With this valuable information, Rāma quickly arranged his army. “I am determined to kill Rāvana myself,” he said. “With Lakshmana, I will penetrate the northern gate and overcome him.”
Rāma gave a few prudent orders to the monkey chiefs, who had the power to appear in any form they chose. “None of us will appear as men, except Vibhīshana, his four ministers, Lakshmana, and me. Everyone else will retain their form as monkey or bear, and that is how we will distinguish our allies from our foes—for these rākshasas often look the same as men.”
Then Rāma said, “Let us climb Mount Suvela. From there we can better see the city of that demon that carried off my wife. On account of his evil deed, his whole race will perish at my hand.”
Angry at the thought of Rāvana, eager for battle, Rāma strode up the path to the top of Mount Suvela. Followed first by Lakshmana, ever vigilant, his bow ready to vanquish the enemy, and next by Vibhīshana, Angada, Sugrīva, Hanumān, the other monkey leaders, and the entire army of monkeys and bears, Rāma reached the summit and gazed at Lankā across the valley.
Rāma and his retinue were so close that they could see Rāvana himself on the palace balcony, robed in a dazzling red silken garment. They smelled the fragrance of blossoming trees wafting from Rāvana’s gardens, and heard the cooing of exotic birds from the thick woods surrounding the city. They saw its impregnable walls thrusting high into the clouds above Trikūta Mountain. Hordes of rākshasas guarded its gates, and drawbridges operated by machines were folded up like moths’ wings, making the moat impassable.
When Sugrīva saw Rāvana on the balcony of his palace, being fanned by rākshasas waving fans of white yak tails, he could not contain his wrath.
Springing into the air, that strong and powerful monkey leapt across the valley and hovered above Rāvana. “I am Sugrīva, the friend and humble servant of Rāma, who rules the world with his benevolence,” he cried. “I will destroy you today!” Sugrīva swooped over the dreaded Rāvana’s head, snatched his crown, and hurled it onto the marble terrace.
Enraged, Rāvana, who made the three worlds tremble, screamed, “You were once known for your thick and powerful neck, but now I will snap it in two.” Jumping up, he grabbed Sugrīva and threw him down, but like a ball Sugrīva bounced up again and threw Rāvana down. The two mighty warriors, equal in strength and skill, locked arms in a fierce combat and pounded each other with their fists. When one got thrown by the other, he only sprang up and started again. Sometimes one circled like a cat; other times they locked arms and tumbled over and over. Once they lurched over the castle wall and fell toward the ground—but just before reaching it, they both shot up into the sky and landed on the terrace again, ready for a new round.
Finally, unable to vanquish Sugrīva by his own strength, Rāvana decided to resort to magic. Intuiting this, Sugrīva bounded into the sky, undefeated. Having humiliated the rākshasa king in his own palace, he leapt back to Rāma, greeted by the roars and cheers of the delighted monkeys.
Rāma embraced his friend and gently chided him. “You should never do such an impulsive thing again without consulting me,” he said. “Leaders of armies should not indulge in such rash feats. What would become of me if something happened to you? As I watched you, my heart was filled with misgiving.”
Sugrīva, ever the faithful friend, said simply, “When I saw Rāvana, who carried off your faithful wife, I could not help but avenge that insult to you, knowing my own strength.”
Hearing this, Rāma praised his loyal friend, who had bravely attacked and humiliated Rāvana.
After camping overnight on the mountain, Rāma said to his valiant brother Lakshmana, “I see all the omens of a catastrophe. The wind blows in fierce gales, the moon is dim and encircled with a red halo, and a black patch mars the sun. See, the stars have lost their brightness, O Lakshmana, foretelling and hastening the end of a yuga. Let us march to Lankā now.”
When they reached Lankā, the commander in chief Nīla, along with his forces, took the eastern gate, Hanumān and his army the west, and Angada took the south. Rāma and Lakshmana stationed themselves at the northern gate, where Rāvana waited behind Lankā’s walls. Thousands of monkeys clustered at each entrance with their leaders, surrounding the city and all the land to the sea, making the rākshasas within Lankā shake with fear.
