The Ramayana

by Linda Egenes, M. A.

  Having found Sītā at last, Hanumān bowed to Rāma in his mind, offering words of praise, grateful that he was able to accomplish his great purpose.

  As Hanumān sat high in the tree observing Sītā, the night slipped away. The golden chariot of dawn drew near, and Hanumān heard the chanting of the Vedas far in the distance. Then, just as the sun shed its first rays of light on the enchanting Ashoka Grove where Sītā sat, patient as the earth, the jingle of bells and women’s jewelry filled the air.

  Far in the distance Hanumān saw Rāvana walking slowly toward Sītā, his passion drawing him like a bee to honey. Close behind him trailed a hundred of his devoted wives, their eyes droopy from sleep and wine. Some carried golden vessels of water, others followed with golden cushions, and still others with fans. Several women bore ghee lamps to light the way, one carried a gem-decorated cup filled with wine, and another held up a parasol over her lord, spread wide like the wings of a swan.

  Wearing a silken cloak, his twenty arms adorned with countless jeweled ornaments, his eyes flaming red with desire, Rāvana entered the garden gate. For just a moment, the power and brilliance of the demon king’s body made even the valiant Hanumān shrink behind the boughs of the tree.

  As Rāvana strode toward her, surrounded by his proud wives like the planet Jupiter surrounded by its moons, Sītā saw him coming and began to shake like a palm in the wind. She drew her garments around her and again fixed her mind on Rāma. The haughty, impeccably attired Rāvana towered above the helpless Sītā, hoping to win her favors.

  “Why do you try to hide from me in fear, O radiant lady?” asked Rāvana in his softest voice. “You know that I love you. Your beauty is renowned throughout the world. You have no rival. I could take you by force, but I am enchanted by you, so I will not lay hands on you.”

  Sītā said nothing, sobbing quietly.

  “Stop lying in the dust, refusing water and food, and become the ruler of my palace, filled with gems, silks, servants, singing, dancing, feasting, and music,” Rāvana wheedled. “Your youth is passing like a river to the sea. All this magnificent kingdom—indeed, all that is mine—I lay at your dusty feet and offer to your father Janaka.”

  Sītā still did not respond.

  “Rāma cannot even find you,” said Rāvana, his voice louder now. “Nor can he, weak and deprived of his kingdom, conquer me. No one can. So, lady of graceful beauty, cease this asceticism and enjoy all the pleasures of the world with me.”

  Hearing these insults to her husband, the virtuous Sītā, her heart faithful to Rāma, stood up. Once again she held up a single blade of grass between herself and Rāvana. Her voice quivering with emotion, she said, “Take back your heart and give it to your lawful wives. I will never be unfaithful to my husband. Just as the sun’s rays cannot be separated from the sun, so I cannot be separated from Rāma. No riches in the world exist that can make me wish to rest in the arms of another man.”

  Then she added, “The ruler who is not master of himself brings ruin to his kingdom. This Lankā, overflowing with treasure, is doomed. If you continue in these evil actions, the whole universe will rejoice at your death. If, on the other hand, you return me to Rāma and seek to reconcile with him, he will offer his mercy to one who seeks safety in him. Otherwise, nothing can save you. You may have escaped the thunderbolt of Indra, you may have escaped Death itself, but you will never escape the terrifying bow of Rāma.” With these powerful words, Sītā turned her back to Rāvana.

  Rāvana was beside himself with fury. He had never been refused by a woman, as all were enamored by his power and glory. He spat his words instead of speaking them. “I have heard that women respond to gentleness, but you become more resistant the more I shower you with kindness. It is a sign of my unfathomable love that I do not kill you for your impertinence. But even I cannot stand much more of this. If you do not succumb to me in two months, I will have my chefs cook you for my breakfast and I will drink your blood.”

  The wives of Rāvana, themselves daughters of Devas and Gandharvas, were filled with pity for Sītā, and without Rāvana noticing, some of them silently made sympathetic gestures to Sītā.

  Seeing their support, Sītā gained courage. She turned to face Rāvana once again. “It appears that your advisors desire your destruction, otherwise they would prevent you from persisting in this suicidal path. Who would dare to insult the consort of Rāma? It is easy for you to say wicked things about him when he does not stand before you. O vile demon, you will not escape the fury of Rāma.”

