They entered a clearing. “Behold the altar, facing east, where the ascetics conducted yagyas to raise the fortunes of the world. Behold the sparkling streams of water flowing from the seven seas, drawn here by the power of the wise ones’ thoughts. Behold the blue-tinted lotus garlands, gathered by them for worship, still unfaded and fresh. This is a place of eternal renewal, a place to erase all cares.”
The two brothers waded into the sacred flowing waters, splashing their limbs as they performed their evening ablutions. They cupped their hands and offered homage to their ancestors.
When they returned to her hermitage, the devoted sage Shabarī faced the two brothers with her hands folded together in respect. “Now that I have shown you all that you desired to see, please grant me leave. I wish to shed this body and join my pure-souled teachers, whom I am accustomed to serving.”
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” cried Rāma, his heart touched by all that he had seen and heard. “You have surely honored me today, radiant Shabarī. Take your leave and go swiftly to the abode of happiness.”
With that blessing, the gentle Shabarī, wearing the humble tree-bark robes and matted locks of an ascetic, stepped into the fire she kept ever burning at the hermitage. In a flash she rose from the pure flame into the air, her limbs adorned with celestial robes and garlands, emitting a divine fragrance sweeter than sandalwood. Lighting the skies, she ascended to the highest heaven, joining her guru and other high-souled Rishis who had already passed to their heavenly abode. The sound of conches, celestial music, and bells filled the air.
The two brothers stood in silence for a long while. Finally Rāma said, “O Lakshmana, surely this sacred place has washed away our sad karma. Now my heart rests in peace. Soon we will enjoy good fortune.”
Rāma set out walking from the hermitage. “Let us follow the shores of this enchanting Lake Pampā. I am anxious to reach Mount Rishyamūka, floating above the lake in the distance. There lives Sugrīva, who will help us find Sītā.”
“That mountain beckons me too,” said Lakshmana. And so the two princes, their bodies shining like the sun, strode resolutely beside the lotus waters of Lake Pampā, its shores shaded by blossoming trees.
Welcome Rāma and Lakshmana as your guests.
When you behold Rāma, you will attain the highest heaven.
—Āranya Kānda 74.16
End of the Āranya Kānda
FOUR
Kishkindhā Kānda
Kingdom of the Monkeys
CHAPTER 26
Rāma Meets the Servant of His Heart
In this spring without Sītā,
I wander the sandy banks of Lake Pampā,
shaded by flowery boughs.
My feet tread softly
as blossoms
of dawn’s pastel hues
wash these shores
in frothy tides.
The gentle wind
frolics in tune with humming bees,
swaying the treetops
until their branches touch
like courting birds.
The breath of spring
brushes against flower petals
and scatters the scent of sandalwood.
O Lakshmana,
in this season of tender breezes,
how can I bear the loss of my doe-eyed one?
Sītā would thrill
at the cry of the dātyūhaka bird
trilling from the waterfall.
How can I live without my beloved
of gentle speech and loving glances?
See the strutting peacock adorned with turquoise,
fanning a thousand eyes in the wind,
intoxicating the pea-hen with desire?
Sītā followed in my footsteps
as the peacock’s mate follows him.
Now he cries in sympathy for me.
All that brought me joy
in her presence
now pains me like the sting of ice.
Without her, the crystal waters of Lake Pampā,
teeming with blue water lilies and swans,
pierce my bones like the winter wind.
In every lotus I see her eyes.
In every breeze I feel her breath.
In every birdsong I hear her voice.
If I could see her now,
resting on that hillside erupting in blossoms
amidst flocks of birds,
I would want for nothing.
To live apart from Sītā
in the season of spring
is beyond bearing.
As Rāma and Lakshmana walked along the shores of Lake Pampā under the blossoming trees, a gentle breeze showered petals that caught in their hair and fell in drifts on the ground. As he inhaled the earthy, honey-scented breath of spring, Rāma could think only of Sītā.
