming to a standstill in the air. He felt himself being dragged down, and when he looked at the sea below he saw that a rakshasi’s curved claw clutched his shadow on the water. Even as he watched, amazed, she parted the sea like another mountain and rose, lion-faced and terrible, out of the waves. Her mouth yawned from horizon to sky to swallow him.

  Now Hanuman lost his patience. With a roar, he plummeted down into her jaws like a fishing hawk. Down her throat he plunged, becoming tiny again so she could not find him with her fangs. Down into her belly he flew. Beginning to grow again, he clutched two handfuls of her intestines and flashed back up again, dragging her stomach out through her mouth. Simhika died screaming, and her entrails floated like dark garlands on the waves.

  Like Garuda himself, Hanuman flew on and the wind flew with him, making his passage effortless. He saw a dark speck appear on the horizon, and, at the speed at which he flew, it grew rapidly. Soon a lush island lay below him, a jewel in the sea. Within its undulating green confines, he saw a mountain that thrust its way up toward the clouds, and the sun-dappled gardens of that Mount Trikuta. Lower and lower he circled. He saw rivers, streams, and silvery waterfalls. He wondered at the richness of this Lanka he had reached after flying a hundred yojanas through the sky.

  Quickly Hanuman thought, “I cannot land here like this. I am so big the rakshasas will never let me into their city without a fight. Then how will I find Sita?”

  In the twinkling of an eye, he was a little monkey three feet high, and softly he set himself down on the peak of the Lamba hill. Roundeyed at the beauty of Ravana’s island, Hanuman stood chattering approvingly at what he saw around him. He heaved a sigh of relief that his fantastic journey, his momentous crossing, was accomplished. To find Sita now should be no great matter.

  2. Lankini

  He had achieved the impossible; but the vanara was humble and he did not waste any time admiring what he had done. Indeed, apart from profound relief that he had not failed, Hanuman felt little else. That was his nature. In the distance, on the hill called Trikuta, he saw Ravana’s city basking in the light of the afternoon sun and set out toward it. On his way, he marveled at the lushness of Lanka. He walked through thick grasslands, full of life, and swung his way through woods of flowering trees of fragrances he had never known before. To be safe, Hanuman had landed quite a way from the Rakshasa’s city, and now he needed to cover a fair distance before he arrived at his destination. Gazing around with bright eyes, Hanuman loped along toward Ravana’s city.

  The sun was sinking on the horizon when, through the trees ahead of him, he saw its scarlet and golden shafts reflected from the crystal windows of the mansions of Lanka. He saw the deep moat that encircled the fortress city in protection, the vigilant patrols of rakshasas that guarded its entrances, the wide, clean roads that wound their way into the lofty gates; and he was all admiration for what he saw. Hanuman had the feeling that Lanka must be as beautiful as Indra’s Amravati. And he was not far wrong; Viswakarman himself had built this city for Ravana.

  At the foot of the Trikuta hill, Hanuman paused. Above him, in the evening mists that had gathered round it, the rakshasas’ city seemed to float on air!

  Lost in thought and in the grandeur of this Lanka before him, wondering what manner of demon its king was, who lived in such splendor yet could stoop to abduct Sita, Hanuman came to the city gates. The rakshasas who stood guard there were ten feet tall. They were fierce, and carried weapons of fire, nestling at their sides like organs of their bodies. There were so many of them outside the gates, hundreds, and Hanuman saw there were twice that number within. He thought that not even the vanara army, if it ever arrived here, could hope to fight their way past that guard; he saw every man of it was a veteran of many wars. All of them wore shining battle scars like ornaments on their arms, faces, and deep chests.

  The vanara thought, “How ferocious they look; not even Indra’s Devas could pass these rakshasas.” Then, most awful thought of all, “Will even Rama be able to fight his way into Lanka? For sure, no more than four of our vanaras can make the leap across the sea: Angada, Neela, Hanuman, and Sugriva, our king.”

  He was perturbed. But he decided firmly that he would not be swayed by his branching anxieties. He would first tackle the immediate task at hand: to find Sita. Hanuman wasn’t sure how to proceed, and he felt fear fluttering in his belly. If he was not absolutely careful, and very lucky as well, all would be lost; and his great leap would have been in vain.

