The Ramayana

by Linda Egenes, M. A.

  Then he cried out to the mountain, “O lord of the hills, have you seen the graceful princess Sītā?”

  Once more, there was silence.

  “Show me where Sītā has gone, or I will break your peaks!” shouted Rāma, his voice echoing off the mountainside like the roar of a lion in his den. “I will burn you to ashes. No more will the trees find a home in your arms. I will dry up your rivers if Sītā is not found.”

  Again confronted only with silence, Rāma would have destroyed the mountain. But just then, he saw a giant footprint in the earth and, beside it, the delicate footprint of Sītā. Searching the forest floor, the brothers found the shattered remains of a chariot, a pearl-inlaid bow, and hundreds of arrows.

  “Alas, a great struggle took place here, on account of Sītā,” said Rāma. “These golden arrows and broken bow must belong to a great rākshasa, who surely carried off Sītā and devoured her.”

  His body shook with anger. “Who is there in this world that dares to mock me? Someone mistakes my softhearted disposition for cowardice, my compassion for weakness. Today I will suppress those gentle qualities and show the world my full power. Today I will stop the planets in their orbits, cover the moon, blacken the sun, and dry up the ocean.”

  Rāma’s wrath burned like the fire at the dissolution of time. His eyes glowing red, his body shooting forth sparks of gold, he raised his bow and fitted it with an arrow as deadly as a snake. “If the lords of the universe do not deliver my beloved Sītā, they will see what I can do. My arrows will darken the sky and flood the earth. If the flawless Sītā of charming smiles is not returned to me unharmed, I will destroy every Deva, rākshasa, earthly creature, and man. I will destroy the three worlds!”

  Lakshmana faced Rāma, his hands again clasped together in respect and his lips white as parchment. “Dear brother, never before have you let rage overpower you. You have always been self-controlled and intent on doing good to all creatures. Just as beauty is natural to the moon, splendor to the sun, patience to the earth, and quickness to the wind, all of these qualities, as well as fame, are natural to you.

  “What good would it do to destroy the three worlds when only one demon committed the crime? You are the refuge of all beings. The mountains and oceans, the Devas in heaven, the celestial beings, and the good men on earth could never wish to harm you. It is your duty now to find Sītā and to punish her abductor. With me by your side, we will search every cave, hill, lake, and mountain. We will seek guidance from the gods, the Gandharvas, and the men who live in each place. If through gentleness, humility, and sensible efforts you do not retrieve Sītā, then only will you be justified in shooting your arrows like Indra’s thunderbolts.”

  Hearing these words, Rāma felt another wave of gloom wash over him. Immobilized by his loss, he wailed like an orphaned child.

  Now the faithful Lakshmana, ever the nurturing and supportive friend to Rāma, clasped Rāma’s feet lovingly. In an effort to comfort his brother, Lakshmana entreated him, “Remember that you are the fruit of our father’s yagyas, just as amritam, the nectar of immortality, is the fruit of the yagya of the Devas. If you cannot bear misfortune, how can an ordinary man?

  “Who in this world can escape challenges that burn like fire? Vasishtha, our enlightened guru, lost a hundred sons in one day. Our revered Mother Earth, whom all worship, trembles at times. The eyes of the universe, the sun and moon, are occasionally eclipsed. Even Indra and the gods are subject to consequences of good and evil. Therefore, do not grieve.

  “Even if Sītā has met the worst of fates, it is not worthy of you to lament like an ignorant man. Men of wisdom bear pleasure and pain with equanimity, O Rāma.

  “I am only repeating what you have taught me in the past—for how can I presume to teach you anything? Even the gods could not fathom your intelligence. I am merely trying to rouse your wisdom, which is dulled by grief. What good would it do to seek revenge on the Devas and men? Now is the time to decide the best course of action, to seek out your foe and put an end to him.”

  Rāma was not accustomed to receiving advice from his younger brother, yet he saw the wisdom in Lakshmana’s words. His anger drained away, and he lowered his massive bow. “Where shall we search for Sītā? What shall we do, Lakshmana?” He struggled to set aside his devastated feelings.