“You know that this season was Sītā’s favorite,” said Rāma in an unsteady voice. “Everywhere I look, I see reminders of her slender waist, her thick eyelashes, her melodious voice, her smiling glances. The dance of mating birds and the caress of soft breezes only intensify my feeling of loss. I cannot bear this pain. I fear that she, too, cannot endure this separation. For she has always been true to me, just as I have loved only her. O Lakshmana, it is time for you to go home to Bharata and leave me here. For I cannot live without Sītā.”
Rāma slumped on a fallen log, holding his head in his hands, his gleaming weapons trailing on the forest floor.
Ever the faithful brother, Lakshmana said, “Stay steady on your path, Rāma. Do not give in to sadness, for the only way to recover what you have lost is through your own resourcefulness. Nothing is more powerful in this world than a strong will and the energy to exert yourself. The only way to reunite yourself with Sītā is to find Rāvana. Even if he should hide himself in the womb of Diti, the mother of the demon race, you must find him there and slay him. Put aside your emotions for now. Remember who you are, O Rāma. The light of your intelligence and courage can never be dimmed.”
Braced by his brother’s words, Rāma rose above his grief. Though he still felt the pain of being separated from Sītā, his mind was steady once again. Established in equanimity, he searched for Sītā under the blossoming trees of Lake Pampā.
As the two powerfully built brothers made their way toward Mount Rishyamūka, others were watching. Monkeys playing in the woods saw the princes walking purposefully through the forest, their shining weapons slung over their shoulders, and fled to the nearby Matanga Wood, where they felt safe.
These monkeys were not ordinary primates, for they had come into being in an unusual way. At the time when the Devas had begged Lord Vishnu to take birth as the warrior-king Rāma, the farseeing Lord Brahmā instructed the Devas, “O immortal ones, may you give birth to vānara (celestial monkeys) and bears to assist in the destruction of Rāvana, for in Rāvana’s boon he neglected to ask for protection from men or animals. I have already created Jāmbavān, the chief of the bears, who emerged from my mouth when I yawned.”
The Devas then gave birth to numerous vānara of uncommon abilities. These celestial monkeys could fly through the air and grab onto clouds with their tails. Immensely strong, they could uproot trees and conquer lions. These monkey tribes, versed in the art of warfare, served either Bāli, son of Indra, or his brother Sugrīva, son of Sūrya, the Sun. A multitude of monkeys waited to fulfill the purpose of their birth.
—
HIGH ON MOUNT Rishyamūka, Sugrīva, the king of the monkeys, watched the brothers far below and felt his stomach knot up. Restless with worry, he paced the cave that served as his hiding place, anxiously checking the progress of the two godlike warriors, who came closer every minute.
“I am afraid that these two were sent by my brother, Bāli, to kill us,” he told his monkey ministers. “Disgu
ised as wandering mendicants, they are armed and ready.”
“Yes, surely Bāli has sent them!” cried Sugrīva’s ministers. As fear overtook them, they bolted from the cave and flew from peak to peak, racing over the mountain to escape the two men. As they trounced on trees, the tops broke off under their weight, frightening the deer and tigers, which stampeded in confusion.
Finally, worn out, the frazzled ministers returned to the spot where they had started and stood quietly beside Sugrīva, awaiting his command. Seeing his opportunity, the wisest and most eloquent minister, Hanumān, known as the Son of the Wind, quietly said to Sugrīva, “It is fear of your brother Bāli that makes us flit from place to place. Yet he is not here. You are giving in to the flighty indecisiveness of common monkeys. A leader must remain calm. Use your formidable intelligence and experience to determine the intentions of these men. Only then can you prevent danger.”
His minister’s wise words calmed Sugrīva. He said, “These two are surely spies of Bāli. So let us spy on the spies. Hanumān, disguise yourself as a human being, and go to meet them. Praise them, and with your courteous address, win their confidence. Ask them why they have come here, armed with bows. If they wish me harm, their speech and manner will betray them.”
“So be it,” said the noble Hanumān, his hands folded in respect.
In one bound, the great vānara Hanumān leapt from the peak of Mount Rishyamūka to its base, where Rāma and Lakshmana were walking.