  Her voice growing stronger as she spoke, Sītā continued, “By the power of my virtue and tapas, I could turn you to ashes this instant if Rāma wished it. All who are wise and righteous in the world wonder why your eyes didn’t burn when you first gazed at me with evil intent. Why didn’t your tongue fall out when you addressed these despicable words to me? There is only one answer—the Devas allowed you to capture me only to orchestrate your own destruction.”

  Rāvana’s eyes rolled in rage and shot angry sparks. “I will destroy you today, you perverse wretch!” He raised his hand to strike her.

  Then Mandodarī, the beloved first wife of Rāvana, rushed to his side. With gentle and charming words she quieted the raging king of the demons. “What need have you for Sītā? Come, enjoy yourself with me.”

  Subdued for the moment, Rāvana spoke privately to the ogres who surrounded Sītā, “Find a way to bring her to me, whether it be through threats or bribes, fearful or sugary words.”

  Whirling around, Rāvana stomped back to the palace, shaking the earth. He did not look back, leaving Sītā at the mercy of the vicious rākshasa women.

  Having seen Sītā at last, the joyful Hanumān bowed down

  to Rāma in his mind, offering words of praise.

  —Sundara Kānda 15.54

  CHAPTER 35

  Sītā in the Ashoka Grove

  CLOSING IN AROUND her, brandishing their weapons, the rākshasīs shrieked at Sītā in anger. “You do not properly respect Rāvana, who is the grandson of the holy Pulastya, the son of the Creator himself,” screeched Ekajatā, a demoness with red-flaming eyes. “Give up your foolish pride and marry this descendant of Brahmā, lady of long eyelashes.”

  One with the face of a cat snarled, “Unite yourself with the scourge of foes, who has conquered the thirty-three celestials, defeated the Devas, and rules the earth.”

  “Lady of sweet smiles, forget about Rāma, who has lost his kingdom, and submit to the one who is king of kings, who can offer you all the luxury and pleasures of Lankā,” a rākshasī with only one eye tried to coax her.

  Sītā shrank from their weapons and her eyes filled with tears. “What you suggest is morally wrong. If you wish to eat me, you may do so, but I will never be untrue to Rāma. My husband is my spiritual guide, whether he is reigning on the throne in Ayodhyā or wandering penniless through the forest. I will follow him always, as the faithful Arundhatī follows her husband Vasishtha, the nakshatra Rohinī follows the moon, and Lakshmī follows Vishnu.”

  Sītā’s innocent words only made the rākshasa women more angry. “You think you are too good for Rāvana,” they screamed. They crowded around her, shouting and grimacing, and their horrible faces became even more terrifying. Sītā edged away and huddled under the tree where Hanumān was hidden. Weakened by hunger and thirst, lost in grief, she covered her moonlike face with her sārī.

  The demons followed her there and surrounded the tree where she sat, like wolves encircling a fawn. “Foolish woman,” the ugliest ogre of all shouted, “this entire kingdom could be yours, along with the favors of the king. Thousands of women will wait on you, and even Mandodarī, the favorite queen, will move aside. Take this boon, or I will tear out your heart and eat it this minute.”

  Another ugly rākshasī yelled, “Looking at this young thing, with eyes like a deer, I suddenly feel hungry for her liver, her spleen, her he
art, limbs, and head.”

  “Let’s tell Rāvana we have killed her, and then he will let us eat her,” cried another.

  “Let’s eat her and dance!” they screamed in unison, over and over.

  Sītā, overwhelmed with fear, burst into tears. “A human cannot be the wife of a rākshasa,” she said between sobs. “I could never be untrue to Rāma. You can tear my body to pieces, but I will never do what you ask.”

  She trembled violently, tears streaming down her body. “O Rāma!” she wailed. “O Lakshmana!” She cried out again and again for Mother Kausalyā, for Sumitrā, for all those who loved her.

