These words pierced Bāli’s heart deeper than Rāma’s arrow. Seeing his errors, he felt ashamed. Though weak, he managed to join his palms together in the timeless gesture of respect. “Out of ignorance, my mind bewildered, I have clearly done wrong in insulting you. In the serenity of your mind, which can never be ruffled, you see the nature of action and its results. Please forgive me, for you are concerned with the welfare of all.”
Then, his life ebbing away, he said, “O Rāma, I am worried that my only son, Angada, will die of grief without me. The son of Tārā, he is virtuous, though young and immature. Please watch over him like a father. Show your benevolence to Sugrīva and watch over him as he governs the nation; treat him and Angada as you would Lakshmana. Make certain that Sugrīva treats Tārā with respect and does not hold her responsible. I should have listened to Tārā’s words, but my body was destined to die by your arrow, thus liberating me from all cares, O Rāma.”
Rāma knelt by Bāli’s side and soothed him with comforting words. “You have removed the taint of wrongdoing by paying the penalty. Your soul is cleansed. Do not grieve or be afraid. Angada will be cared for by Sugrīva and by me, just as he was by you. I will make sure he is anointed crown prince, to rule next after Sugrīva.”
Bāli, comforted by Rāma’s forgiving words, fell into a swoon and did not wake up.
Even for the virtuous, the laws of Dharma are subtle and difficult to grasp.
Only the soul, residing in the heart of all beings,
knows what is right and what is wrong.
—Kishkindhā Kānda 18.15
CHAPTER 29
Rāma Grows Impatient on Prasravana Mountain
The sky inhaled the essence of the seas
and stored the elixir in its womb for nine months.
Now it yields up the waters of life,
marking the start of the rainy season.
Water rushes down mountain cliffs
like strings of pearls,
the skies strike in drums of thunder,
and rains fall on the parched land.
Lightning flashes through black clouds
like Sītā writhing in Rāvana’s arms.
Steam rises as raindrops
quench the thirst of the hot earth,
bathing the golden hibiscus with cooling nectar,
wrapping the mountainside in green sashes,
sending peacocks into riotous rain dances,
and swans to their mates.
The rains quicken my senses
and heighten my longing for Sītā.
The ripened rose apple oozes red juice.
Bees drink the intoxicating nectar of arjuna blossoms
and elephants trumpet in tune
with the cries of birds.
Clouds thread through the mountains like Sītā’s garland
and cover the earth with a curtain of Sītā’s tears.
Rāma stood at the mouth of the long, narrow cave where he and Lakshmana were waiting out the rainy season on Prasravana Mountain, near Kishkindhā. After instructing Hanumān to arrange the coronation of Sugrīva, Rāma did not enter the city of Kishkindhā for the coronation, in keeping with his vow to never enter a village or town for the fourteen years of exile. Instead he retired to this quiet cave to reside for the four months of rain, agreeing with Sugrīva to begin the search for Sītā in autumn.
Pacing back and forth, he stopped occasionally to watch the rains pouring down, drumming at the mouth of the cave. The incessant drops were a constant reminder of Sītā’s tears.
“O Lakshmana,” he said, “I can hear the sounds of music and laughter wafting their way from Kishkindhā. Surely Sugrīva is happy, now that he is reunited with his wife and his kingdom. But I, still bereft of my wife, know not a moment of happiness. Like my tears, the rains pound on and on without end. Each night I lie down to sleep, but I find no rest. To vanquish Rāvana seems impossible.” Tears filled his eyes and dropped onto the floor of the cave like rain.
“You can turn the earth from end to end,” said Lakshmana. “Surely nothing is impossible for you. Do not let your heart be overcome with grief, for you know that will only bring ruin. Tear out the sorrow from your heart—that is how to tear out the roots of your enemy. Surely Sugrīva will fulfill his promise and summon his army once the rains end. Nurture your intention to destroy Rāvana.”
Then he abruptly turned aside so Rāma would not see him wiping away his own tears.
As the weeks passed, the clouds slowly cleared. Finally the sun shone for the first time in months, drying the swollen rivers and soaked earth. Autumn had finally come.