Having positioned the army for combat, Rāma gathered his commanders and ministers and consulted with them once more. After listening to their advice, he said to Angada, “Go to Rāvana and deliver this last warning from me: ‘You have stolen my wife by trickery. Now you will suffer the consequences of a lifetime of evil deeds against Devas, Gandharvas, Rishis, and men. No more will you stomp the earth, making all good people tremble in your wake. I, a mere man, will destroy you and your kingdom and place the high-souled Vibhīshana in your place. Take a last look around Lankā and prepare yourself for death.’”
Angada, eager to serve Rāma, flew immediately to the throne room in the palace where Rāvana sat, surrounded by his ministers. Standing a short distance away, the youthful monkey prince delivered Rāma’s message.
Rāvana burned with rage and smoke poured from his ears. “Seize him!” he roared.
The youthful Angada, brimming with vigor and strength, allowed the four fiercely armed demon guards to catch hold of him. With them clinging to his arms, he soared high in the air and then flicked off the guards like flies, watching as they tumbled to their deaths on the marble floor beside Rāvana.
As he flew out the window, Angada spied the royal crest adorning the top of Rāvana’s palace. He kicked it with his powerful legs, and it plummeted to the ground and smashed into bits, striking terror into the heart of Lankā. Now even Rāvana could foresee dreadful things to come. Rākshasas grabbed their weapons and rushed to and fro within the city walls, as if hit by the force of a wild wind.
Greeted by cheering monkeys, Angada returned to Rāma victorious. With this auspicious act, Rāma’s army, eager to fight, launched their attack on Lankā. Rāma, thinking of Sītā and her terrible suffering, entered the fray with ferocious joy.
Rāvana’s ministers informed him, “The enemy has begun the attack.” Rāvana doubled his armies at each gate and climbed to the top of his palace to survey the battle below.
There, in plain sight, he saw thousands of monkeys beating on the walls of Lankā with stones, tree trunks, and their bare fists, running and tumbling over each other in their eagerness to storm the city, shouting “Jai Shrī Rāma!” They overran the outer ramparts like an ocean in a storm. Then they choked the moat with rocks and trees, which allowed them to cross and gain a foothold inside the moat.
Rāvana ordered his armies to march out to meet the foe. The city’s four gates opened and hordes of fierce, dark-skinned rākshasas flooded out of the dread city of Lankā like the engulfing waters at the end of time. Screaming and howling, beating their drums and blowing a thousand conches, they were armed with maces, swords, javelins, spears, and hatchets.
Thus began the fight between the demons and the monkeys, which rivaled the war between the Devas and asuras of old. A terrific din filled the air, as elephants, horses, and chariots joined in combat. The rākshasas whirled amongst their enemies with weapons flashing. The monkeys scratched and clawed and pummeled their foes. Some jumped up on the city’s wall and rained stones on the enemy below. Soon the ground was covered with blood.
As golden chariots flashed in the sun and decorated horses pranced into battle, many duels were fought all around the gates to the city. Angada fought Indrajit; Hanumān smashed Jambumālī with his bare hand; Sugrīva killed Praghasa with the trunk of an axlewood tree; and Sushena vanquished Vidyunmālī. Several rākshasas together fought Rāma, who shot off their heads with his arrows.
Everywhere the fierce rākshasas were demolished by Rāma and the ferocious monkeys, and the demon army withdrew to regroup.
Having renewed their for
ces, the fierce rākshasas again charged the monkeys, devouring them in their fury. The monkeys responded with equal furor, pounding the demons with their powerful paws. As night fell, the battle raged on, the golden armor of the rākshasas gleaming in the gloom. The cries of the dying filled the air on that dark night of destruction, while Rāma’s fiery arrows found the hearts of thousands of demons.
In the duel between Angada and Indrajit, Angada had destroyed Indrajit’s chariot. Once his chariot and horses were gone, that devious son of Rāvana left the battlefield. The Devas and the celestial Rishis, looking down from above, showered the youthful Angada with praises, as did Rāma and Lakshmana. “Wonderful!” shouted the monkeys, for all knew of Indrajit’s strength.
Having retreated, Indrajit, who had once bound Indra in battle, was beside himself with fury. He could not bear to be vanquished by a mere monkey. He returned to fight, determined to use magic to gain a victory.
