Moved to tears himself, the good Sugrīva joined his palms together and said, “I do not know where that beast can be found, but I do know that I will find Sītā and bring her back to you. Until then, I beg you to set aside your heartache and show your courage. An illustrious hero such as you cannot be moved by adversity, separation from loved ones, loss of wealth, or fear of death. Those who succumb to sorrow can never succeed; their strength slips away, as a boat overturned in high waters slips beneath the waves. Please believe me—I speak to you as a friend, with my hands folded in respect. I do not presume to teach you anything; I speak only for your good. For the sake of our friendship, do not let grief overtake you.”
Touched, Rāma wiped away his tears and embraced Sugrīva. “You have spoken as a good friend, one who is concerned for my welfare. Thanks to your well-chosen words, I am my true self again. To find an ally like you, who has suffered similar misfortunes, is rare indeed, especially in troubled times.”
Thus sitting side by side on the shāla bough, the man and the monkey spoke intimately of their hopes and their fears, for which they shared a common bond.
“The Devas have blessed me in every way to send me such an ally, imbued with every remarkable quality,” said Sugrīva. “Gold and silver, clothes and jewels are to be shared with one’s friends. A friend is a safe harbor, whether he is rich or poor, happy or sad, flawless or full of faults. Those who value friendship will sacrifice wealth, happiness, and life itself for the sake of a friend.”
The radiant Rāma, pleased with Sugrīva’s devotion, said, “Now tell me how your brother Bāli came to be your enemy.”
Sugrīva sighed deeply and said, “Only because you have given me your hand in friendship, with the fire as my witness, will I tell you the wrong that eats away at my heart.”
“Speak freely,” said Rāma. “Tell me all. The thought of your humiliation both angers me and engulfs my heart with sadness. Tell me every detail, so I can carefully consider how to ensure your happiness.”
“This is my story, Rāma,” said Sugrīva. “Bāli, my older brother, was dearly loved by my father and, in those days, by me too. When my father died and Bāli became king, I obeyed my elder brother in all things, just as the trustworthy Lakshmana obeys you.
“My brother had a famous fight over a woman with the asura Māyāvī. In the dead of night, Māyāvī came to the gates of our monkey kingdom, Kishkindhā, and with a roar that shook the stones of the palace walls, challenged Bāli to fight. Awakened from sleep, Bāli rushed outside to fight him, even though his wives and I pleaded with him to stop.
“Determined to help my brother, I followed him outside the gates of our kingdom. The asura fled into a wide, yawning cave. ‘Stand watch for me here,’ commanded Bāli. ‘Guard the entrance while I kill this demon.’
“I begged Bāli to let me help him, but he charged into the cave alone, his mind furious on Māyāvī. I stayed outside that cave for an entire year, anxiously waiting for my brother to return. Sick with worry, I was determined to follow his orders. Then one day I heard a terrific roar from the asura and saw blood trickling out of the cave. Not hearing my brother’s voice, I concluded that he had been killed. Wishing to save the people from certain destruction by Māyāvī, I blocked the entrance with a huge boulder.
“Stricken with grief, I returned home. Even though I did not wish to tell them, my friends learned of Bāli’s death and insisted on crowning me king. I ruled the kingdom with justice. But then Bāli returned home—he had killed Māyāvī and with his incomparable strength pushed the boulder away from the mouth of the cave.
“I tried to explain that I had truly thought he was dead. I laid my crown at his feet, offering him the kingdom and my services. But he would not bless me, and instead chased me out of the kingdom, shouting, ‘The cruel Sugrīva tried to kill me in order to usurp the kingdom.’ I did not want to commit violence against my own brother, so I ran from him with only the clothes on my back.
“Since then Bāli has abducted my wife, the radiant Rūmā, and chased me over the earth. Through no fault of mine, I have been persecuted by him. Only on this mountain, where he is forbidden to set foot, am I safe from his torments. Many times he has sent other monkeys to kill me. When you arrived on this mountain, it was from fear of him that I did not greet you. It is only because Hanumān and my other friends have stayed with me that I survive at all.
