The Ramayana

by Linda Egenes, M. A.

  O best of monkeys, this is the way to succeed—with wisdom,

  courage, and skill—and with your mind focused on your purpose.

  —Sundara Kānda 1.201

  CHAPTER 33

  The Jewel of Lankā

  Behold Lankā,

  high on Mount Trikūta.

  Born of Vishvakarman,

  her pavement studded with pearls, crystals, and gems,

  the notes of pealing bells and musical instruments

  ride on her breezes.

  Banners stream from her golden wall,

  and her towers touch the heavens.

  Her streets are lined with mansions

  upheld by golden pillars,

  with crystal stairways

  and emerald floors,

  windows of diamond,

  screens of gold,

  and balconies of silver.

  Beautiful women walk freely,

  their precious ornaments tinkling.

  Peacocks cry

  and swans glide in pools of lotus flowers.

  Thinking of Sītā, Hanumān

  sees only a prison

  that must come down.

  As Hanumān gazed across the moat at the impenetrable fortress that was Lankā, he felt a twinge of doubt. “Besides myself, only Angada, Nīla, and Sugrīva are capable of leaping the ocean,” he thought. “And how will Rāma, even if he can cross the wide sea, penetrate these formidable ramparts?”

  Then he shook his head, to banish doubts and focus on the task at hand. “First I must find Sītā.” He decided to begin his search at night, at an auspicious moment. The wise Hanumān thought through his strategy in detail, for he knew that even the best plans can go awry if the messenger is not careful.

  “I will disguise myself as a rākshasa,” he thought. But he soon realized that the real rākshasas would find him out. Finally, he decided to go as himself, but smaller, so he could enter the mansions undetected.

  As nightfall crept over the city, the milky moon rose like a swan in the sky, and Hanumān thanked that celestial orb for lighting his way. He sprang across the moat and stood outside the northern gateway of Lankā, which rivaled in splendor the entrance to Kubera’s residence high on Mount Kailāsa. He saw what looked like a foothill beside the gate, which turned out to be a hulking rākshasī, irritable from having her sleep interrupted.

  “Who are you and why do you come here?” the giant ogre roared as she stood up and blocked his way. “No one enters the city of Rāvana!”

  “I will answer if you first tell me who you are,” said Hanumān amiably.

  “I am Lankā, the deity of the city,” said the giant. “I guard the gate. Anyone who tries to enter will be crushed by my blows.”

  The courageous Hanumān said, “I wish to see this fair city, to explore its gardens and its mansions of many stories.”

  “Are you deaf?” shouted Lankā. “No one enters the city of the rākshasas unless they wish to face me.”

  “If you let me in, I promise to return here, auspicious lady,” said Hanumān politely.

  Lankā could bear it no longer. Swinging her massive arm, she cuffed Hanumān with the palm of her hand. Hanumān roared and, pouncing on her back, struck her with his left fist. He softened the blow because she was a woman, but even so the giant fell to the ground, moaning and crying for mercy.

  “O monkey of the mighty fist, spare me!” she cried. “You have conquered me with your courage and strength. Listen now, for Brahmā predicted long ago that when a valorous monkey overcame me by force, the rule of the evil King Rāvana would end and Lankā would be destroyed. Enter this doomed city and roam it freely, for Rāvana has brought his own destruction by abducting the chaste Sītā.”

  The brave Hanumān scaled the wall and peered at the fortress city below, lit by lanterns as if it were daylight. To avoid being detected, he shrank to the size of a cat. Landing on his left foot, auspicious for vanquishing enemies, he moved silently through the golden streets.

  From lighted mansions poured the sounds of women laughing and the chiming of their golden bangles. Looking for Sītā, Hanumān leapt from rooftop to rooftop, climbing walls to peer in the windows. He saw garlanded rākshasīs resting in the arms of their husbands. He saw courtesans with their slanted eyes and flashing jewels. Passing other dwellings he heard the low, rhythmic recitation of Vedic texts floating through the windows. Gatherings of rākshasas sang the praises of Rāvana, while others engaged in heated debates, pounding the tables with their ferocious fists. In other homes rākshasas spoke intelligently and with courtesy.