Rāma saw clouds churning furiously and realized that Indrajit was driving his invisible chariot to the spot where Rāma stood beside Lakshmana at Lankā’s northern gate. Rāma said to the monkeys, “It is better if you stay behind with Sugrīva, and let Indrajit win this one battle, for the time is propitious for his victory. There is nothing I can do against his magic.” Then Indrajit, who hid behind a shield of invisibility like the sun behind a cloud, struck Rāma and Lakshmana on their arms, legs, and bodies with arrows that pierced deeply and made them bleed.
“I was able to vanquish Indra himself, so how did you think you could escape me?” Indrajit taunted. A group of monkeys tried to stop the son of Rāvana, but they spun aimlessly about the battlefield like a whirlwind, unable to attack their invisible tormentor.
Rāma fell first, bound with serpents as thick as ropes. Seeing his brother fall, Lakshmana lost heart, and soon he too was bound by Indrajit’s deadly serpent-weapons. Without the ability to see the crafty Indrajit, the two sons of Dasharatha could not defend themselves and sank to the ground, fettered and senseless, bleeding profusely from their wounds.
See, the stars have lost their brightness, O Lakshmana,
foretelling and hastening the end of an age of a yuga.
—Yuddha Kānda 41.19
CHAPTER 44
The War Rages
HANUMĀN, ANGADA, SUGRĪVA, and all the monkey chiefs gathered around Rāma and Lakshmana. Seeing the heroes lying on the ground unconscious, unable to move, those valiant commanders cried out in anguish. When Vibhīshana arrived, he alone, having the eyes of a rākshasa, could see Indrajit hiding in the sky.
“I have slain the brothers who disgraced my aunt Shūrpanakhā, who killed the immeasurably strong Dūshana, and who have kept my father awake on sleepless nights,” cried Indrajit. Then he rained down more arrows on Hanumān, Sugrīva, and Angada, injuring them badly before withdrawing to his father’s palace to celebrate. The entire rākshasa army, seeing the brothers lying dead on the ground, whooped in victory.
Vibhīshana saw the pale color and downcast eyes of Sugrīva and the other brave monkey chiefs. “Do not be distressed, Sugrīva. Sometimes a battle is lost, sometimes won. They will recover from their faint. Show your courage, and your troops will feel courageous too.”
Asking that water be brought, Vibhīshana chanted a prayer and bathed Sugrīva’s eyes with the water. This he did twice. Then he said, “This is nothing to Rāma. He is not going to die. Let us not spend our energy in wasteful emotions, but rather in reviving him and Lakshmana. Comfort your forces; do not let them lose hope. I will find out what can be done.” Thus the greathearted Vibhīshana saved Rāma’s army from succumbing to fear.
—
MEANWHILE, INSIDE HIS palace, Rāvana could not contain his joy. When Indrajit first told him the news, he sprang from his throne with jubilation. He embraced his son, praising him as a hero, and made Indrajit sit beside him and tell again and again how he had felled the invincible warriors Rāma and Lakshmana. Conches blew, drums rolled, and the citizens spilled onto the streets of Lankā in wild jubilation. After ordering flags of victory and bright banners to be strung from all the buildings, Rāvana sent for the rākshasīs who guarded Sītā.
Trijatā arrived with the others, and they bowed to their king. “Tell Sītā,” said Rāvana, “that her husband and his brother have been killed by Indrajit. Take my aerial car, Pushpaka, and fly Sītā over the battlefield where Rāma and Lakshmana lie slain, so that she can see for herself that there is no hope of her husband ever rescuing her. Now she can abandon her pride and her obstinacy, and surrender to me adorned with every jewel.”
The rākshasīs bowed to Rāvana and did as they were told. When Sītā was flown over the battlefield and saw her husband and the brave Lakshmana lying on the field, their limbs pierced with arrows and lying limp, she burst into tears. As sobs wracked her body, she lamented, “All the learned astrologers, who predicted that I would live a life untarnished by inauspiciousness, have been proven wrong by Rāma’s death. Those who read auspicious signs, who saw these lotus markings on my feet and predicted that I would sit on a throne by my husband’s side, were mistaken also. What good were all those happy predictions, when now my husband and his brother are dead? Having performed numerous brave and heroic acts, having never spoken a wrong word or thought of a wrong deed, my beloved lord has lost his life. Alas, I weep for myself, but even more for Mother Kausalyā, who waits each day for the return of her son.”
