by Ramesh Menon
Some of them growing huge themselves, the rakshasas rushed at him. Hanuman pulled up the pillar he sat on and smashed them with it, killing a wave of demons. Their screams rang through the sea air; their blood and brains were spattered across the ruined garden; scarlet gore flowed in streams. In a trice, unbelievably, that entire contingent lay mangled and lifeless. Hanuman’s roars of triumph rang through Lanka and the city quaked again.
Word reached Ravana, and he could hardly believe what he heard. He called his minister Prahastha’s son, Jambumali, one of his ablest young commanders, and sent him forth with a bigger force. Crying again that he was Rama’s servant, Hanuman wiped out this legion as well, beating it to bloody pulp with the pillar.
Jambumali himself was a great warrior, strong and arrogant, fierce and handsome. He came into battle roaring as only a noble-born rakshasa can. He shot a sizzling clutch of arrows at Hanuman.
His fur quivering, Hanuman stood very still at the first wounds he received. A slow smile spread on his face and, one by one, he plucked out young Jambumali’s shafts from his flesh, like thorns. Then an earthshaking duel erupted between them. Seizing up boulders from the asokavana’s despoiled rock gardens, Hanuman hurled them at the rakshasa. But Jambumali’s arrows were wizardly, and they blew the stones into dust. Then Hanuman twirled his pillar above his head and flung it like a javelin at the young rakshasa, smashing him against a wall, crushing his chest; and he died with an incredulous look on his face.
From his window, Ravana watched in mounting fury. He roared to his ministers to send another legion against Hanuman, who stood towering and pleased as could be in the streaming sun. The remains of the first two forces lay around his feet, rakshasas’ blood splashed everywhere as if in some horrible offering. Five ministers sent five warrior sons at the head of the biggest detachment yet. They marched up the cobbled streets of Lanka, like thunder rolling, to quell Hanuman. But the vanara was implacable; he was invincible. With the pillar he retrieved from Jambumali’s chest, he razed that contingent as easily as the others.
Hanuman was enjoying himself. His fur was colored with rakshasas’ blood and he danced among the dead, still crying out Rama’s name and that Hanuman was his servant. He cried that he was just one among thousands of vanaras, most of them greater than he, who would soon descend on Lanka. Ravana was astonished; never had he encountered such prowess, save once, long ago.
The Rakshasa called for his own son now, the mighty Aksha. Wearing silver mail, his bow in his hand, Aksha was like the first flame that leaps up in the yagna pit when the brahmana pours libation onto the fire. Ravana blessed his valiant boy.
The splendid prince climbed into his chariot and rode at Hanuman. When he saw the vanara looming before him, he stood up in awe. With an echoing roar, Aksha attacked. Hanuman smiled. He thought how handsome and noble this boy was, and then, quickly, how marvelously he fought. Aksha’s arrows fell out of the sky like deadly rain. In a wink, Hanuman was a tiny monkey, dodging those shafts. Then again he was enormous, and cast rocks and trees like lances at Aksha.
The ocean trembled to watch the battle between Ravana’s son and Hanuman. On they fought, fiercely and cleverly, and Hanuman thought, “I like this dauntless boy so much I do not want to kill him. But what can I do? The fire that rages must be put out, or it consumes one.”
With a sigh, Hanuman smashed down Aksha’s horses with his stone pillar. Crying out weirdly, Aksha rose into the sky with maya. But as he drew back his bowstring, the vanara plucked him from the air as if he were an annoying fly. Blessing the young rakshasa in his heart, Hanuman dashed his head like lightning against a stone wall.
When their prince died, Aksha’s legion panicked and fled back to their master of darkness in his sabha. Ravana sat, ten-headed and terrifying, before his ministers. He was aflame. A tremor ran through his lean body when he heard Aksha was slain. No muscle on his faces twitched, to show the grief that clutched him like a pang of death. But nine of ten heads shut their eyes in a prayer. The tenth, central one called for his eldest son: the awesome Indrajit, master of astras, said to be his father’s equal in battle.
His lips pale at what the monkey in his garden had done—the streets of Lanka flowed rakshasa blood—Ravana said to his prince, “Your brother and your friends have died. It seems no legion can stand against this monkey, let alone take him. Go, my son, bring him to me.” Softly, he added, “Bring him alive.”
Indrajit walked around his father in pradakshina. Then that rakshasa prince went to tame the vanara in the asokavana.
