After bathing at the shore of the sea and performing his duty to his brother, Sampāti was carried back up the steep mountain path, where he sat amidst a sea of monkeys, who were eager to learn more of Sītā.
“I will tell you how I first learned of Sītā’s abduction,” said Sampāti. “When I fell, my wings scorched by the sun, I did not regain consciousness for six days. Finally I opened my eyes, but I didn’t know where I was. But when the deep caves and high ridges of this mountain came into focus, I realized I had landed on the Vindhya Mountains, home of the ascetic Nishākara, whom my brother Jatāyu and I had visited many times. I dwelled on these mountains for eight thousand years, hoping to see the holy man once again. Finally, I could wait no longer and crawled down the mountain. Near the bottom I found his peaceful hermitage, where the monkeys, tigers, and bears flocked like a river.
“‘What has happened to your wings?’ asked the compassionate sage when he saw me. ‘What dreaded disease has befallen you?’ When I told him how I had scorched my wings in the sun due to arrogance and pride, I started to weep. I wished only to end my miserable life by hurling myself down a cliff.
“Nishākara sat quietly for a while, and then he said, ‘Your wings will grow again, and you will regain your energy and power. This will happen after you tell the messengers of Rāma where to find his beloved wife, Sītā. It would be possible for me to grow your wings now, but if you wait here long enough, you can perform a great service to Rāma and Lakshmana, as well as to Indra and all the Devas.’
“The sage Nishākara told me the entire future of Rāma’s exile, Sītā’s abduction and imprisonment on Lankā,” Sampāti said to the monkeys. “So many times, in the hundred years since then, I wanted to die, but I remembered his words and waited to tell you this story.”
As the bald vulture spoke, a wondrous thing began to happen. Tawny-colored down sprouted on his wings. The monkeys watched, wide-eyed, as the fuzz became feathers and the feathers became golden wings. Slowly, Sampāti spread his immense wings, majestic and youthful once more.
“My new wings are a sign that you will be successful!” cried Sampāti. “Do not delay—cross the wide sea to find Sītā.” He could not contain his joy and flew to the top of the mountain.
The monkeys, having witnessed this marvelous sight, were surcharged with energy. They joyously bounded down the mountain, through the valley, and to the shore, eager to rescue Sītā. Yet when they reached the ocean, stretching like a mirror to the cloudless horizon on three sides, they suddenly grew quiet and subdued. Once again, their flighty hearts filled with despair. How would they ever cross it?
“We must not give in to fear,” said the valiant Angada. “Doubt and fear will only weaken us.”
They spent the night on the sand by the sea. In the morning, Angada wisely called his ministers and elders together. With all the monkey army listening, he addressed them.
“Which one among you can cross the wide ocean to reach Sītā? Which one can leap a hundred yojanas and accomplish the purpose of our king? Who can bring glory to his family and this army, having saved Rāma from despair?”
The monkeys stared at the ground, tucking their tails under them. No one stirred. Not one among them could attempt such a feat.
Angada tried again. “Tell me, praiseworthy leaders of this army, how far each of you can leap.”
“I can leap ten yojanas,” said Gaja.
“And I twenty,” said Gavāksha.
“I can leap thirty,” said Sharabha.
“Forty,” said Rishabha.
And the mighty Gandhamādana, “Fifty.”
Mainda said, “For me, sixty,” and the shining Dvivida said, “More than seventy.” Sushena topped them all, shouting, “Eighty yojanas!”
Then Jāmbavān, the wise leader of the bears, spoke. “When I was young I could leap wondrously far, having circled Vishnu when he took three steps across the entire world. Now I am old and unsure of my strength, but to help Rāma and Sugrīva we must all give our utmost, so I will leap ninety yojanas.”
“I can leap a hundred yojanas,” said Angada, “but of the return, I cannot be certain.”
“It is not for you to leap ahead,” the sagacious Jāmbavān said. “It is for you to command this army. Like a wife by her husband, a commander should be sheltered by his warriors. It is your role to guard the root of the expedition; let others pluck the fruits. You are the essence of this army, the underlying principle, superior in wisdom and valor.”