Trijatā directed the flying chariot, which flew by thought alone, back to the Ashoka Grove, where Sītā collapsed under the tree, her heart broken. Sītā’s sadness was so overwhelming that Trijatā sat on the ground beside her, smoothing her hair and gently drying her tears.
“Do not grieve so, my lady,” Trijatā said. “For Rāma is not dead. Didn’t you notice how the monkeys standing around him appeared alert and hopeful? They did not bear the signs of wild mourning, which would be fitting if their leaders were truly dead. No one in this world could kill your Rāma. Please, for your own sake, believe what I tell you, for I have never spoken an untruth. I speak only out of affection, for you have been kind to me despite all your troubles.”
Sītā clasped her hands tightly together and whispered, “I pray with all my heart that these words prove true.”
—
AS SUGRĪVA AND the other monkeys stood watch over the inert bodies of Rāma and Lakshmana, Rāma opened his eyes. Still bound by poisonous serpents, his whole body bleeding and painful, he gazed at his brother Lakshmana, who lay unmoving on the field. “How can I live without my brother?” Rāma cried out. “I could never find another brother such as Lakshmana, who has been my trusted friend and my constant companion. If he is dead, I will take my own life. O Lakshmana, you have always cheered me when I was sad. Why are you silent now? You have never said an unkind word to me; you have only brought me good. Yet you have been lured to your death on my account.”
Rāma glanced at his friends and supporters. “Dear Sugrīva,” he said. “You have been an ideal friend. No one could have done more for me than you. You have pleased me with your devotion. Now you must return home and leave me here to die with Lakshmana.”
Tears rained down the faces of the monkeys who encircled the brothers like a garland. As they stood there weeping, a fierce wind kicked up, scattering the clouds. Lightning cracked the sky, and the sea heaved mountains of water. Trees snapped and fell into the ocean. The sea creatures escaped to the still depths of the ocean.
Suddenly a giant bird swooped down upon them. At the sight of the bird, the serpents that bound Rāma and Lakshmana fled to the sea for safety. Hovering over the two heroes, his feathers sparkling with white light, the mammoth bird gently brushed their bodies with his wings. At his touch, all their wounds disappeared, and they recovered from their swoon with their prowess, energy, and skill not only restored but doubled in strength.
Sitting up, his robust good health revived, Rāma said, “Who are
you, great bird? I feel like embracing you as a brother or as my own father.”
“O Rāma, I am Garuda, your dear friend of old, your very breath. When I heard that the serpents of Indrajit bound your limbs, I flew across the wide ocean to heal you. Now you know that these rākshasas resort to trickery; they do not fight in a straightforward way as you do.”
Then Garuda, the king of the birds, who was in fact a descendant of Lord Vishnu, reassured Rāma with encouraging words. “Do not be too curious about our friendship, Rāma. All will be revealed to you at the end of the war. Ever following your Dharma, loving even your enemies, you will be victorious over Rāvana and reunite with Sītā once more.”
Seeing Rāma’s miraculous recovery, the monkeys cheered with joy. In their delight they danced and pounded their drums and blew their conches. They somersaulted and cartwheeled around the battlefield, playfully scaling the walls of Lankā and bounding down again.
Rāvana, hearing the drums, asked his ministers, “What is this joyful noise coming from Rāma’s camp?” When he was told that Rāma and Lakshmana had revived and escaped their bonds, for the first time the demon king plunged into despondency. “If Rāma can free himself from Indrajit’s dread serpent-weapons, given to him by the Devas, then I fear our army is doomed.”
Hissing like a dragon, he bellowed, “Dhūmrāksha! Take your army and march on Rāma and his monkey troops!”
Dhūmrāksha mounted his chariot and sailed out from the city gates at the head of his army, armed for battle and thirsty for Rāma’s blood. But when he crossed under the soaring arch of the city gate, a dead vulture tumbled into his chariot. Dhūmrāksha saw other portents of impending death and trembled with fear.
Gathering his courage, he plunged into the ocean of monkeys followed by his fierce demon army. A terrific struggle took place, with both sides fighting valiantly. Eventually, the monkeys gained the upper hand, and the rākshasas fled. But the powerful Dhūmrāksha himself set upon the monkeys in a fury, scattering them in all directions.
The Ramayana Page 33