12. The coils of an astra
Sweeping through Lanka in his chariot like a dark wind, Indrajit flew at Hanuman. When he neared the vanara, he pulled on his bowstring and Lanka echoed with the sound. Hanuman responded with a burst of wild laughter, that here at last was a worthy adversary. The exhilaration of battle was upon him and he longed for a keen fight.
They fought outside Ravana’s palace, the rakshasa prince and the marauding monkey, tall as a tree. Like thunderstorms colliding, they fought, roaring exuberantly, the air between them thick with Indrajit’s arrows and Hanuman’s rocks and trees. Occasionally, both of them paused, panting, for neither gave any quarter or yielded an inch of ground. Indrajit was amazed at this monkey who shrugged off his most lethal missiles. And Hanuman wondered at the young Rakshasa, who was unharmed by his barrage of everything heavy he could lay his hands on. He tore up flagstones and steps of rock and flung them, spinning like chakras, at Ravana’s son, only to see them shot into powder.
At last Indrajit drew an exceptional arrow from his quiver. He shut his eyes, invoking Brahma, the Creator, ancestor of the rakshasas. Once, out of affection for his great-great-grandson, Brahma had given Indrajit his own astra. Hanuman grew still at the Brahma mantra; he folded his hands. The astra flamed at him through the sky. Out of his bhakti, he would not escape it, but allowed it to bind him in hoops of light. He sprawled on the ground, apparently vanquished.
Hanuman said to himself softly, “The boy doesn’t know that by Brahma’s own boon to me, his astra can hold me only for a moment. But I want to see Ravana face to face before I fly out of Lanka, and this is my chance. I am not afraid. Vayu, my father, and his friend, Agni, protect me.”
He lay unprotesting while they thought the astra’s power had conquered him. The rakshasas crowded around, and bound him once more with the longest ropes and strips of bark they could find. As soon as the coils of rope touched Hanuman’s body, the coils of the astra vanished. All the great astras are haughty; none will stand for other bonds beside its own. When he saw them running at the fallen monkey with their ropes, Indrajit cried out to his soldiers to stop. But they did not hear him in the commotion.
Ravana’s son thought that now there would be no restraining Hanuman. But to his surprise, the vanara lay where he had fallen, and allowed himself to be bound and dragged before the Lord of Lanka in his palace. Puzzled, Indrajit went with the monkey to his father’s sabha.
13. In Ravana’s sabha
When he was brought into Ravana’s presence, Hanuman opened his eyes, which he had screwed shut as if in pain as he was hauled along the smooth floors of the palace. He saw Ravana smoldering above him: tall and darkly magnificent. A golden crown on his head reflected shafts of light from pearl, diamond, and ruby. The Rakshasa wore the same flowing white silk Hanuman had seen him in that morning. He sat very still on his throne above the vanara at his feet.
The scent of sandalwood paste, with which Ravana’s body was anointed, filled his sabha. Noble, wise, and terrible, as well, were the Demon’s eyes; they now searched Hanuman’s face curiously, fiercely. Ravana wore a necklace of pearls around his neck, some big as a pigeon’s eggs, and around his rippling arms he wore heavy bracelets of gold and coral. He sat on his throne of black crystal with his ministers around him, Prahastha, Nikumbha, and the others.
The rakshasas of Indrajit’s guard had dragged Hanuman here roughly. But when he lay at Ravana’s feet and looked up at the splen
dor that was this great Rakshasa, the vanara was dazzled. He stared at the Demon and, unable to tear his eyes from the king of Lanka, Hanuman stared on. He thought, “What strength, what majesty! Yet he is evil. If he had not taken the path of night, the left-hand way, this Rakshasa could have been king of the Devas if he wanted. I have never seen such presence, such power. But then, he is cruel and ruthless. He is a creature of darkness and his heart knows no mercy.”
Ravana, who had his name because he made the worlds tremble, gazed down into Hanuman’s tawny eyes, gauging him shrewdly and swiftly, so the monkey felt his very soul being scrutinized. The Rakshasa felt a stab of fear, and thought, “Is this Siva’s Bull come to Lanka, as he swore he would when I hefted Mahadeva’s mountain? Is this Nandi come as a monkey to announce my death? Or is it Banasura come to kill me?”
Slowly, the fire that slumbered in the depths of his eyes blazed up to their surface. In a fearful glower, Ravana turned ten heads at his minister Prahastha, who had also just lost a son to Hanuman. Sibilantly, the king said, “Who is he? Where has he come from? What does he want, that he destroyed my asokavana and killed so many of my warriors, that he killed my son? Ask him.”