“But if I do not leap the distance,” said Angada, “and none of the others can do it, we may as well take up our fast again. For we dare not return without success. Revered Jāmbavān, I leave it to you, as our elder, to point out our path of action.”
“There is no obstruction to our success,” said Jāmbavān firmly. “I will now call on the one who can carry out the mission without any obstacle.”
The entire monkey army held their breath. Quietly and with great dignity, the king of the bears called upon Hanumān. All eyes turned to that foremost of monkeys, who was sitting quietly by himself, his eyes closed, meditating beneath a coconut palm.
“Why are you sitting apart, O Hanumān?” asked Jāmbavān. “You are the equal of Rāma and Lakshmana in strength, versed in the scriptures, wisest and most valorous of all monkeys. You have the strength of Garuda, the king of the birds. Just as his wide wings can carry him across the seven seas, you are strong enough to leap hundreds of yojanas in a single bound. You possess the wisdom, intelligence and courage of the Devas. Prepare yourself to leap across the ocean.”
Jāmbavān was the oldest creature present. Like Sampāti, he had been alive at the beginning of time, when the Devas and asuras churned the ocean and the nectar of immortality streamed forth. He knew that Hanumān possessed immeasurable strength, even though Hanumān himself did not remember.
So Jāmbavān began to tell the story of Hanumān’s birth, to help him reawaken his dormant powers. “As you know, you are the son of Vāyu, the god of the wind. Your mother, Anjanā, was the most noble and beautiful of all the apsarās. Because of a curse, she was born as a monkey who could assume any form, and later married the monkey Kesarī. One day she assumed the form of a young, radiantly beautiful woman and took a walk on a mountain peak. Your father saw her and was completely enamored. He embraced her, but she called out, ‘Who would approach a virtuous wife and destroy her marriage?’
“‘Do not be afraid,’ your father said. ‘You will give birth to a son unsurpassable in strength and wisdom.’
“And so she raised you in a mountain cave. One day when you were playing outside, you saw the sun and thought it was a ball. You leapt over three thousand yojanas to the sun without getting burnt. Indra saw you, and threatened by your strength, struck you down with his thunderbolt. You plummeted to the earth and still survived, although you broke your jaw. And Hanumān, that is how you got your name, ‘the one of the fractured jaw.’
“Angry with Indra, your father stopped the wind from blowing across the three worlds. Finally, to appease your father, Brahmā bestowed the boon of invincibility upon you. Indra, amazed at how you were barely affected by his thunderbolt, offered yet another boon: you would never die until you chose to. Thus mollified, the wind started to blow across the land again.”
Jāmbavān’s next words were full of joy. “You are as swift and powerful as your father, the wind. You are the lord among monkeys. We look to you to save us. No one else can accomplish this task. Look to your inner strength, your own infinite power. Rise up and leap over the ocean, O Hanumān!”
As the monkey army watched in astonishment, Hanumān began to swell, as the ocean swells when the moon is full, and soon he rose far above them, as tall as the mountain itself. The Devas arrived from the four quarters to watch this miraculous event, and the monkey army cheered and shouted in jubilation. As Hanumān grew in size, he waved his tail slowly like a flag
, showing his incredible strength.
Towering far above the monkey crowds, his hair standing on end, Hanumān stretched his mouth wide, blazing like a smokeless flame. “Bhara, bhara!” he cried. “Back, back to the Self!”
“O hero, you have dispelled all fear,” cried Jāmbavān. “We stand on one foot until you return. Our lives depend on you!”
Roaring with joy, Hanumān leapt to the top of a nearby peak, Mount Mahendra. And as he leapt with terrific force, elephants fled, waterfalls spouted, and cliffs dropped away. The flower-carpeted mountain uttered a cry as Hanumān prepared to leap again, this time all the way to Lankā. Having settled his mind, the spirited Hanumān, hero among monkeys, slayer of enemies, gifted with great swiftness and possessed of immense strength, fixed his awareness on speed and took himself to Lankā in thought.
Having settled his mind, the spirited Hanumān,
hero among monkeys, slayer of enemies,
gifted with great swiftness and possessed of immense strength,
fixed his awareness on speed and took himself to Lankā in thought.