In the monkey kingdom of Kishkindhā, Sugrīva had, indeed, forgotten his vow to Rāma. So long deprived of affection and comfort, he neglected the affairs of the state to revel in pleasure with his wives.
Hanumān, the son of the wind, who was versed in Dharma and knew what acts should be performed at what times, sought out Sugrīva to remind him of his promise to Rāma. He chose words that inspired right action, that considered his ruler’s best interests and yet were diplomatic—words that reflected humility yet conveyed confidence that his advice would not be ignored.
“Those who treat with equal respect crown, wealth, friends, and life-breath rule the earth,” Hanumān advised Sugrīva, who was lying drowsily on his couch after a night of merrymaking. “Moreover, he meets with disaster who does not set aside everything and help his friend with zeal. It is to Rāma that you owe your good fortune, yet that wise and powerful prince will not remind you that it is time to keep your vow, for that is your responsibility.
“You are powerful and courageous; you help even those who have done nothing for you, so why not help Rāma, who has restored your kingdom? Assemble your army of ten thousand monkeys. Search under the ocean and through the skies for Sītā. Try with all your heart to do what Rāma asked, for he has achieved all that you desired.”
Hearing these well-measured words, King Sugrīva came to his senses and called Nīla, the commander in chief of his army, to his side.
“Take Angada, the crown prince, and travel to all the corners of the kingdom,” he commanded. “Approach each general in person and tell them to bring their armies to Kishkindhā before fifteen nights are over, on pain of death.”
With those words the monkey king retired to his palace.
—
AFTER THE RAINS stopped, Lakshmana went out each day to hunt for roots and fruits on the mountainside. The lovely Prasravana Mountain was covered with fruit-bearing trees and dense tangles of creepers and undergrowth. One day when he returned, he found Rāma sitting outside the cave, lost in despondent thoughts.
“How can my Sītā live without me?” lamented Rāma. “Sugrīva has forgotten me. He treats me with contempt while I am distraught with grief. Now that the rainy season has ended, he does not wish to honor our pact. Instead he spends his days drinking. It is a marvel to me that he would not keep his vow, when he knows my strength and yours. The valiant stick to their promises. There is none lower than he who refuses to come to the aid of the friend who helped him. Go to Kishkindhā and give that foolish king this message: ‘Do not follow the path of Bāli.’”
Seeing his brother overwhelmed with anguish, Lakshmana swelled with anger. “Today I will kill that monkey who has broken his word to you.” He jumped up, grabbed his bow, and was halfway out of the cave before Rāma stopped him with soothing words.
“You would not wish to kill a friend, Lakshmana. A warrior should control his anger. Honor the ties of friendship we forged with Sugrīva. Renounce harshness, yet calmly remind him that the time we set for action has already passed.”
Thus checking his anger, Lakshmana started down the mountain to Kishkindhā. In his haste, he did not follow the path, but charged down the cliffs, uprooting trees and crunching rocks underfoot. When he reached Kishkindhā and sa
w all the monkeys guarding the kingdom, his wrath against Sugrīva flared. His eyes flaming red, his lips quivering, his brow furrowed in anger, he frightened the monkeys, who began breaking off trees and hoisting boulders to defend themselves. They clustered outside the gates, baring their teeth. This only made Lakshmana angrier.
Several monkey ministers ran to the palace to warn Sugrīva. Intoxicated, pursuing pleasures with his wives, he did not even hear them. Finally Bāli’s son, Angada, bounded outside the fortress walls to meet Lakshmana.
“Tell your uncle that Lakshmana, the brother of Rāma, awaits him at the gate,” commanded Lakshmana.
The young Angada, frightened by Lakshmana’s harsh tone, rushed to his uncle and shouted, “Lakshmana has come!” He respectfully bowed to his uncle’s feet and to his mother, Tārā, and Rūmā. Sugrīva, sunk in a drunken stupor, did not wake up. Outside, the monkey guards began crying out in tumultuous shouts to welcome Lakshmana, hoping to soften his wrath. The shouting finally penetrated the sleep of Sugrīva, who sat up in a daze.
