The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

  On they fought, untiringly, on the threshold of death where this world and the next seem like one realm; where darkness and light, time and timelessness are the same. They fought with orbs of flames and night, each a little sun, each a void. Some were calorific, some freezing; some were arrows straight as time; some were little globes, worlds in miniature, enchanted and uncanny. Both their armies stood awestruck when Ravana and Rama dueled. Some missiles brought dreams, or visions in the sky, meant to lull the enemy. Others brought soft songs, but quietly maddening, so one could lose one’s mind hearing them.

  But for every astra there was another that made it harmless, no more than a spectacle in the sky. They fought on as if they made unknown music together, those mortal enemies. They fought as if they were both made of the same cosmic breath, two halves of a single genius. But suddenly, another archer, impatient to be part of that battle, stormed into the fray. Lakshmana was not willing to be left out. He must join in what seemed almost like a celebration, a festival of arms; though, of course, it was a duel to the death. Lakshmana cut down the banner on Ravana’s chariot with two lightlike arrows.

  Spitting flames, the Demon turned on Rama’s brother. But Lakshmana split the Rakshasa’s bow in his hands and shot his sarathy dead with an arrow through his temple. Now Vibheeshana was among them, roaring. He sprang at his brother’s unworldly steeds, and killed them. When he saw Vibheeshana, Ravana’s rage blazed up.

  The Lord of Lanka leaped lithely down from his shattered chariot. In his arms there shone a bizarre shakti. Ravana spread his arms wide, wide, and the shakti yawned in the space between his hands, an emerald darkness. It spun humming there: a thing of perfect evil. Crying a ringing devil’s cry, in an old and harsh tongue that only Vibheeshana knew, Ravana cast that weapon at his brother. But in a wink, two arrows of light flashed from Lakshmana’s bow and the shakti was blasted into dust.

  Ravana roared more horribly, a Beast cornered. Another shakti blazed in his arms, and it was brighter than the other. Abruptly, it vanished and his hands seemed empty. Yet Ravana whirled them round and round, for the weapon was still there. It was a shakti of maya that Ravana now spun, a feminine ayudha of untold power. He glowered at Vibheeshana again with fulminant hatred. But the moment Ravana cast the shakti at his brother, Lakshmana leaped between Vibheeshana and the invisible weapon. Rama cried out a warning; but the infernal thing flashed into Lakshmana’s chest and he fell as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt, blood spouting from him.

  Roaring exultantly, Ravana seized another bow from the remains of his chariot and strung it to finish Lakshmana. Rama gave a strangled cry, as if he had been felled, not his brother. He sprang between the Rakshasa and Lakshmana, who lay pinned to the earth by the shakti. Rama’s eyes glittered, so even the vanaras slunk away from him. His body was livid and his arrows were molten.

  In a voice the monkeys had never heard before, the plumbless voice of an angry God, Rama said, “Not both of us shall remain alive, Evil One. It was to kill you that I was banished when I was still a boy; to kill you I wandered the jungle for thirteen years. It was for your death that you took my Sita from me. All my life has been a preparation to rid the earth of you. Die now, Rakshasa, there is not room enough in the world for us both.”

  Rama’s golden arrows were made from flames of the apocalypse. They flared in tide at the Demon of Lanka. Ravana was tired. He had no answer to Rama’s archery; it was a profound thing of the prince’s sacred heart. The Rakshasa climbed into one of his warriors’ chariots and rode back into his city. The lofty gates rang shut behind him. The triumphant shouts of the vanaras echoed through the battlefield, and the rest of the rakshasas fled.

  With a sob, Rama sank to his knees beside the fallen Lakshmana. The color had ebbed out of the younger prince’s face. The shakti still writhed in his chest, a fire serpent swallowing its tail, and his blood gushed thickly from the wound. Carefully, because it was a thing of dire evil, Rama reached for the shakti. The moment he touched it, it burst apart in his hands and vanished. Lakshmana groaned. But he did not open his eyes and the blood still poured from the wound that yawned right through his body. Rama took his brother onto his lap. A score of Ravana’s arrows stuck in Rama’s own arms and chest, but he seemed unaware of them or their pain.