Prahastha turned to Hanuman, who lay trussed on the floor. “Answer without fear, monkey. You will not be harmed if you tell the truth. Did Indra send you here as his spy, or was it Vaisravana, Kubera, or Yama? Or perhaps Vishnu, the enemy of our people, sent you? You are not just a monkey. That much is obvious from your courage. Tell us who you are.”
But Hanuman was not about to answer a mere minister. He indicated that he wished to stand. When he was helped to his feet, he turned and addressed Ravana. “Not Yama, Kubera, or Varuna sent me. Not at Vishnu’s command did I come. This is no disguise but my true form, for I am a vanara. I wanted to meet you face to face, Lord of the rakshasas, and so I razed the asokavana. Your soldiers I slew only to defend myself, because they came to kill me.
“No astra may bind me, Ravana; for Brahma himself has given me that power. I allowed myself to be bound with these puny ropes, because I wanted to speak to you. Listen to what I have to say, and it may profit you, O Emperor.”
Ravana said nothing. He only stared at the monkey, waiting for him to continue. Hanuman said, “Ravana of Lanka, I have come to your city at the command of my king Sugriva of the vanaras. He wishes you well and asks you to pay heed to the message he sends. This is Sugriva’s message:
“‘There was a noble king in the House of Ikshvaku, whose valor and dharma were immaculate, and his name was Dasaratha. Rama is his eldest son. Rama is a kshatriya and a prince of truth. To keep his father’s honor he went to the Dandaka vana for an exile of fourteen years. With Rama went his wife, Sita, and his brother Lakshmana. One day Janaka’s daughter Sita was lost in the jungle. In anguish, Rama journeyed to Rishyamooka. There he met Sugriva, who had been driven from his kingdom by his brother Vali. Rama and Sugriva swore a covenant that Rama would restore his kingdom to Sugriva, and that in return, Sugriva would find Sita, wherever she was.’”
Ravana listened, twenty ferocious eyes turned unwinkingly on Hanuman. The monkey went on without pausing, “Ravana of Lanka has surely heard of the valor of Vali of the vanaras. Rama killed that same Vali with one arrow from his unearthly quiver, and set Sugriva on the ebony throne of Kishkinda. To honor their pact, Sugriva sent out an army of vanaras to find Sita; north and east, west and south he sent them. They are mighty monkeys of my ancient race. Some fly through the air like Garuda, and others as swiftly as Vayu. I am Hanuman, the wind’s son by Anjana, and I leaped across the ocean in quest of Sita.
“Imagine my surprise, great king, knower of dharma, when I saw the lovely Sita grieving in your asokavana. I thought, how can one so noble and renowned as Ravana of the rakshasas, Ravana of matchless tapasya, hold another man’s wife against her will? You are a person of superior intelligence; you should never have become entangled in such shame.
“Which Deva or Danava, Asura or rakshasa, Lord of Lanka, shall stand against the astras of Rama and Lakshmana?”
Ravana still said nothing. Hanuman stared straight into his eyes in cool defiance, as no one ever dared to. The vanara said, “I saw Sita. I am surprised that a king of your wisdom harbors a serpent in your palace with such tender affection. Like the choicest food mixed with poison, she will prove more than you can digest. Ravana, she will be your undoing. Heed what I say; return her to Rama who pines for her. Give her back today, she is dangerous.
“You are a tapasvin. For one who sat for as long as you did in penance, what is a woman, even the most beautiful one? I have been told it was incomparable dhyana that blessed you with invincibility against Deva and Asura; and you vanquished Indra and Kubera. But Ravana, you forget that Sugriva is neither a Deva of light nor an Asura of darkness. He is not a gandharva, a yaksha, or pannaga. Great Rakshasa, Sugriva is a monkey and Rama is a man. Are you invincible against these two?
“Think well, before it is too late and nemesis comes hunting you. Long have you enjoyed the fruit of your tapasya; but the time to pay for your sins is near. Will you be able to withstand the human princes and the vanaras, or will they bring you your death? I appeal to your wisdom, Ravana of Lanka. Remember how Vali died; think back on Janasthana and the slaughter of Khara’s army. Think of today, and what I have done to your garden and your army. I say to you, even I, who am just one small monkey, could raze your fabled Lanka. For I am on the side of dharma, while you are on the other.”