  In her misery, she began to think terrible thoughts. “I must have committed unforgivable sins in the past, to be separated from Rāma and tormented by these demon women. Why doesn’t my lord rescue me, when he was able to kill fourteen thousand rākshasas in the Dandaka Forest? Why haven’t his fiery arrows crossed the sea and destroyed Lankā? Either he does not know where I am, or he has merged with the eternal absolute and no longer has need of a consort. Or has he been killed through Rāvana’s trickery? Without him, having fallen into the clutches of the evil Rāvana, I have nothing to live for. I will give up my life.”

  Hearing her despairing words, the angry demon women only increased their jeering until Trijatā, the oldest among them, who had just awakened from sleep, stepped between the demons and Sītā.

  “Stop, you wretched beasts!” she said. “You can devour me, but do not touch Sītā. For in the morning twilight I dreamed that Lankā lay destroyed and burning, and this woman’s husband was our destroyer.”

  The fierce rākshasa women stopped their taunting for a moment and gathered around Trijatā, begging to hear about the dream. “I dreamed that Sītā was dressed in immaculate white, standing on a snow-white mountain by the sea. Rāma and his brother Lakshmana, mounted on a towering four-tusked elephant, adorned with garlands and radiant with light, rode to greet her. She joined Rāma on his magnificent elephant and then rose up to touch the sun and the moon with her hands. Later I dreamed that Sītā, with Rāma and Lakshmana, departed for the north in a sun-bright, flower-laden chariot.

  “Then I saw Rāvana. Smeared with blood, he wandered across the scorched earth like a madman, babbling and laughing deliriously. He entered a lake that had no water, only red mud. There he joined his brother Kumbhakarna and his sons, whose heads were shaven and smeared with oil. A terrifying woman clad in red and black slid a noose around Rāvana’s neck and dragged him to the south, the region of death. Lankā was burning and falling into the sea, her arches shattered. Drunken demons flooded her streets.

  “Only Rāvana’s brother Vibhīshana floated above this unthinkable chaos, his garments spotlessly white, shaded under a white canopy. So stop your tormenting. Beg this woman for mercy, for only through her kindness can you be saved.”

  When the demon women became silent with fear, the compassionate Sītā said, “I will be your protector.”

  “Look at her—she quivers with good omens,” said Trijatā. And indeed, Sītā noticed that her left eye and her left arm tingled, a sign of good luck for women, and that the birds nesting above her were singing happily as if the hour were auspicious. That graceful and youthful lady suddenly felt revived like a desert plant after a long-awaited rain, and her heart filled with joy. Shedding her fatigue and hopelessness, once again Sītā radiated the beauty and vitality of the adored daughter of King Janaka and the cherished wife of the hero Rāma.

  All this time Hanumān had stayed hidden in the branches of the leafy tree above where Sītā was sitting. Since the rākshasas continued to guard Sītā closely, he wondered how he could ever talk to her.

  “I have breached the fortress walls of Lankā, and I have found Sītā hidden in this secret garden,” reflected Hanumān. “Yet my mission will fail if I do not speak to her before I leave, for she is desperately in need of encouragement. Her spirits have lifted for the moment, but it’s possible that she could even take her life if she hears no word from Rāma. And what would I say to Rāma, if I returned with news of Sītā but no message from her?”

  He studied the rākshasa women surrounding Sītā. “If I speak Sanskrit to her like a Brahmin, Sītā will be frightened, thinking I am Rāvana. She will cry out, and then the demon women will come running. Being so excitable, they will rouse whole armies, and then I will have to fight them all. Yet if I do not talk to her, she will surely die of hopelessness.”

  His mind seesawing with contradictory thoughts, Hanumān stayed hidden, wondering how to give Sītā his message from Rāma. Finally, the wise monkey came up with a plan.

  High up in the tree, he waited patiently until the women, calmed by Trijatā, fell asleep in another area of the garden a short distance away. When Sītā was finally alone, he began to sing a song of Rāma’s character and deeds, his voice sweet and melodious like a nightingale’s. He sang of Rāma’s auspicious birth, his winning of Sītā, his exile, his triumph over fourteen thousand rākshasas, his fury and grief when Sītā was stolen by Rāvana, his quest for his wife, and his alliance with Sugrīva. Then he sang, “I am one of Sugrīva’s ministers, and I have crossed this wide ocean to find the doe-eyed Sītā, overjoyed to behold her at last.”