  In a moment, Sushena, the vanara physician, was at Rama’s side. Frowning, Sushena explored Lakshmana’s wound with knowing fingers. Rama whispered to him, “Sushena, I have no will left to fight. If Ravana had not fled just now, he would have found me easy prey. My heart is weak; my body seems not to belong to me any more. The bow is heavy in my hands and I can hardly lift it to fight on. Noble vanara, Lakshmana is dead and I mean to take my own life.”

  Sushena signaled to some monkeys. They ran forward to help carry Lakshmana to a safer place, farther from the field where a hundred thousand lay dead, their blood congealing upon the earth.

  37. Sanjivini

  Rama sat sighing helplessly beside his unconscious brother. He sobbed Lakshmana’s name, crying where would he find another brother like him. It seemed Ravana had won his war when his shakti struck Lakshmana down.

  But Sushena said, “Lakshmana is not dead. Here, feel his hands, Rama; there is life in them, buried in a deep slumber. Besides, his is not the face of one who has a short life on earth. Lakshmana has the face of a long-lived man. He is still alive, as surely as you and I are.”

  Sushena looked up. Among the vanara chieftains thronging around them stood Hanuman. He was calm, ready to be of service. Sushena said to him, “Only the vishalyakarani can heal this wound and bring Lakshmana back to us. Hurry, Hanuman, bring the oshadhi, or bring the mountain again.”

  The son of the wind grew vast once more. He flew up into the sky. Across holy ocean and sacred continent, the vanara flew like Rama’s arrow. Like a vimana he sailed, and landed for the second time upon the little mountain, also called Sanjivini. It was daylight now and he could see the plants of healing, some shaped like tiny men, others like little stars. He breathed their scents and felt his own body begin to glow with new strength and hope like magic in his blood. But by daylight Hanuman could not be sure which of the glowing plants was the vishalyakarani.

  Once more, bracing himself and growing big as half the sky, Hanuman plucked up the mountain by its roots and flew through the air with it. Some say the Sanjivini mountain allowed him to pick it up so easily because in its primeval heart it remembered the younger days of the earth, when all mountains had wings and flew through the air, the days before Indra severed their wings with his vajra of a thousand joints.

  Hanuman flew back to Lanka with the mountain in his hands. Lanka rocked when he set the Sanjivini down on her shores. Sushena ran up those cold slopes with Hanuman, and his knowing eye soon picked out the vishalyakarani. Sushena crushed the man-shaped herbs between his fingers and held them under Lakshmana’s nose, where breath still came and went faintly. The monkeys saw the yawning wound in Lakshmana’s chest close like a flower at dusk. They saw its every trace vanish from his skin.

  Lakshmana stirred; his eyes flew open. He jumped to his feet and reached for his bow as if he were still in the thick of battle.

  With a cry, Rama hugged his brother. “I thought you were gone! What would I have done? Not kingdom or victory, not even having Sita back, would have meant anything to me. I would have killed myself if you had died.”

  Lakshmana frowned to hear him. He said, “You should not yield to grief like an ordinary man. Your mission in this world is not an ordinary man’s.”

  As long as his brother lived, Rama was prepared to listen to anything from him. He hugged Lakshmana again, laughing in great joy, humoring him as one does a sweet and solemn child. But Lakshmana said gravely, “Listen, Rama. In my swoon, I saw many wonderful dreams and omens. Challenge Ravana today; you must kill him before the day is over. Tomorrow is amavasya, when the moon’s face is hidden by the shadow of the earth. Tomorrow is the day of the Rakshasa’s greatest strength.”

  M
eanwhile, Hanuman lifted the mountain out of the sea again and flew with it to the Himalaya. But before he went, ten thousand monkeys, killed in battle today, rose from the dead and were ready again for the dharma yuddha, the war of truth. Their shouts of “Rama! Sugriva! Jaya! Jaya!” filled the air.

  A great ocean conch booming drowned the monkeys’ shouting. The gates of Lanka flew open. Clad in dark blue silk, with a new sarathy holding his horses’ reins, Ravana rode into battle again, as if in response to Lakshmana’s wish.

  38. The two great enemies

  Ravana shot ten smoking arrows at Rama. They flew at him, burning up the sky. But Rama plucked them from the air with one shaft of his own and smashed them into dust. In a wink, Ravana was on the other side of Rama and more arrows flamed at the prince, now from behind him. Whirling round, Rama shot them down. But again Ravana was already somewhere else.