  Even if she was in the city, and still alive, how would he be able to meet her alone? The fear flared across his mind that after all Rama might have to return to Ayodhya without Sita; Hanuman shivered. He scolded himself and swore he would be calm. He decided he would enter Lanka after night fell, under cover of darkness. He climbed into the middle branches of a tree, sat hugging himself for the coldness in his heart, and watched the sun set in the ocean.

  The last sliver of coruscant fireball sank below the horizon, and the sea was languid as a woman after love. Like a shroud pulled over her face before she slept, night stole over her and wrapped her in darkness. Hanuman roused himself and decided he was still too big to pass unnoticed into Lanka. He made himself smaller still; he shrank into a tiny marmoset-sized monkey, no bigger than a kitten.

  Once more he crept to the gates of Lanka and, hidden in the shrubbery, peered into the wondrous city. It was like a city of the gandharvas. Lights were everywhere; glimmering jewels paved the road and encrusted the walls of the houses. Lanka lay before Hanuman like a piece of rich tapestry. As if to help him, the moon rose over the trees and ramparts into a sky full of stars. Like a king swan Soma Deva was, among lotuses on the dark lake above.

  A high, gleaming wall ran all around Lanka, made of some unearthly metal so smooth it was impossible to scale. Hanuman stood gazing at it and it confirmed his fears that Lanka would be hard indeed to breach: protected by the sea, a moat, ferocious rakshasas, and this wall that a fly could not cling to.

  Hanuman thought glumly, “I won’t be able to deceive this eagle-eyed guard if I assume the form of a rakshasa. What a city this is; not even my father Vayu could enter it without Ravana’s leave.”

  He counted on his fingers the vanara warriors who were strong enough to storm Lanka: Kumbada, Angada, Sushena, Mainda, Dwividha, Sugriva, Kusaparva, Ketumala, Hanuman, and Jambavan, lord of bears. Rama and Lakshmana would come, too; though he could not imagine how they would arrive here. But what could this mere handful do against the might of Lanka’s rakshasa army? Hanuman shivered again with the chill in his heart.

  He came to a drawbridge across the moat, guarded by another force of rakshasas. He crept stealthily along its underside and gained the far bank in the moonlight. He crept along another hundred feet, when suddenly he heard a hiss in the dark and a powerful hand snatched him up by the scruff of his neck. Two crimson cat’s eyes glared at him from the shadow he was snatched into, and, dimly before him, he saw a luminous and dreadful female form.

  It was a secret goddess who had caught him. Amused, but menacingly, she said, “What have we here? It seems to be no warrior, but only a little monkey. But not everything is what it seems to be, and you are very heavy for one so small. Who are you, and why are you trying to creep into Lanka? Don’t lie to me; I saw you crawling under the bridge.”

  The necklace of rubies at her throat glowed like embers in the night. Hanuman pretended to be a terrified little monkey. He trembled in her grasp, and whimpered, “I will tell you, beautiful one, I will tell you. But who are you, Devi, and why do you terrify me with your fierce eyes and your deep voice? As you can see, I am only a little monkey. But who are you, and why do you stand here in the dark at Lanka’s gate?”

  She shook him. She bared pale fangs and said, “I am the spirit of Lanka. I am Lankini and no one may pass me, for I am the guardian of Ravana’s city. Prepare to die
, monkey. I will pluck your head from your neck with my nails.”

  Hanuman said, “I saw the beauty of Lanka from yonder peak, and I was so enchanted that I came to see it nearer.”

  But she was unmoved by his flattery. Her eyes glinting, she snarled, “Foolish monkey, you cannot pass into Lanka unless you vanquish me in battle.”

  Hanuman pleaded, “I will admire the sights of Lanka and go away as I came. I mean no harm to anyone.”

  With a soft howl, she struck him across his face. Then Hanuman lost his temper. Bunching his tiny paw into a fist, he struck her back, squarely on her mouth. Her eyes rolling up, she crumpled to the ground. Yet, since she was a woman, Hanuman had not hit her with all his strength. Soon she fluttered open her eyes and, shaking her head to clear it, sat up. But now she folded her hands to Hanuman and spoke to him in awe.