“You are my only hope to end this misery. Only you are capable of helping me recover my wife by killing Bāli. My life and my happiness depend on you; you are my friend, my heart’s haven, my hope.”
Rāma smiled reassuringly. “The wicked Bāli, who has stolen your wife, will die today. I will ferry you across the ocean of your grief, which I feel as my own.”
Sugrīva’s heart swelled with joy. He thanked Rāma again and again. Then he said, “I am convinced of your power and your courage, yet Bāli is extremely powerful. For exercise, Bāli leaps to the oceans in the east, west, and south before breakfast each day. He breaks off mountain peaks like icicles, tossing them in the air and catching them like a juggler. He snaps giant trees like twigs. He has never been defeated in battle, even by the Devas themselves. The son of Indra, he is invincible and ruthless. That is why I fled here. I do not see how you could defeat him in battle.” Sugrīva’s head was in his hands now, for the monkey’s emotions swung quickly from joy to despair.
Lakshmana smiled. “What must Rāma do to convince you of his strength?”
Sugrīva thought for a moment. “If Rāma could kick the carcass of the immense buffalo asura who was killed by my brother one hundred yojanas, and if he could slice off the tops of seven shāla trees with one arrow, then I would know he has strength enough to conquer Bāli.”
He added humbly, “O dear Rāma, you are my brave and revered friend. I am well acquainted with Bāli’s power, and I do not yet know the extent of your skill in battle. I myself am known to be cowardly, while your speech, confidence, and strength blaze forth like fire.”
Now it was Rāma’s turn to smile. “If you do not yet trust my prowess, then let me instill confidence, for trust is essential for success in battle.” With those words, the monkey king Sugrīva led Rāma and Lakshmana to the place where the massive buffalo carcass lay. Raising one foot, Rāma kicked it a hundred yojanas.
Sugrīva considered this deed thoughtfully. “It is true that the carcass is now just dried bones, and Bāli kicked it all the way here while it was still heavy with flesh and he was exhausted by combat. I am sure that you will pierce those seven shāla trees with your arrow, and then I will be satisfied. For you are chief among men, just as the sun rules the planets.”
Hearing those courteous and candid words of Sugrīva’s, Rāma let loose a golden arrow. With the sound of a thunderbolt it sailed straight through the trunks of seven towering trees that stood in a row. Their limbs tumbled to the earth, crushing the woodland plants below. Then the arrow returned to Rāma’s quiver like a messenger pigeon.
Overjoyed, the good monkey king prostrated himself at Rāma’s feet, heaping praises on him and holding Rāma’s feet to his head. “I am the most fortunate creature on earth, to have as my friend one who has the strength of the vast sea. You will surely destroy Bāli.”
“Let us go at once to Kishkindhā and challenge Bāli, who is your brother in name only,” said Rāma.
Passing through the woods, they soon arrived at the golden gates of Kishkindhā, the enchanting monkey kingdom built inside a vast mountain cave, hidden by a grove of trees. Sugrīva stepped forward and let loose a stupendous war cry, roaring so loudly that Bāli heard it deep inside his palace and rushed outside in a rage, ready to fight.
I cannot identify the armlets or earrings,
but the anklets I remember well,
for I bowed to her feet each morning.
—Kishkindhā Kānda 6.22–23
CHAPTER 28
R�
�ma Slays Bāli
When she saw the body of valiant
Bāli lying on the ground, his
virtuous wife Tārā lamented,
“You who hurled mountain peaks
like thunderbolts,
whose valor matched Indra’s,
who tossed the titan buffalo
across the skies
like a discarded cloak—
you, hero among monkeys,
lie still before me,
dead to my cries.
“Why do you embrace the earth?
Rise and rest on your silken couch
befitting a great king.
Or do you love lying on the cold ground,
since now you scorn me?
Never again will you frolic with me
under fragrant bowers.
You have found a new and more golden
Kishkindhā in heaven.
“I who have never known pain
must spend my life as a widow.
And our tender son Angada
craves your embrace in vain.