—Kishkindhā Kānda 67.49
End of the Kishkindhā Kānda
FIVE
Sundara Kānda
The Beautiful City
CHAPTER 32
Hanumān’s Great Leap
He followed the path of the wind,
Hanumān, the pure of heart,
his monkey limbs covered in blossoms
fallen from trees uprooted with his first leap.
He scattered the waves
and devoured the sky,
soaring through the clouds
so quickly the air clapped like thunder.
He parted the heavens,
rushing like the wind,
his eyes burning like two fires,
the ocean below rising
in mighty waves to greet him.
His shadow spread forty yojanas on all sides
like the wings of the king of birds.
To help this servant of Rāma,
the sun cooled its rays,
and the wind softened its blows.
The sea offered its hidden mountains as footstools,
and Gandharvas sang joyful songs
to speed him on his way.
Hanumān leapt with such force that blossoming trees were uprooted and spun after him through space, following him like subjects follow their king. As they plunged into the sea, they scattered their blossoms over the multitude of astonished monkeys and bears, who watched from the shore.
“I fly to Lankā with the speed of the wind!” exclaimed the ecstatic Hanumān before he flew out of sight. “I will return with tidings of Sītā or with the rākshasa king himself in chains.”
The Devas, Gandharvas, and Rishis, watching from above, rang bells and blew conches, delighted with Hanumān’s strength. The lord of the sea, Sāgara, vowed to help Hanumān. He spoke to his highest mountain, hidden beneath the waves, which guarded the gate to the underworld. “Golden-wreathed Maināka, who protects the earth from the demons below, rise up and greet the messenger of Rāma, who flies above you and needs a place to rest. In days of old the sons of Rāma’s ancestor King Sagara, protector of the Ikshvākus, hollowed out the ocean and created a place for me to rest. So I must return the favor to this servant of Rāma.”
As Hanumān soared across the sky, he saw Mount Maināka suddenly burst from the waters, blocking his path. Its charming peaks of gold reached to the sky, its cliffs covered with trees and celestials playing lutes. Determined to let no obstacle stop him, he flew straight into it, smashing its peak.
Instead of being angry, Mount Maināka rejoiced in Hanumān’s strength. Taking the form of a human being, he sat on his own summit and lovingly called out to Hanumān, “O jewel among monkeys, take a moment to rest on your heroic journey. The king of the ocean, who received help from Rāma’s ancestor Sagara and his sons, wishes to serve you by offering my mountain peak as your seat. Rest here, feast on my fruits and drink from my waterfalls.”
When Hanumān didn’t appear to be stopping, Maināka added, “There is another reason for me to honor you. Many years ago, when all the mountains had wings and flew across the skies, the celestials and ascetics who lived on the mountainside trembled in fear of falling off. So Indra struck off the wings of the mountains with his thunderbolt. Your father, the wind god Vāyu, saved me by hiding me under the sea, where I could keep my wings intact. I honor you, O Son of the Wind, and welcome you with great joy!”
Hanumān smiled and touched the mountain affectionately with his hand as he passed overhead. “I thank you for the warm welcome from you and Sāgara, the ocean king,” he said with respect. “But I must keep going. The day is passing, and I have vowed not to rest until I reach Lankā.”
“Well done!” cried the Devas and other celestials. Indra praised Mount Maināka for offering help to Hanumān and granted the boon that the ancient mountain would never lose its wings. Then Mount Maināka sank to its place under the sea.
Now the Devas, having glimpsed Hanumān’s true strength and determination, decided to test him. They called forth Surasā, mother of the serpents, who rose from the depths of the ocean to greet them. “Take the form of a female demon, as tall as a mountain, with jaws that stretch to the sky,” they ordered her. “Try to stop Hanumān.”
Honored to serve the wishes of the Devas, Surasā swelled into a hideous rākshasī, her jaws yawning. When she saw Hanumān flying toward her, she howled, “O mightiest of monkeys, you are destined to feed me. Fly into my mouth so I can eat you.” With those words she opened her mouth so wide that she blotted out the sun.