  He passed wandering mendicants, their faces smeared with paste, golden robes shining in the night. Some rākshasas were repulsive to see, others beautiful and radiant.

  In a wide courtyard Hanumān saw scores of rākshasas armed with spears, swords, and clubs. Beyond these guards, he came to the royal citadel, set high on its own hill, girded by a lotus-filled moat and tall golden walls. A low rumble of elephants, horses, and chariots milling about filled the air, mixing with the pleasant sounds of music and laughter. Hanumān gazed at the radiant moon, splendid with cooling light, dispelling the sins of the world, swelling the oceans. Slipping under high arches, still the size of a cat, Hanumān entered the famed palace of Rāvana unimpeded.

  Precious jewels covered the palace ceiling, its walls clad in fragrant sandalwood. Highborn women reclined on cushions or strolled about, dressed in silks of brilliant colors. Dancers shook their tambourines and singers sang pleasing melodies. The charming music of drums and flutes sweetened the air.

  “So this is the jewel of Lankā,” thought Hanumān. He had never seen such a splendid palace; it was said to surpass even the abode of Indra. Hanumān wandered through vast art galleries, pavilions, and entertainment halls graced by gem-studded pillars. Inner courtyards abounded with lush gardens populated by waterfowl and deer. One garden replicated Mount Mandara, soaring to the sky, home to peacocks and exotic birds, complete with trees and flowers.

  Jeweled chariots and golden palanquins filled a cavernous warehouse in the palace. There Hanumān saw Rāvana’s heavenly chariot Pushpaka, which could fly above the rooftops as swiftly as the wind, propelled by the thought of its driver. Stolen from Rāvana’s half brother Kubera, it was made by the divine architect Vishvakarman of burnished red sandalwood and decorated with life-size statues of horses studded with precious metals and gems. Birds made of emerald, silver, and coral adorned its sides.

  The astonishing chariot rose like a mountain peak covered with flowers. The interior was lavishly outfitted with a gleaming pearl-studded floor, blue sapphire galleries, shining pavilions, winding golden staircases, and pillars embedded with rubies. A statue of Shrī Lakshmī graced a lotus pool, flanked by white marble elephants holding lotus leaves in their tapering trunks.

  Not finding Sītā in that resplendent chariot, Hanumān began to search the private suites in which Rāvana himself resided.

  These chambers were even more opulent. Illuminated by golden ghee lamps, the walls were draped with intricately woven tapestries. Thick carpets adorned the floors and the sweet smells of incense and ambrosial wines filled the air. Like a mother, Rāvana’s palace soothed all the five senses, making Hanumān wonder, “Can this be the dwelling of Rāvana? Is this paradise, the city of the Devas, or have I entered the state of supreme bliss?”

  The lovely wives of Rāvana lay dozing, entwined in each other’s arms like flowers in a garland. Having fallen into slumber in the midst of their revelries, some still grasped vīnās or tambourines. The smell of sweet wine perfumed their lips, and their loosened jewelry lay scattered like stars across the sky. These consorts, the daughters of celestials, kings, and Rishis, had been won by Rāvana in battle or had surrendered to him in love. Unlike Sītā, whose heart belonged to Rāma, not one had been taken against her will, and not one h
ad been the wife of another. Endowed with grace, beauty, and nobility, they were devoted to Rāvana.

  “Sītā must be superior to all of these women,” thought Hanumān, “because the lord of Lankā has risked everything to capture her.”

  Now Hanumān saw, in the midst of the sleeping women, the luxurious royal bed of Rāvana, emblazoned with gold and encrusted with pearls and diamonds, with a gleaming white canopy festooned with garlands of ashoka blossoms.

  Hanumān shrank back, for lying before him was the king of the rākshasas himself. With his ten heads lying across the bed like the fan of a peacock, his earrings sparkled, and his golden robes dazzled the eyes. Big as a mountain, dazzling as the sun reflecting on the open sea, Rāvana lay sleeping on the bed, his wine-stenched breath masking the sweet perfume from the agarwood walls. As he snored, he alternated between the rumble of an unhappy elephant and the hiss of an angry serpent.