  “First we must scour this area together, leaving no corner unvisited,” suggested Lakshmana. As they beat aside the underbrush with their swords, again checking every foot of the forest floor for clues, they saw a giant bird lying wounded on the ground.

  “This great bird is surely the rākshasa who devoured Sītā,” said Rāma, raising his bow. “I will end its miserable life.” He rushed on the bird as if he would destroy the whole earth.

  His voice barely audible, the dying bird whispered, “O Rāma, true to my promise to protect Sītā, the lady you seek like the rarest of herbs, I fought Rāvana, the king of the rākshasas. But when I grew exhausted he cut off my wings with his sword. I am dying, so there is no need to kill me.”

  Rāma, recognizing Jatāyu, flung aside his bow and dropped to his knees. With Lakshmana at his side, he caressed the bird as he would his own father, sobbing for his friend and distressed at hearing such fearful tidings of Sītā. “My misfortunes could consume fire itself,” cried Rāma. “Now my father’s dear friend is dying, his blood staining the earth.”

  Taking the bleeding bird tenderly in his arms, he gently asked, “If it is possible for you to speak, will you tell me where my Sītā has gone, she who is dearer to me than my life? I beg you, tell me all.”

  The loyal bird faltered, his life’s breath ebbing away. “Rāvana used his sorcery to stifle the wind and hide the sun. He flew away with her, facing the south. But he stole her in the hour of vinda, when all that is lost is soon recovered. So do not despair, you will defeat him and recover Sītā.” And then the noble bird gave up his life in Rāma’s arms.

  “Speak, noble bird, please tell me more,” cried Rāma, his face streaming with tears.

  Shaken with grief, Rāma clasped the bird’s feet. “This selfless bird lived many years happily in this forest, and now he has died in my service, using his last breath to save Sītā. This proves that high-souled beings live among all the wild creatures. His death weighs heavily on my heart.”

  Then he instructed Lakshmana to gather firewood. “This bird deserves the same funeral rites as our own father.”

  Lighting the funeral pyre after gently placing the massive bird on it, Rāma said, “O mighty Jatāyu, who died for my sake and Sītā’s, go beyond the worlds of fearless warriors, beyond the worlds of those who perform yagyas, beyond the worlds of those who give away their fortunes—go to the realms of perpetual bliss.”

  Then Rāma chanted in a low voice the sacred hymns and performed all the auspicious ceremonies to gain the blessings of nature for their father’s friend. The grieving brothers walked to the river bank and waded into the Godāvarī. After bathing in its pure waters, they cupped their hands and solemnly offered water oblations for the great bird, just as they had done for their own father.

  Remembering the words of Jatāyu, who assured them that they would recover Sītā, the two left Panchavatī and strode like Vishnu and Indra toward the southwest, the dense forest closing behind them like a door.

  Where is Sītā, my life’s strength, who is like a daughter to the gods?

  O Lakshmana, without her I cannot live, even for a moment.

  —Āranya Kānda 58.4

  CHAPTER 25

  The Two Princes Search for Sugrīva

  Sandy beaches circle Lake Pampā

  like a necklace

  and swans, herons, and ospreys call sweetly

  across her tranquil waters

  where lotus flowers collect like clouds.

  Rainbow blossoms gently

  float from trees

  and light
plays melodies on

  her sapphire waves.

  Sparkling fish

  slip through underwater gardens.

  Giant monkeys roar like bulls,

  inhaling the crystal waters like nectar.

  Elephants rush to her shores,

  crimson trunks raised high,

  intoxicated by champa flower fragrances.

  Bears, panthers, wolves,

  and azure-colored deer

  live in peace on her banks.

  Across her placid face rise

  the peaks of Mount Rishyamūka,

  shaped by Brahmā’s thoughts.

  The fortunate ones who pass the night

  dreaming of treasure on its cliffs

  find wealth awaiting them at dawn, it is said,

  while the sinful who climb its high paths

  are devoured by demons.

  High on Mount Rishyamūka,

  in a hidden cave,

  its entrance guarded by a cool lake,

  live Sugrīva and his four loyal ministers,

  waiting to help Rāma find his beloved.