You who were born a hero,
who struck down your enemies
with bare hands,
must return to the elements alone.
If only you had listened to my pleas
and made peace with the magnanimous Rāma.”
Like the sun rising above the mountaintop, Bāli appeared before Sugrīva. Burning with anger, he did not speak a word, but rushed at his brother, striking the first blow. A ferocious struggle began between the two brothers, like a clash between Mercury and Mars in the heavens.
As they struck each other with diamond-hard fists, Rāma stayed hidden in a grove of trees. He strung his bow and took aim. But he could not tell one brother from the other, as they resembled each other like the two divine Ashvins. Afraid to shoot his friend by mistake, Rāma let his bow fall slack at his side.
Sugrīva fought valiantly for a time, but finally, weary and discouraged that Rāma had not helped him, he ran away from his powerful brother. Covered with wounds, he hid himself on Mount Rishyamūkha. There Rāma and Hanumān found him later that day.
Sugrīva hung his head in despair and humiliation. “Why didn’t you keep your promise? I never would have subjected myself to such a battering if you had frankly told me that you did not wish to kill him.”
Rāma knelt at his friend’s side. “Sugrīva, you are my dear friend. Please do not be angry, for when you hear my reason you will understand. When you were wrestling with your brother, the two of you looked exactly alike. There was no way for me to tell you apart. I was afraid to dispatch my arrow for fear it would hit you by mistake. To kill one’s ally is a grave sin. Lakshmana and Sītā and I are completely dependent on your good will; you are our only hope. So let us go back and challenge Bāli again. Only this time wear something around your neck so I can tell you apart.”
At Rāma’s bidding, Lakshmana gathered a blossoming vine and twined it around Sugrīva’s neck like a garland. Revitalized, Sugrīva shone golden and radiant.
On their way back to Kishkindhā, they passed herds of elephants and deer. They saw flocks of birds swimming in an emerald lake thick with water lilies. Rāma found himself gazing at the densely clustered trees ringing the lake. “What is that forest, gathered like a mass of clouds and circled by plantain groves?” he asked.
“Deep inside that woods you will find a peaceful and enchanted āshram that removes all weariness,” Sugrīva said. “It is said that seven monks who maintained severe ascetic practices once lived there, submerged up to their necks in the lake. They ate once every seven days, and even then their only food was the mountain breeze. After seven hundred years they ascended to heaven, their bodies intact.
“Due to the power of their purity, no one can penetrate their āshram, even the Devas. Those who enter by mistake never return. A divine fragrance wafts from there, celestial music echoes from there; and the smoke of the monks’ sacred fires, which burn eternally, forms a golden cloud above the trees like the wings of a dove. O Rāma and Lakshmana, with hands joined together in reverence, offer your salutations, for those who offer blessings to these pure-souled Rishis banish all sorrow.”
After bowing to the sacred place, Rāma and Lakshmana continued on their way, following the monkey king Sugrīva down the wild mountain paths.
When they reached Kishkindhā, crawling with monkeys and guarded by watchtowers, they once again hid behind the trees.
“Set aside your anxiety,” said Rāma. “I will fulfill my promise to you. Bāli will fall today.” Sugrīva, filled with courage now that his victory was in sight, again shattered the earth with a roar. Shining like the sun, he stepped forward to confront Bāli.
Deep inside the inner apartments of the palace, Bāli was relaxing with his wives, celebrating his victory over Sugrīva. When he heard Sugrīva’s shout, lashing the walls of the kingdom like waves in a tempest, he could not contain his rage.
He stomped out of the palace, shaking the earth with each step. Radiant as the stars, his devoted wife Tārā followed him outside and gently caught him by the arm. Tenderly circling her arms around his neck, the daughter of the divine Brihaspati said in a voice trembling with fear, “I beg you to check your anger, which rages like wild waters flooding the river banks. Put off this fight with Sugrīva, at least until you know who his allies are. It does not make sense that he should roar with such confidence after being so severely beaten by you.