  Hanumān gazed at the twenty mighty arms tumbling from the bed like a waterfall, laced with rings and jeweled bracelets, and smeared with sandalwood paste and red saffron by his loving wives. Unvanquished by the sharp tusks of Indra’s white elephant Airāvata or Indra’s thunderbolt, these were the arms that struck fear into the hearts of Devas, Gandharvas, and men.

  Then Hanumān saw another royal bed slightly apart from Rāvana’s. On it lay a lovely woman clad in silken robes and precious jewelry, whose inner radiance lit the room. Thinking it was Sītā, he leapt about in joy, fanning his tail and frolicking up and down golden pillars in monkey fashion.

  Then he came to a standstill, for Hanumān knew suddenly and surely that Sītā would never sleep in Rāvana’s chambers. “Sītā would not be able to eat, sleep, or dress in lavish garments. Her mind and heart fixed on Rāma, she would submit to no other consort.” He realized that the radiant woman sleeping near Rāvana was none other than his favorite queen, Mandodarī.

  Hanumān crept away from the royal bedchamber and made his way out of the palace, through the banquet hall, where golden couches shone like flames. Delicate sauces and the meat of rare animals filled exquisitely decorated plates. Vessels inlaid with ivory and pearls held rare wines made from the blossoms of trees. Sumptuous desserts and fruits lay scattered among sleeping women.

  As he silently passed by, the honorable Hanumān regretted gazing on the women while they were sleeping. “Yet I must look for Sītā,” he reflected. “It is also true that my mind remains untroubled, unstirred. It is with a pure heart that I search for Sītā among these women.”

  Ruminating on these thoughts, Hanumān left the palace. By now he had searched the greater part of Lankā without finding Sītā.

  “She may have slipped from Rāvana’s arms and fallen into the ocean as he flew across the wide sea,” he thought in despair. “Or perhaps Rāvana has killed her because she would not submit to him.”

  Doubts crowded his mind. “What will I say to Sugrīva and Rāma, when I return without finding Sītā? Perhaps it is better to fast to death than to return empty-handed.”

  Fortunately, it wasn’t long before his usual equanimity began to restore itself. “Perseverance is the source of success and happiness,” he remembered. Then he made a vow: “I will search the gardens and palaces that I have not yet searched, and then I will search again in those areas I have already seen.”

  Having resolved to continue, he peered into the balconies, galleries, and gardens of the mansions of Lankā. He glanced at women of every shape, beautiful and revolting, who lived in Lankā. He opened and closed doors, crawled through windows, climbed towers, and combed every inch of the kingdom.

  He had explored every corner of the wondrous city and still could not find Sītā. The valiant Hanumān sank into a chasm of dark thoughts, certain he had crossed the ocean in vain.

  Perseverance is the source of success and happiness.

  I will search the places that I have not yet searched.

  —Sundara Kānda 12.10

  CHAPTER 34

  Hanumān Finds Sītā

  O Sītā!

  Under the ashoka tree

  she sits on the bare ground

  refusing food, water, or rest.

  Pale and thin,

  her radiance shadowed,

  her tears soak the earth.

  The sun veils its face in shame,

  hidden by clouds.

  Sītā grieves like a night without the moon,

  a flame snuffed out,

  a garden without rain.

  Yet Rāma fills her heart,

  Rāma is her salvation,

  and Rāma is all that she sees.

  Having scoured the city of Lankā twice in one night without finding Sītā, Hanumān could not contain his despair. Sitting on a wall overlooking the palace, his tail drooped and he held his head in his hands.

  “Sītā must surely be dead,” he thought. “But how can I tell Rāma? It would be wrong to withhold information, yet how can I offend him by telling him my fears? If I return without news of Sītā, then Rāma and Lakshmana will die of despair, and Bharata, too, will give up his life. Without their sons, the worthy mothers of those warriors will not go on living. And Sugrīva, Rāma’s perfect friend, will die of grief.”

  Drowning in despair, Hanumān couldn’t stop his mind from spinning dreadful thoughts. “And what will happen to Rūmā without her lord, and Tārā? They will surely die, too. Without his parents, the youthful Angada will wander through the forest sunk in misery. Deprived of his loved ones, he too will die. Then what will happen to the monkey kingdom, with no leaders to defend them? They will hurl themselves into canyons or impale themselves on their weapons. By returning with this devastating news, I will destroy two illustrious kingdoms.”