  Sītā, whose heart was filled with love for Rāma, was astonished to hear her innermost thoughts echoed in the voice coming from above her. She brushed aside her unbraided hair, which had fallen all about her face, and peered up into the tree. Smiling, her whole being filled with happiness to hear the name of Rāma, she finally saw the small monkey Hanumān, his body shining in the leaves and his face the color of coral.

  Seeing the monkey’s scars from having crashed to the earth and broken his jaw, she cried out in a faint voice, “O Rāma! O Lakshmana!” When the monkey gazed at her with compassion and reverence, she thought it must be a dream.

  “A dream of a monkey is surely inauspicious,” she thought. “Perhaps something is wrong with Rāma.” Moaning, she fell into a faint.

  When she revived, she realized that it could not be a dream, because she had not slept since being separated from Rāma. “All I think about is Rāma. My whole being flows to him,” she thought. “Is this an illusion of my mind, which is ever absorbed in Rāma? Yet I wish with all my heart that it not be so.”

  Finally, she folded her hands in prayer and said in her gentle voice, “I pray to Brahmā, to Indra, to Vishnu, that this creature who speaks so well of Rāma be real and not a dream.”

  Hearing her prayer, Hanumān hopped down from the tree, and standing far enough away so Sītā would not feel threatened, he bowed to her in all humility.

  “Pray tell me your name, O graceful lady,” said Hanumān in humble tones. “From your radiance and your purity, I think you must be the daughter of a sage or of divine birth. From your royal bearing, I think you must be the daughter of a king. From your tears, your ascetic’s clothing, and your matchless beauty, I think you must be Sītā, the wife of Rāma.”

  Again Sītā smiled. “I am the wife of Rāma, whose wisdom rivals the Devas. My name is Sītā.”

  “O faithful Sītā, I have come to you at Rāma’s request,” said Hanumān with great joy. “He is safe and waits anxiously to hear news of your well-being. And Lakshmana, the powerful brother of Rāma, also bows to you.”

  Sītā wept tears of delight. “The wise say that happiness comes to everyone, even if they must wait a hundred years,” she said.

  If I speak Sanskrit to her like a Brahmin,

  Sītā will be frightened, thinking I am Rāvana.

  —Sundara Kānda 30.18

  CHAPTER 36

  Hanumān Consoles Sītā

  Under the ashoka tree

  Hanumān sang Rāma’s praises:

  “In radiance he is like the sun,

  in patience like the earth,

  in wisdom like the preceptor of the gods.

  H
e shelters all beings

  and defends Dharma and tradition.

  Imbued with humility,

  he is versed in the Vedas and Vedāngas.

  “He is known for his broad shoulders,

  long arms, wide forehead,

  and muscular and taut chest.

  His thighs, fists, and wrists are hard,

  yet his lustrous skin is soft.

  “His eyes are like lotus petals,

  his face shining like the moon.

  His complexion dark,

  his voice low like the dundubhi drum,

  he walks with the royal pace of an elephant.

  Moving with grace, he is renowned by all.

  His eyesight is clear,

  his intellect sharp.

  He delights in the true,

  he delights in the just,

  and he is compassionate to all.”

  Thus Hanumān convinced Sītā

  that he served her beloved with his heart.

  As Hanumān talked quietly to Sītā in the Ashoka Grove, he stepped closer. Immediately Sītā felt frightened. What if this monkey were Rāvana in disguise? Her hopes dashed, fearing that Rāvana had devised a new trick to get close to her, she sank to the ground once again.

  “If you are Rāvana,” she cried to Hanumān, “who once before tricked me by disguising yourself as a sage, it is not right to approach me now, when I am weak with hunger and fear.” She shuddered at the thought of that dreadful day.

  Yet as the humble Hanumān bowed before her, she took hope. “Surely you cannot be Rāvana, for my heart fills with joy in your presence. Tell me more about Rāma, gentle monkey, for your words make me happy. Unless, of course, this is a vision brought on by my long fasting. But no, I am in control of my senses.” Her mind wavered, not knowing whether to trust Hanumān or not.