Hanumān smiled politely and said, “I cannot feed you now because I have vowed to help Rāma recover his wife, Sītā. Once Sītā is safely restored to Rāma of the great deeds, then I will return to enter your mouth.”
“No one can pass by me alive,” screeched the rākshasī, her frightful body hovering above the sea, blocking his path. “Due to Brahmā’s boon, you must first enter my mouth before you search for Sītā.”
Seeing that gigantic monster in his way, Hanumān swelled with wrath. “Open your mouth wide enough to swallow me,” he dared. Hanumān grew until he was forty yojanas wide, but Surasā’s jaw merely opened wider. Hanumān grew by fifty yojanas, and her jaws spread still wider to swallow him. Every time she increased the size of her mouth, Hanumān swelled his body so he was even bigger. Finally, when Surasā was busy stretching her ghastly mouth still wider, Hanumān abruptly shrank to the size of a thumbnail. As quick as a blink of the eye, he flew into her mouth and out again.
“I salute you, O lady of the sea,” said Hanumān respectfully. “I have honored your boon by entering your mouth. Now I must continue my search for Sītā.”
Seeing Hanumān fly out of her mouth, Surasā shrank to her usual form and bowed her head in respect. “I honor you, chief of monkeys. You have done well. Now go and fulfill your divine purpose.”
“Wonderful!” cried the Devas, Gandharvas, and Rishis. Celestial beings thronged the sky in chariots driven by lions, elephants, and tigers. Satisfied with Hanumān’s prowess and delighted with his feats, they showered him with rose petals.
On Hanumān flew, piercing the clouds. He floated through the air as gracefully as a bird, traversing the canopy of the sky along with the sun and moon.
Suddenly Hanumān felt something tugging him backward. “What has stopped me like a cloud blown back by headwinds?” he wondered. Glancing behind, he saw another terrifying female rākshasī rising from the ocean, grasping his shadow in her claws. Hanumān immediately recognized the frightful demon Simhikā, who was known to capture her prey by first seizing its shadow.
Now again Hanumān swelled to the size of a thundercloud. Simhikā stretched her mouth wider than the sky to devour him. Howling like the wind in winter,
she pounced on him. But just as with Surasā, Hanumān was too quick for Simhikā. He disappeared into the cavern of her mouth like the full moon being devoured by Rāhu. As quick as thought, he snapped her heart with his teeth and flew out again. Howling in pain, she dropped his shadow. Then he swelled even larger, waxing in strength like the moon, while the giant rākshasī fell into the ocean.
“Well done, O hero!” shouted the crowds of Devas, Gandharvas, and Rishis, still watching from the heavens. “Now you will accomplish your purpose with no hindrance. This is the way to succeed—with wisdom, courage, and skill—and with your mind focused on your purpose.”
Long before nightfall Hanumān reached the far shore, alighting on one of the three peaks of Trikūta Mountain, which was crowded with trees. He shrank his body to its normal size, not wishing to attract the attention of the demons that lived there. Having crossed the vast ocean without stopping, Hanumān felt no fatigue. “I can fly hundreds of yojanas, so one hundred is not such a great feat,” he thought.
There he stood, not even out of breath, and gazed across the valley to the tallest peak of Trikūta Mountain, crowned with the legendary city of Lankā. Even from a distance, he could see the city’s glistening white buildings reaching high into the clouds, as if they were floating in the air. Flower gardens, parks, and ponds, flocked with birds, graced the shining city. Tall marble buildings with countless towers lined wide boulevards, and arches covered with flowering vines spanned the highways. Created by Vishvakarman, the architect of the Devas, it rivaled Amarāvatī, the city of the gods.
Bounding with vigor, Hanumān leapt down from the peak where he stood and hopped nimbly over the woods and wide fields until he faced the lotus-filled moat of Lankā. Facing the high golden walls, inlaid with cat’s-eye gems, Hanumān saw that they were heavily guarded by demons armed with giant bows and arrows. He sat still and pondered how to enter the guarded city, inaccessible even to Devas and asuras.
The Ramayana Page 25