Through his powers of transformation, Hanumān made himself appear as a wandering ascetic. As he walked on the path toward the two brothers, he studied them to ascertain their character. When he finally spoke, it was from his heart.
“You who radiate light like gods, how have you come to this forest?” He bowed his head and pressed his palms together in respect, addressing them in Sanskrit, the language of the Vedas. “Though you wear the matted locks of an ascetic, you surely are men of courage. How have you come to the shores of Lake Pampā, clad in tree-bark robes but carrying bows bright as rainbows and swords gilded with gold? With your lion’s strength and broad chests you dazzle the eye. Your eyes are as large as lotus flowers and your arms powerful as trunks of elephants. You light up the distant mountain with your brilliance, power, and beauty. The two of you, looking so much alike, could be the sun and moon come to earth.”
When the two brothers did not respond to his gentle and pleasing words, he asked in courteous tones, “Why do you refrain from answering, even though I utter your praises? Sugrīva, the king of the monkeys, who has been banished to this forest by his brother Bāli, wishes to make friends with you. I am Hanumān, Son of the Wind and minister of Sugriva. I can go anywhere and take any form at will. At the request of my king, I appear before you as a monk rather than a monkey.”
Rāma’s face lit up with joy at the mention of Sugrīva’s name. He turned to Lakshmana and advised him privately, “Sugrīva has sent his minister to meet me. Talk to Hanumān in engaging tones, for he understands the subtleties of speech. He is extremely learned, for only by knowing Rik, Sāma, and Yajur Veda could he speak such perfect Sanskrit without hesitation. He surely has heard all the rules of grammar repeated many times, for he has not made a single mistake.
“His forehead, eyebrows, and eyes reflect the pleasing quality of his speech. He speaks in agreeable middle tones, neither too fast nor too slow, neither too wordy nor too obscure. Each word is enunciated clearly, never slurred or drawn out, each syllable given its proper accent. Resonating from his chest, throat, and head, his wholesome and harmonious speech charms my heart. A king with such a minister will surely meet with success, for such eloquence speeds all undertakings.”
Thus guided by Rāma, Lakshmana stepped forward and answered Hanumān cordially. “We know of your king, Sugrīva, and we have come to this forest to seek his assistance. Please tell us how we can meet him.”
Hanumān smiled with delight. Always eager to serve his king, he immediately thought, “Here is one who can help Sugrīva regain his kingdom.” And so he asked, “How is it that you have come to this forest?”
Lakshmana explained their circumstances in his own eloquent way. “I have answered your questions with sincerity,” he concluded. Then his eyes flooded with tears. “My brother Rāma, who once ruled the earth, now seeks the favor of the monkey king. Rāma, who has given away enormous wealth, now looks to King Sugrīva for sustenance. Rāma, the compassionate refuge of all beings, now seeks refuge with the chief of the monkeys. May Sugrīva offer his friendship to Rāma, who is overwhelmed with grief.”
“It is the good fortune of King Sugrīva that men who have mastered the Self, controlled the senses and conquered anger have sought him out,” replied Hanumān in his courteous and dignified manner. “King Sugrīva, too, has met with difficult times, having lost his kingdom and his wife to his brother Bāli. Sugrīva, son of the Sun, will help you search for Sītā. I will take you to meet him now.”
Cheered by this harmonious response, Lakshmana turned to Rāma, who was still standing behind him. “Hanumān, who is extremely intelligent, says Sugrīva will help us. Our task is as good as done. We can trust him, for his face is bright and we have gained his esteem.”
With that, Hanumān dropped his disguise and bowed to Rāma. Then he swelled his body to an enormous size. Taking Rāma and Lakshmana on his back, he flew in one leap to the top of the mountain where Sugrīva waited.
He is extremely learned, for only by knowing
Rik, Sāma, and Yajur Veda could he speak such perfect Sanskrit.