  “So the prophecy has come true!” whispered dusky Lankini. “Brahma gave me a boon and said I would be invincible at these gates. But he also said that one day a little monkey would come along, and when he struck me down I would know the end of the rakshasas was at hand.” Her voice fell lower. “And I know what brings you here. It is she, it is Sita who brings doom to Lanka.”

  Hanuman saw she was crying. With a sigh, Lankini gathered herself up and said, “It is no use my standing guard here any longer. Lankini does not bar your way any more; you are free to enter as you please.”

  Her red eyes streaming, the fierce guardian melted into the night. She left the gates of Lanka forever.

  3. Lanka

  Great Hanuman, the tiny monkey, leaped nimbly onto the glassy wall around Lanka. For a moment, he perched there, admiring the city that lay below him. Then, hardly able to find a firm foothold, he jumped down on the other side, into Ravana’s capital. In quaint adherence to what the shastras said, he landed on his left foot, as it was written one should when entering an enemy’s house or his country.

  All around he heard music, of the night’s carousers: string and wind instruments, and soft drums. From the windows of mansions so sublimely conceived they were magical, he heard a tinkling symphony of little bells of different pitches. They were hung out to sound in the wind, in their thousands, so all the city was alive with their charmed song. Hanuman fetched a sigh when he saw the wonder that was Lanka. Not for a moment was there any doubt that the city of lights had been created by a divine craftsman, its every mansion and street, all its grand and subtle design.

  Hanuman leaped onto the roof of a dwelling so tasteful you could almost say nature herself had colluded in its construction: so serene, so effortless were its lines. He saw every home was different from the others, each as elegant as the next, every one a work of art. There was simplicity here in quiet abundance; but no wealth was lacking, either, from the houses and the streets of Lanka. Hanuman saw precious jewels that made his eyes grow round. He saw doors and, at times, whole walls of painted silver and burnished gold.

  He jumped lightly from roof to roof. Everywhere, like an accompaniment to the little bells, he heard another ubiquitous tinkling: of the anklets the women of Lanka wore. He heard the rustling of their silken garments as they embraced their husbands or their lovers. He peered in through windows, the sea breeze blowing round his ears. By the butter lamps of the night, or by moonlight that streamed onto beds of entwined love, he saw that the rakshasas of Lanka were a noble and handsome people. Their tall women were tender as lily stalks; their men were virile warriors. Hanuman heard another immanent harmony of sighs and moans woven into the bells and the music. As the night advanced, this rhapsody swelled.

  Another noise attracted him and he scrambled across the roofs. Round-eyed, he saw a quarter of worship where solemn brahmana priests, all rakshasas, ceaselessly chanted the Vedas. Hanuman sat listening to the chaste recitation and to the waves far below in the bay, washing upon Lanka’s golden beaches.

  Suddenly, he heard the tramp of military feet in the street below and drew back into the shadows. It was Ravana’s vigilant night patrol. This was no merely formal force, but a powerful contingent of war. Hanuman saw the glinting weapons those rakshasas carried: macabre ayudhas in which dark fires slumbered. He did not like to think of what these demons would do to an intruder who fell into their hands. He shivered on his perch. When they chatted quietly or smiled, saber-like fangs gleamed on the rakshasas’ bold, sensual faces, and wiry mustaches bristled.

  From roof to roof sprang Hanuman, until, like a silvery hallucination before him, he saw Ravana’s palace silhouetted against the sleeping ocean. It was as if a small slice of another, supernal world had fallen into this one. Shimmering towers and turrets reached for the stars on their way across the sky. That palace by itself was as large as a fourth of the rest of Lanka. Perched on a hill of its own, as if to complement the spirit of him who lived in it, all of Ravana’s palace had just a single motif: it reached out to the constellations above, to whatever lay beyond its grasp, in constant yearning. It sought anything that was alien and majestic, just to touch perhaps, to enrich itself with a caress; but then, more likely, to conquer as well. Within that great palace, Hanuman sensed an implacable evil, a quenchless thirst to dominate.