  Hanumān determined never to return to Kishkindhā. “That way those two noble brothers can at least live with the hope of finding Sītā,” he thought. “I will become an ascetic in the forest, or I will enter the flames. My heroic deeds of the past have faded like a garland, now that I have failed in my quest.”

  But once again the wise Hanumān could not be lost long in these dark thoughts. He shook his head, drew a sharp breath, and rallied his courage. “I will not return empty-handed, because that would mean death to Rāma and all the others,” he resolved. “I will not take my life, because that brings innumerable evil consequences. If I continue to search for Sītā, then there is still hope that she will be found. At the very least, I will kill the demon Rāvana to avenge Sītā’s death!”

  While thinking these courageous thoughts, he suddenly noticed for the first time a grove of ashoka trees set away from the palace and illuminated in the moonlight.

  “This must be Rāvana’s famous Ashoka Grove, the pleasure garden of his wives,” he thought. “After calming my mind, I will enter that auspicious Ashoka Grove to continue my search for Sītā. May Brahmā, Agni, Varuna, Vāyu, Indra, Sūrya, Chandra, and all the celestial beings grant me success. Let me find the chaste Sītā and deliver happy news to Rāma.”

  Having already found Sītā in his mind, Hanumān bounded from the wall. In one leap he landed in the Ashoka Grove, his courage and vigor renewed.

  There cuckoos, peacocks, and exotic birds flocked, and deer slept under the ashoka trees. As Hanumān leapt from tree to tree, he showered bright orange flower petals on them like rain.

  As he swung through the grove, snapping creepers and vines in his haste, Hanumān marveled at lovely lotus pools surrounded by fragrant flowers of all kinds. Crystal streams meandered through clusters of flaming red ashoka trees, and in the distance, flowering jasmine bushes sparkled in the moonlight like women’s bracelets.

  “This sumptuous garden of Rāvana’s is even more delightful than the legendary Nandana Grove of Indra or the Chaitraratha Grove of Kubera,” thought Hanumān. “I will wait high in a tree beside this clear stream, for surely Sītā will visit here, thinking of her da
ys in the forest with her lord.”

  Seating himself on a branch, he saw that he was near a gleaming marble temple with walls of gold, steps of coral, and pillars covered in starry gems. Beside the temple, a woman sat on the bare ground guarded by female demons. Even from a distance, Hanumān could see that she was of uncommon beauty. Though tears washed her face, her inner radiance lighted the night. Her eyes roved to and fro like a doe in distress as she sighed again and again.

  “This lovely-eyed lady, so pure, must surely be Sītā!” thought Hanumān.

  Her face was like the full moon, her lips like ripened bimba fruit, her eyes like lotus petals, and her eyebrows arched like butterfly wings. With graceful limbs and neck, her skin glowed, despite the darkness that covered her.

  “In looks and nobility, she is surely Rāma’s mate,” thought Hanumān. “It is clear that she thinks only of him; that thought alone keeps her alive. I can see now why Rāma has turned the world upside down to find her.”

  Hanumān also saw that she wore a bracelet on her arm that matched the ornaments flung down from the sky on that fateful day when Rāvana carried her across the skies. Her yellow garment matched the bright silken scarf she had dropped to the monkeys below. As Hanumān watched, tears streamed down her face and she closed her eyes as if to stop them, covering her face with her sārī. Yet despite the tears, her face looked resolute. “Her mind is fixed on Rama,” thought Hanumān.

  Seeing the chaste and tender spouse of Rāma in such distressing circumstances, her face thin and pale from lack of food and water, Hanumān felt his own tears slipping down his face. “Surely destiny is all-powerful; otherwise, how could the rival of Lakshmī, protected by the powerful Rāma, be sitting here in the midst of these vicious rākshasa women?”

  Oblivious to the gruesome rākshasas surrounding her, Sītā sat unadorned, her chief ornament her devotion to Rāma. Some of the rākshasa guards had only one eye, some only one ear, some sported a nose sticking out of their forehead. Like a water lily snapped from its stem, like Rohinī being harassed by evil planets, Sītā was trapped in the midst of these monsters.