The ministers, seeing him finally awake, spoke in urgent tones. “Lakshmana stands outside the gate, bow in hand, firing angry glances at the guards. Appease his fury by resting your head on his feet. Fulfill your vow to Rāma and be true to your word.”
Sugrīva at last came to himself. He addressed his counselors. “I have not spoken harsh words nor acted wrongly. Why are Rāma and Lakshmana angry with me? It makes me nervous that I have not yet been able to return Rāma’s favor to me.”
The wise Hanumān stepped forward. “It is clear to me that Rāma is offended because you are letting the autumn pass without honoring your promise. Lost in pleasure, you have been negligent and forgetful. Lakshmana is here to remind you. The only thing to do is to beg Rāma’s pardon and submit to his will. It is my duty as a counselor to tell you the truth, and that is why I have spoken thus after thinking deeply.”
Angada bounded to the gate and invited Lakshmana inside. The monkey guards parted to make a path, folding their hands respectfully. Suppressing their monkey nature to hop about, they kept their tails tucked under them and barely dared to move as Lakshmana stomped by.
Still breathing fire, Lakshmana followed Angada into the vast cave that was the kingdom of Kishkindhā. It teemed with monkeys, all descendants of the Devas and Gandharvas. Rare jewels of unusual luster decorated the buildings, which were seven stories high. The gardens were filled with fragrant flowers and celestial blossoms that never faded. Lakshmana followed Angada toward the palace of King Sugrīva, rising in high white domes lined with gold. After entering the palace they passed through seven courtyards, finally reaching the innermost chambers, where the chords of the vīnā sweetened the air. A cluster of female monkeys, adorned in silk and jewels, chatted nearby as they strung garlands of flowers. The shy Lakshmana felt his skin prickle with embarrassment. To hide his discomfort, he twanged his giant bow, making the palace and everyone in it tremble. In the next room Sugrīva turned pale on his throne.
“Tārā,” he begged, “will you speak with Lakshmana first? Even though he is angry with me, he will not be harsh with a woman. After you have soothed him with pleasing words, then I will meet him.”
The virtuous Tārā, who by custom had become the wife of Sugrīva, her dead husband’s younger brother, ambled out to meet Lakshmana. Her hair loosened, her normally modest attire in disarray under the influence of wine, she swayed slightly. Seeing her coming, the bellicose Lakshmana immediately lowered his bow, stared at her feet, and became as docile as a holy man.
“Why are you angry, O greatest of men?” asked Tārā. “Who has failed to please you?”
Lakshmana answered directly, but as courteously as a student in school. “The four months of waiting have long passed, but your husband, lost in sensual pleasures, does not even realize he forgot his oath. Surely you must know that drunkenness brings loss of wealth and virtue, and even sours the ability to enjoy. What’s more, it is against the laws of Dharma to fail to return a favor. To lose a friend destroys Dharma. You know the path of Dharma, O daughter of Brihaspati. What do you think should be done?”
The wise and lovely Tārā pleaded with Lakshmana, “You who are endowed with all heroic qualities, have patience with those who are lacking them. How could one as pure as you fall prey to anger? I know why you and your brother are frustrated, and I know well what you have done for Sugrīva. But I also am familiar with the power of passion. Even the most exalted Rishis have fallen prey to it, so can you not forgive this monkey, who is by nature fickle-minded? Besides, even though he has been boggled by love, Sugrīva has arranged for thousands of monkeys to assemble on this very day.”
Having soothed the warrior’s anger, Tārā invited him into the inner chamber to meet Sugrīva. When Lakshmana saw Sugrīva sitting on the golden throne, adorned with golden robes and garlands, his beautiful wives surrounding him as the stars surround the moon, his nostrils flared and his eyes turned blood-red with anger once again.
Sugrīva jumped up when he saw Lakshmana enter. In spite of his daze, he stood strong before Lakshmana, like kalpa-vriksha, the divine wish-fulfilling tree.
“The king who is ungrateful to the friends who have helped him is as guilty as a murderer!” shouted Lakshmana.