  Through a golden gate set with corals and pearls bigger than any he had ever seen, he stole on tiny feet into the antapura, Ravana’s harem. The jewels reflected Soma Deva’s light back to him in quiet iridescence. Incense hung in the cool air, laden with distant, breeze-blown dreams from the sea. In some rapture, Hanuman stood gazing at the crystal city below, where now the revelers and musicians fell quiet and began to seek sleep or love. As he watched from Ravana’s roof, looming over the rest of Lanka, he saw the rakshasas turn their lamps out, one by one, and just the little bells still tinkled in the midnight breeze.

  But it seemed the revelry in the king’s palace had only begun. Ravana had more than a hundred guests tonight and their celebrations, in an enclosed garden and one of the glittering pavilions leading out into it, were far from over. Food, delicacies of all kinds, was kept warm with burners under silver dishes, so the guests could eat whenever they chose to. There was wild game and catch from the sea, and other meats the scents of which Hanuman had never smelled; he did not like to think what they were.

  All the guests were obviously from the rakshasa nobility. They were taller than the others in the city outside, finer-featured, more richly attired; the ornaments these rakshasis wore would rouse the envy of the apsaras in Devaloka. Hanuman saw the women of Lanka were hardly less beautiful than he imagined the starry nymphs to be. Some were fine-boned and ethereal; others were more sensuous and earthy, but so seductive that even the little vanara in the terrace shadows sighed to look at them. The nobles of Lanka were both dark and fair, and some surely had very mixed blood: some of them had blue eyes and hair shot with auburn and gold.

  The sprawling garden was dotted with clear pools, and Hanuman saw that already many of the revelers had peeled off their clothes and swam, naked, men and women together, laughing. Wine flowed there and no rakshasa was sober any more. In some amazement now, Hanuman of the jungle watched them as they paired off and wandered to quiet corners, where, with silver light streaming down on their beautiful, powerful bodies, they began to make love as unashamedly as animals of the jungle. Only, thought Hanuman, most wild beasts prefer privacy when they mate and enjoy it much more than these demons did their vacuous promiscuity.

  Then his fur stood on end and his eyes stared in shock. He saw couples wander across to others and lie with them, four and six together. Like nests of serpents, thought Hanuman, shuddering. Soon, all Ravana’s secluded garden writhed with naked rakshasas and rakshasis, at their soulless orgy under the trees and on the grass and even in the bathing pools of the perfumed garden.

  From his windy height on the palace roof, Hanuman scrutinized every woman’s face, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Though the rakshasis were beautiful, without exception, there was no doubt in the vanara’s mind that none of these, whose bodies shone in the flowing moon, was Sita. N
o, her beauty would far surpass the superficial charms of these women; hers had to be an altogether more spiritual loveliness. Rama had described her to him and an image of her face was engraved on Hanuman’s heart. He was certain he would know her as soon as his eyes saw her.

  He turned away from the garden of lust and, through an open window, crept into Ravana’s palace. Golden were its halls and its thrones. An opulence of jewels encrusted the ivory and sandalwood seats, beds, and couches with which the countless, lofty rooms were furnished. When he had roamed through the fine maze of corridors and apartments in one antapura, Hanuman emerged into the courtyard of another. He gasped. There, glinting gemstones of fascination that twinkled back at the stars in subtle converse, was a great ship of the sky: the pushpaka vimana!

  It was a mysterious disk, wrought in Devaloka. Ten crack guards, more dangerous-looking than any he had yet seen, stood watch over the uncanny craft, which seemed so strangely alive. Hanuman scrambled quietly into the adjoining antapura, which he had yet to explore for Sita.

  Again, rooms branched endlessly from the labyrinthine passages. Hanuman eased open numberless doors, one after another, and gazed at the sleeping women within; each was as beautiful as the others were, none was as beautiful as he knew Sita must be. Through Ravana’s endless harem padded Hanuman, the little monkey, son of the wind, in quest of the peerless Sita. Now and again, the night’s stillness was broken by the whinnying of a horse from the Demon’s stables.

  If there were a hundred women’s apartments in each antapura, there seemed to be a hundred antapuras in Ravana’s palace. Passing his hands in wonder over walls of smooth silver and doors of solid gold, Hanuman patiently searched them all. He found the Lord of Lanka was a collector not only of rakshasis. Some wings of the harem were full of sleeping gandharva women, lovely beyond belief; their hair glimmered with the natural starlight that is their elfin heritage, and their gossamer skins seemed to be woven from moonbeams.