  As they continued their search the two princes left the Godāvarī River basin and headed into impenetrable jungles to the south. Vines and creepers covered the forest floor, making it difficult to traverse.

  “I see many evil omens,” said Lakshmana. “My left arm trembles, and fear shrouds my mind. But the cry of the dreaded vanjulaka bird tells me we will be victorious.”

  Just then a deafening noise blasted through the forest, assaulting their ears. As they drew closer, they saw a strange creature towering above the trees. Shaped like a round barrel with no head or neck, he sported a single eye blinking from the belly. Tufts of hair prickly as pine needles covered a mountainous shape. Long, powerful arms swung through the forest like pendulums, sweeping lions, bears, and deer into a ravenous mouth ringed with icicle-like fangs.

  Rāma and Lakshmana stood watching from what they thought was a safe distance. Without warning, the rākshasa suddenly stopped, swung his long arms in their direction, and snatched the princes in his massive claws. As the demon dragged them toward his cavernous mouth, Lakshmana remembered his premonition and feared they were doomed. He cried out, “Dear brother, offer me to this monster and save yourself! I am convinced you will be reunited with Sītā and regain the throne of Ayodhyā. When you rule the earth once more, think of me often, your humble servant.”

  Rāma did not succumb to emotion. “Scatter your fear to the winds, dear brother. Such a valiant warrior as you need never despair.”

  “It is my good fortune that has brought you here to feed my ravenous hunger,” roared the rākshasa in a voice that clapped like thunder. “You may as well be dead.”

  Hearing this murderous threat, Lakshmana drew his sword and said, “Let’s cut off this despicable rākshasa’s arms before he eats us.”

  The monster opened his mammoth mouth to swallow the two brothers. With perfect timing, Lakshmana swiftly sliced off his left arm and Rāma his right. Both arms severed, the rākshasa’s trunklike body swayed and crashed to the earth. His howl of pain rang through the earth, the sky, and the four quarters.

  “Who are you and what is your purpose?” asked the monster as he gasped for his last breath.

  “This is Rāma, and I am his brother Lakshmana.” Lakshmana patiently explained how they had come to the forest and how they now searched for the chaste Sītā, who had been dragged off by Rāvana.

  “And who are you?” Lakshmana asked politely.

  “I am Kabandha. God praise you, Rāma and Lakshmana, for at last you have come!” His horrible mouth smiled with happiness.

  As his life seeped away, Kabandha told them a curious story. “O Rāma, as the shining Gandharva Danu, I once was known for my splendor in all the three worlds. As beautiful as the moon, I foolishly took on this hideous body to torment saints for sport. Once I terrorized a powerful Rishi named Sthūlashirā while he gathered wild fruits. He cursed me, saying, ‘May you forever stay in this body.’ I pleaded with him to take back his curse. Finally he said, ‘When Rāma and Lakshmana cut off your arms in battle, you will regain your original beauty.’

  “After that I performed tapas and earned the boon of immortality from Lord Brahmā himself. Unfortunately, this made me so arrogant that I attacked Indra one day, thinking that I could conquer him. Hurling his thunderbolt, he smashed my head down into the trunk of my body, and created this repulsive eye and mouth in my middle so I could see and eat. I implored him to kill me outright, but he said, ‘I must honor the boon Brahmā gave to you. But, as Sthūlashirā said, you will be freed the day Rāma and Lakshmana cut off your arms in a fight.’

  “O compassionate Rāma, at last you have come to liberate me. Burn me in the funeral pyre, and when I have regained my true body and intelligence, I will be able to help you find the rākshasa who stole your wife.”

  “Let it be so,” said Rāma. Without delay, the powerful princes lifted the dying hulk and set him down near a shallow pit in the forest, in which they piled tree trunks that had been felled by elephants and cured dry by age. They rolled the giant body on top and lit the fire.

  From the pure flame rose the resplendent form of the Gandharva Kabandha, clad in spotless white garments, flower garlands, and golden ornaments. Radiating light all around, he was enthroned in a floating chariot drawn by silver-white swans. From there he called to Rāma, his melodious voice chiming like soft bells.