Once again, Tārā soothed Lakshmana. “The king of the monkeys is not cruel, nor ungrateful for what Rāma has done. He has only been enjoying his good fortune after years of adversity. Like the sage Vishvāmitra when he was tempted by the nymph Ghritāchī, Sugrīva has become lost in physical pleasures and has forgotten that the time has passed for repaying the favor to Rāma.”
Seeing Lakshmana’s anger melt before Tārā’s sensible words, Sugrīva shed his sloth like wet clothes. He tore off his gaudy-colored garlands and snapped out of his drunken haze.
“I owe my life, my kingdom, and my fortune to Rāma,” said Sugrīva, pressing his palms together and bowing low. “Rāma will recover Sītā by his own prowess; I am merely his assistant. If I have betrayed his friendship, please forgive me.”
Hearing these forthright words, the valiant Lakshmana’s anger dissolved. He said in affectionate tones, “O humble king, with the aid of your valor and sincerity, my brother will slay Rāvana in battle. Equal to Rāma in strength, you are brave and virtuous, and you know the way of right action. What other king could recognize his own faults and speak so humbly? No one but my own brother Rāma, and you.”
His hands folded in respect, Lakshmana added, “Please forgive me for my harsh words. I spoke hastily because my brother is so acutely distressed. Let us go now to help him.”
“Yes, we should act without delay,” agreed Sugrīva, now completely recovered from his revelries. To Hanumān, the monkey king said, “I have already sent the swiftest messengers in all the four directions to call the monkey armies here today. Now I call upon the fleetest emissaries to fly to the mountains, to the caves of hills, to the slopes of Mount Meru, to fragrant forests and sheltered glades, to the mansions of the sun, to every quarter of the earth. Summon all the monkeys in their hundreds and thousands to come here today!”
Having done all he could for the moment to help Rāma, Sugrīva turned to his attendants: “Bring the royal palanquin.” Soon the glorious conveyance arrived, carried on the shoulders of strong, muscular monkeys and festooned with marigold garlands. Dazzling the eyes with its bejeweled, gilded carvings of birds and trees, it was designed by the divine architect Vishvakarman.
Lakshmana and Sugrīva mounted the royal litter, resting on silken pillows beneath the red and gold canopy. Monkey servants trailed them, waving fans of white yak tails to keep them cool. Conches trumpeted and bards sang the king’s praises. Hundreds of monkey warriors swarmed around them as they made their way to Rāma’s cave on Mount Prasravana.
Seeing the monkey king arriving with his armies, Rāma drew his breath inward with relief. When Sugrīva stepped down from the palanquin and pros
trated himself at Rāma’s feet, Rāma raised Sugrīva from the ground, embraced him affectionately, and offered him a seat.
“A true king divides his time between pleasure, the acquisition of wealth, and his responsibilities to others,” said Rāma. “To neglect his Dharma is like falling asleep on top of a tree and waking up after he’s already fallen. Happy is the monarch who honors his friends, destroys his foes, and pursues equally his duty, wealth, and pleasures.”
“Until you restored my kingdom to me, I had lost everything,” said Sugrīva humbly. “Now through your grace and your brother’s I have regained all. Only a fool would not honor the one who bestowed such favors.
“O Rāma, monkeys and bears are traveling here as we speak. The sons of Devas and Gandharvas, they are mighty and fierce. They know every tree and every crevice in this country, and they can change their shape into any size or form. They will soon arrive with their armies in the thousands. They will join you in searching for Rāvana, they will fight by your side, and they will restore Sītā to you.”
At these words, Rāma’s heart filled with happiness, and he radiated light like the blue lotus.
Embracing Sugrīva, he said, “Having a friend as noble as you makes me understand how the moon lights the night, how the sun dispels darkness at dawn, how the rains quench the earth’s thirst. Now that you support me, I will rescue Sītā and vanquish Rāvana.”
Just then the sky turned dark, dust filled the air, and the earth, mountains, and forests shook.
He meets with disaster who does not set aside
everything and help his friend with zeal.
—Kishkindhā Kānda 29.13
CHAPTER 30
The Monkeys Search for Sītā
Roaring like thunder,
monkeys of rainbow colors—
pink as the rising sun,
white as the moon,
blazing red as the ginger flower stamen,
The Ramayana Page 23