  The Demon rode in Brahma’s flashing chariot, yoked to unearthly steeds; though Rama’s bow streamed fire, Ravana was never in one place so they could find their mark. Quick as wishes, his chariot bore the Lord of evil over land and through the air. Now he was above, then upon the earth, but across the field; while Rama fought from the ground, where he made an unmoving target.

  The Devas, the immortal rishis, the gandharvas and apsaras, all the celestial ones had gathered in the akasa to watch the fateful battle. Indra cried, “They are almost equal as archers. But the Rakshasa has his chariot, while Rama fights on foot.”

  He called Matali, his own sarathy, and sent him down to the blue prince. In the midst of the stunning duel, a chariot from another world appeared, shimmering, before Rama. Jewels shone at its pillars, its green horses glowed, and their manes seemed to be made of moonlight. The golden thing did not rest on the earth, but hovered two hands above the ground, pulsing. Silver moon bells tinkled on its roof, the garlands around the emerald horses’ throats were lambent. Matali stepped down from that ratha and folded his hands to Rama.

  The starry sarathy said, “My Lord Indra has sent you his own chariot, his golden bow, and his arrows that are lightning. He sends you his shakti. Rama, my horses will obey your thoughts.”

  Rama smiled at Lakshmana; this was the same chariot they had watched secretly outside Sharabhanga’s asrama in the Dandaka vana. Rama remembered what Agastya had said, that when the time came Indra would send his own chariot to him. While Lakshmana held the storming Rakshasa at bay, Rama worshipped the ratha. After folding his hands to it, he climbed in. Like light Matali flashed away into the sky, with Rama behind him, splendid as Mahavishnu.

  Ravana greeted Rama with a cool and deadly gandharvastra. Rama loosed a gandharvastra of his own. Full of hidden flames, the weapons fused in the sky. But neither could quell the other, and they fell away into the sea far below, where they burned blood red beneath the waves until they were extinguished in the deep.

  Rama shot a devastra at the Rakshasa; but he had one of his own. These, too, locked together in a fervid duel of their archers’ wills. But the astras’ fires were exhausted before either warrior would submit. Ravana summoned a rakshasastra of a thousand shafts. It spumed into the sky and fell on Rama’s chariot, its every barb a serpent; their hoods were flames and they spat smoking venom. The sky was full of shining hamadryads, flying at blue Rama.

  But Rama was enthralled with the duel in the air. He admired his enemy’s prowess, which for once matched his own. He relished being finally tested to the limits. The kshatriya strung his bow with a garudastra. Suddenly a thousand birds of prey were in the firmament. The monkeys and demons on the ground below cried out in wonder, and the golden eagles hunted the green serpents with crystal claw and beak.

  Ravana turned back to common arrows. Whistling and sharp, they flew at Rama and Matali; and not even with the unearthly horses’ fleetness, nor Indra’s sarathy’s dazzling skill, could all the shafts be dodged. Many found their mark, painfully, and one cut the banner from the Deva’s chariot. When Ravana’s arrows pierced Rama, it is told the sea swelled in tidal waves, as if to reach up into the sky to tend his wounds. They say the sun grew dim, as if he had a fever. Mangala reached out to stroke Visakha, the star of the Ikshvakus, over which Indra and Agni rule.

  Ravana was as magnificent as Himavan’s son Mainaka. The Rakshasa pressed Rama hard, and for a moment it seemed the prince could find no answer to him. Gentle Rama had not imagined Ravana would be quite such an adversary. He glared at the Rakshasa across the sky, as if to burn him up with his gaze. The earth quailed at Rama’s anger. Tigers and leopards scuttled into their caves. The birds of the air wheeled in frenzy, screaming, because the very sky shrank from the rage in Rama’s eyes. For a moment even Ravana shivered.

  Roaring to drown his doubts, nine heads seething around the central one, the Demon seized up a pale trisula. Triune fires glowed at its points when the Rakshasa’s hand touched it. The quarters echoed with Ravana’s roar, at the bolt of power that surged through his body. The trisula was a great and olden ayudha; no one had ever withstood it.

  Whirling the thing of white flames in his hands, Ravana cried, “Here comes your death, human. All the rakshasas you killed are waiting for you in the next world!”