  “Now I will tell you how to recover Sītā. Of the various means to end misfortune, it is best for you to seek a friend who shares your difficulties. I see no other path to success than this. For without army or wealth, you are alone and helpless.

  “Listen carefully,” continued Kabandha. “High on Mount Rishyamūka, beside Lake Pampā, lives a monkey king who, like you, has been exiled unjustly. His name is Sugrīva, and he is endowed with strength, courage, and intelligence. This monkey will become your friend and help you find Sītā. Go to him and swear your loyalty to each other with the fire as your witness. Do not worry that he is a mere monkey, for Sugrīva is powerful and can grow tall as a tree or shrink small as an ant. He knows all the habits and haunts of the rākshasas, and his monkey army will search every cave and crevice for your beloved Sītā, even if the monkeys have to scour the home of Rāvana himself. Sugrīva will prove a worthy friend to you.”

  The now radiant Kabandha pointed to a forest path. “Take this trail west through groves of blossoming trees, which provide fruit in all seasons. Sustain yourselves on their fruits as you journey toward Lake Pampā. On the shores of that lotus-filled lake, you will meet an ancient woman named Shabarī, who has served the holy Matanga and other exalted sages of Lake Pampā. She is waiting in Matanga’s hermitage to serve you.” Then he faded into the heavens.

  “May peace go with you,” the two princes called after him.

  “You will recover Sītā,” Kabandha called back, as he dissolved into the sky. “Befriend Sugrīva, O Rāma.”

  The two brothers immediately headed down the path the Gandharva had pointed out, through thick undergrowth and thorny bushes. As they passed through groves of rose-apple, mango, and champa trees, they stopped occasionally to eat the plump mango fruits, ripened in the sun. Winding their way through the mountains, they spent the night on a high plateau.

  The next day they reached the sandy shores of Lake Pampā and spotted a quiet hermitage in the woods nearby. Outside, as if waiting for them, sat a woman with snow-white hair. She rose to greet them, smiling with a rare radiance.

  “I have been expecting you,” she said. She trembled with tender devotion as she bowed to the feet of Rāma and Lakshmana again and again. Raising her up, Rāma said, “It is I who should be bowing to you, revered Shabarī.”

  Shabarī brought them water to wash their feet and rinse their mouths, as was the custom.
She offered the weary travelers a seat that she had prepared for them that morning, covered with blossoms. She served them ripe berries she had just picked.

  “Since the time you first set foot on Chitrakūta Mountain, my teachers told me to expect you,” Shabarī explained. “Even though they ascended to the celestial realms, they asked me to stay behind. ‘Welcome Rāma and Lakshmana as your guests,’ they said. ‘When you behold Rāma, you will attain the highest heaven.’ So each day for thirteen years I have spread this seat of rose-apple blossoms from the jambu tree, and each day I have gathered wild fruits from the shores of Lake Pampā for you to eat.”

  After Rāma graciously thanked the sage for her remarkable hospitality, he inquired after her welfare in kindly tones. “Have you attained eternal bliss and inner tranquility? Has devotion to your guru yielded fruit? Have you quelled all anger and the need for food?”

  Shabarī smiled her brilliant smile, glowing with the light of purity. Despite her extreme age and countless wrinkles, she looked strong and healthy. Standing with her hands folded, her eyes shining with divine love, she said, “Now that I have bowed to you, I have achieved the purpose of my birth. Now that I have touched your holy feet, I have honored the teaching of my guru. Now that my eyes have feasted on your radiant being, I shall reach the heavenly realms. With your favor I will now attain all worlds.”

  Rāma smiled, his heart swelling in appreciation for this blissful and devoted saint. Then he said, “The Gandharva Danu has told us about the renowned gurus of Lake Pampā, whom you have served. Can you show us where they spent their days?”

  She led them down a secluded path, beneath blossoming trees. “We are walking in the Matanga Wood, the abode of my guru, the great sage Matanga. Each day he and other praiseworthy ascetics purified their minds in the silent depths of meditation and sanctified their every action by chanting the hymns of the Vedas. They made this wood holy. Due to its silence and purity, even the wild elephants stopped tramping through it, and the deer and the tiger live in harmony.”