Ravana’s eyes were eloquent with fury; but he said nothing. Hanuman went on bravely, and calmly still, only quiet reason in his voice. “You think of Rama’s wife as just another woman. But she is the deep and dark night that will eclipse the glory of Lanka; she will prove to be the end of all your majesty. She is the noose you have tied around your own neck, as if death were dearer to you than life. She is the fire of truth, which you kindle close to your deluded heart. Rakshasa, she will make ashes of you and your city.
“Rama is he who can incinerate the universe. He can put out the stars with his arrows and create them again. Save yourself from his wrath. Save your people, your women and children; save this beautiful Lanka. When Rama comes, what I did in your asokavana shall seem as a trifle compared to what he will do. Not Brahma, Indra, or three-eyed Rudra will save you then.”
Ravana’s eyes flashed. Like some unthinkable beast of prey, the Rakshasa growled low in his throat, “Kill him.”
But his brother Vibheeshana cried, “My lord, to kill the monkey is against the dharma of kings. Don’t let your anger get the better of you; you must not kill a messenger. Think of a less drastic punishment for him.”
But Ravana snarled, ten heads at once, his eyes on fire. “There is no sin in killing a despoiler and a murderer. Hasn’t he killed Jambumali, Aksha, and ten thousand others? Hasn’t he desolated my asokavana? Haven’t I sat here listening to his taunts and his abuse, which no king would tolerate?”
Vibheeshana said quietly, “On no account should a messenger be killed. He is our enemy and he must pay for what he has done. Whip him, maim him, even; shave his head and scar his body with your wrath. But do not have him killed; the law of kings does not permit it.
“Moreover, he is just a lowly messenger. If you have him put to death, all you gain will be an evil name for yourself. Send an army against the human princes whose emissary he is. That is just; and the wise will not censure you, but say that Ravana kept his temper even when he was gravely provoked.”
The ten heads nodded slowly. But in his heart, Ravana wondered, “Is this Vishnu who has come as this monkey to kill me? Or is it Brahma, or the Parabrahman Itself, the Holy Spirit incarnate?”
With some effort, the Demon of Lanka curbed his anger.
14. The monkey’s tail
Calming himself, Ravana said to his brother, “You are right, Vibheeshana; I will not have the monkey killed. But I must punish him for the havoc he has brought to our city.”
The heads whispered evilly among themselves; t
hen, a slow smile wreathed the central face. Ravana said, “Nothing is more precious to a monkey than his tail. Let this monkey’s fine tail be set on fire. Let him be sent back with a burned stump behind him to show that he crossed my path. Yes, let the monkey’s tail be lit and let him be marched through the streets of Lanka. Let my people mock him for what he did today.”
He nodded to his guards, who ran out to fetch a length of cloth. They wound the fabric tightly round Hanuman’s tail. At first, Hanuman glowered; he bared his fangs and snarled at his captors. But then he thought, “If I allow myself to be paraded through the streets of Lanka, I will be able to see the city by daylight. What I observe will be useful later, when we bring our army against Ravana.”
He allowed his tail to be wrapped, dipped in oil, and set alight. He let Ravana’s guards drag him out of the palace and into the dazzling sun. They hauled him through the city, while the rakshasas lined the streets, jeering and taunting him. Hanuman went quietly, as if no fight was left in him, while his tail blazed, though he felt no pain yet.
The rakshasis of the asokavana ran to Sita and cried triumphantly, “Your friend the red-faced monkey is being paraded through our streets, with his tail on fire!”
Tears springing in her eyes, Sita turned away from them. She began to pray fervently to Agni, God of fire. “If it is true that I have been faithful to Rama, true that I have kept my vows and that my mind has always been pure, then don’t let Hanuman, who leaped across the sea to find me, who braved every danger to bring Rama’s message to me, be burned by your flames. Let your touch upon his tail be as cool as the caress of his father Vayu.”
At once, Agni was soft as sandalwood paste on Hanuman’s tail, and Vayu blew gently around his heroic son. The vanara wondered that the flames that encircled his golden tail did not hurt him at all. He thought, “My tail burns fiercely, yet I feel only a wonderful coolness, as if someone anointed me with tender sandalwood paste. Oh, this is even more marvelous than the mountain that rose from the waves. But why should I marvel? Varuna of the ocean is so devoted to Rama that he bade Mainaka receive me. Why should I wonder that Agni has decided not to burn my tail, when he knows whom I serve?”