  With a howl, he cast his trident at Rama. Like the agni from Siva’s eye it flew, a gash of fire through the sky. The report of its flight was of a hundred thunderclaps. It seemed the stuff of time would be torn asunder by that weapon. How could even the Avatara withstand its awesome power? Spewing invisible flames, the trisula came for Rama’s life.

  The Devas and rishis shut their eyes. They could not believe any man of flesh and blood could stand before that weapon, which not only burned the body but consumed the soul. Time stood still in the sky between the two chariots, and the fate of the worlds hung in the balance. Slowly, taking a lifetime, Ravana’s trisula flew at Rama. In that frozen moment, Rama strung his bow and shot a hundred arrows at the macabre thing. But they were burned to ashes and fell away. The missile came on, inexorably.

  Rama’s face twitched in despair. Hardly knowing what he did any more, reaching blindly into the depths of his will, he found Indra’s shakti in the chariot. Just in time, the last shred of an instant he had left, he cast it at Ravana’s trident. The explosion in the air was as if the sun had blown apart. On the ground, the rakshasas and the vanaras covered their eyes with their hands; or they would have been blinded. Rama and Ravana shut their eyes. But the shakti of light put out the trisula of darkness, and both fell away to the earth. The unbearable splendor died out of the sky; demon and prince fought once more.

  Ravana was shaken. He lurched briefly in his chariot, and at once Rama found him with three golden barbs. The Rakshasa screamed in rage. He stood like an asoka tree in bloom, crimson flowers unfurled on him. But no vital organ was struck, and his wounds were not deep or inflicted with any astra. Ravana plucked out the shafts and fought on. But the duel drained him. Now his face and his hands were those of an ancient beast’s, thousands of years old; his skin was like dry parchment.

  The chariots dazzled with their speed; they were like the magic wind. They flew on earth and through the air, their unearthly horses in blinding contention, spurred by just their charioteers’ thoughts. Often, both stopped at once, as if by tacit agreement that their warriors needed to rest. After a panting pause, one archer would loose his stream of arrows again, and the other would reply.

  Into one of those intervals Rama cried, “I have heard you were a great tapasvin once. Today you are just a thief, and like a thief you will die.”

  Rama’s aim was as true as when the battle began; but Ravana fumbled at his bow. His arms were sluggish and his aim was wayward. He dared not acknowledge it, but he was tired. Each moment, Rama covered the Rakshasa with a hundred arrows from his superb bow. Then Ravana fainted. Instantly, his sarathy vanished out of the sky with his king. He landed in a quiet grove, on another hillside across the island.

  When the Demon revived, he sat up in the chariot and looked around him. He gave a hiss of ange
r when he saw they had flown the battle. He screamed at his sarathy, “What have you done? Does a warrior ever run from war? Because you were terrified by Rama’s arrows, the world will say I am a coward. Fool, fly back to the fight!”

  But his head still spun with weakness. Gently his sarathy said, “I am no fool, my lord; nor am I afraid. For centuries I have served you faithfully. Today, for the first time, I saw you were tired and in mortal danger. It is a sarathy’s sacred dharma to protect his warrior’s life. Omens of death were all around us, and Rama’s arrows flew at us like time. You were hardly yourself after he cut down your trisula. You were full of age and then you swooned. I had to fly you out of danger; what else could I do?”

  That loyal rakshasa spoke calmly, and at once Ravana softened. He said, “You move me with your love. But I have recovered now. Brave friend, fly back into battle. I must drink Rama’s blood today.”

  The rakshasa turned to lash his horses again; Ravana stopped him, laying a hand on his shoulder. When the sarathy turned around, he saw his king had taken a bracelet studded with diamonds and pearls from his wrist and was offering it to him in gratitude. Bowing to his great master, tears in his eyes, the charioteer accepted the gift and turned his chariot back to the battle.

  * * *

  Agastya watched the relucent duel from the akasa between heaven and earth. He saw Ravana faint and his sarathy make the ratha invisible and leave the field. It was then that rishi came to Rama in Indra’s chariot. He came in a sukshma rupa, a spirit form like bright vapor.

  Agastya said, “Rama, worship your ancestor the Sun. The Adityahridaya is one of the oldest of all mantras. Worship Surya Deva with it, whom the Devas and the Asuras both revere, and you will kill Ravana today.”