—Kishkindhā Kānda 3.28
CHAPTER 27
Rāma and Sugrīva Become Friends
CARRYING RĀMA AND Lakshmana on his back, Hanumān flew to the top of Mount Rishyamūka and landed at the edge of a shimmering pool. From this spot high on the mountain, Rāma and Lakshmana looked down on the sandy shores of Lake Pampā, the dense Matanga Wood and the rainbow hues of the flowering trees where they had walked far below.
After stepping to the ground they followed Hanumān as he circled the pool, arriving at a spot where a giant boulder guarded the entrance to a cave. Hanumān deftly rolled the boulder aside and beckoned them inside. Sugrīva and his four ministers had made a home out of the cave, with straw mats and a fire pit. After making his guests comfortable with water to wash their feet and food and drinks to refresh them, Hanumān disappeared into the shadows of the cave to report to Sugrīva.
When Hanumān told Sugrīva that Rāma, the embodiment of Dharma, had come to the forest seeking his aid, the monkey king smiled with relief. His fears dispelled, Sugrīva came forward to warmly greet Rāma and Lakshmana.
“I salute you for upholding Dharma,” said Sugrīva to Rāma. “The Son of the Wind has told me of your valor, your all-embracing love and compassion, and your other supreme qualities. I feel honored that you wish to befriend me, a mere monkey. If you desire to be my friend, take my hand, and we will enter into a fruitful alliance.”
Rāma warmly clasped Sugrīva’s hand to secure the friendship. Then he embraced Sugrīva heartily, delighted by his sweet words.
Hanumān quickly kindled a sacred fire. With flowers he made offerings to the fire and, with his mind serene, beckoned Rāma and Sugrīva to join him, one on each side. Having made their offerings, Rāma and Sugrīva circumambulated the sacred fire, their shadows dancing on the cavern walls. Rāma and Sugrīva gazed at each other fondly, each delighted with their new friendship.
“You are a friend for all time,” said Sugrīva. “We will share our joys and sorrows alike.” He offered a branch from a flowering shāla tree, which Hanumān had brought, as a seat for Rāma. Then he joined Rāma, sitting next to him on the branch. Hanumān placed the bough of a fragrant sandalwood tree on the floor of the cave and offered the seat to the humble Lakshmana.
“Each day I wander these forests, O Rāma,” said Sugrīva. “Exiled by my brother Bāli, who has stolen
my wife, I live in fear of him. Save me from Bāli and dispel this crippling fear.”
“To help and serve another is the sign of friendship, just as harming another is the sign of enmity,” said Rāma, who knew Dharma and embraced it wholeheartedly. “I will defeat your brother Bāli, who has abducted your wife. This very day you will see my sun-bright arrows strike Bāli and lay him flat.”
Sugrīva’s depression lifted and he felt joy for the first time in many months. He knew in his heart that his purpose was as good as achieved. As faithful friends have done throughout time, he reciprocated the favor, pledging to rescue Sītā in return.
As Rāma and Sugrīva sealed their pact, the left eyes of Bāli and Rāvana quivered, portending their deaths.
Sugrīva’s next words made his visitors’ hair stand on end. “I cannot be certain, but I think I saw your wife flying across the skies, struggling to escape Rāvana’s arms. My four ministers and I were seated on this mountaintop when she passed overhead, crying piteously, ‘Rāma, O Rāma!’ Seeing us, she threw down her shawl and jewels. I have them here, if you wish to identify them.”
Rāma’s dark skin turned pale. “Please, bring them to me, my friend.”
When he saw Sītā’s shawl and jewels, Rāma gathered them in his arms and slumped to the ground, tears blurring his eyes. Pressing them to his heart again and again, he cried out, “My darling one!”
Recovering himself, he said, “O Lakshmana, without a doubt these are Sītā’s jewels, which she scattered on the ground to warn us of her abduction.”
“I cannot identify the armlets or earrings,” said the virtuous Lakshmana, wiping tears from his eyes, “but the anklets I remember well, for I bowed to her feet each morning.”
Then Rāma, his face bathed in tears, questioned Sugrīva. “Show me the place where you saw Sītā. Who is this monster who bore her away, and where does he live? What is his strength? Tell me all you know, and I will send him to his death this day.”
The Ramayana Page 21