“The spies of our son, Prince Angada, tell me that the two powerful princes of Ayodhyā, Rāma and Lakshmana, have allied themselves with your brother. Rāma welcomes all who seek his aid; every good quality finds its home in him. Rather than fighting him, make your peace. Seek his blessings with flowers, gifts, and pleasing words. Now is the time to win back your brother’s affection, for the thick-necked Sugrīva is incomparable in strength and wisdom. Invite him to live near you. If you care at all for me and wish to return my infinite affection for you, then put off this fight and make peace with the Prince of Ayodhyā.”
Bāli paid no heed to these wise words. “My lovely lady, I would rather be dead than be called a coward. When the foolhardy Sugrīva challenges me to fight, I must meet his challenge. Do not fear, Rāma is Dharma incarnate and will do no wrong to me. As for Sugrīva, I will not kill him, but I will crush his pride with my blows. You have shown your sweet affection and followed me far enough, O lady of smiles. Now it is time for you to turn back, my beloved one.”
The virtuous Tārā, who knew right from wrong, embraced Bāli and circled him, keeping him to her right shoulder as she recited the sacred hymns of a warrior’s wife to bring him good luck in battle. Then she quietly returned to her palace, filled with foreboding.
Bāli strode outside the city gates toward Sugrīva, his eyes flashing red sparks. He gathered his loincloth closely about him and, doubling his powerful fists, rushed at his brother like a bull. A fierce fight ensued, like a thunderstorm with claps of thunder and sparks of lightning. But Bāli was the stronger, and when Sugrīva felt his strength ebbing, he looked over to Rāma, who stood ready with his bow. Rāma’s arrow hissed through the air, streaming flames red as the ashoka tree blossom. It struck Bāli, who fell like a tree in a tempest.
The sky darkened and the wind stopped. Mortally wounded by Rāma’s arrow, the courageous Bāli still wore the gold necklace bestowed by his father Indra, which imbued him with vitality, radiance, and power. He shone like the sun in its last blaze of glory as it sinks below the horizon.
Rāma and Lakshmana quietly drew near the great warrior to pay their respects.
“O Rāma, why did you sneak up on me from behind while I fought another?” Bāli called out bitterly. “I have heard that you uphold Dharma and are full of generosity and valor; your praises are sung throughout the world. Yet you have behaved like a common scoundre
l who wears the mask of virtue. What have I ever done to harm you, that you should trick me with such a wicked deed? I am a mere monkey, living on roots and fruits; it is your job to protect me, not to shoot me from base desire. Who will be the earth’s refuge, now that you have become treacherous and evil-hearted? If only I had listened to Tārā! If you had come to me for help, I would have trounced Rāvana and restored Sītā to you in a moment. Sugrīva will never reach heaven, having stolen the throne by illegitimate means. How can you justify your conduct?”
Rāma replied with conviction, “Why do you rail against me like a child, when you do not know what is right and what is wrong? You have not consulted your elders, yet you attack me, who wishes you only good. This land belongs to my brother Bharata, who not only rules Ayodhyā but is emperor of neighboring kingdoms such as this one. I uphold his commands, punishing wrongdoers and rewarding the virtuous.
“Even for the virtuous, the laws of Dharma are subtle and difficult to grasp, O mighty one. Only the soul, residing in the heart of all beings, knows what is right and what is wrong. It is the duty of the younger brother to serve his older brother, as a son his father. It is the duty of the elder brother to treat the younger brother as his own son.
“You have committed a grievous wrong by stealing your brother’s wife, Rūmā, and taking her as your own while he still lives. Such a sin is punishable by death. How can you who break the law expect to escape punishment? Sugrīva is my friend and in my heart I consider him as equal to Lakshmana. I have pledged my word to help him regain his wife and kingdom.
“As it says in the Manu Smriti, men who have done wrong are washed free of sin by fulfilling the punishment given by the king—or by his pardon. But the king who pardons the wrongdoer, or overlooks the crime, must himself assume the guilt and do penance. I did not act in anger, nor hastily. I acted in accord with the traditions of my ancestors. One should never reproach a king, nor address him with disrespect. Yet you have insulted me.”
The Ramayana Page 22