“It’s his armor,” explained Hanumān. “He won it in a boon from Brahmā, and you can never penetrate it except with a Brahmā missile.”
So Lakshmana invoked the Brahmā weapon. The earth trembled, the sky quaked, and the sun, moon, and stars hid in terror. As the Brahmā weapon blazed through the sky, Atikāya shot a torrent of arrows to counteract it. Still the missile bore down on him. As it came closer and closer, he valiantly tried to fend it off with his sword and mace. At last it found its mark and sliced off his head. The rākshasa army, stunned by the defeat of their invincible leaders, fled to Lankā, wailing with fear, exhaustion, and defeat.
The monkeys surged forward, crowding around Lakshmana and praising him for his miraculous strength and skill.
Rāvana embraced his sons, decorated them with jewels,
blessed them, and then sent them off to battle.
—Yuddha Kānda 69.15
CHAPTER 48
Hanumān and the Mountain of Herbs
HEARING OF ATIKĀYA’S demise, Rāvana collapsed into his throne, nearly slipping to the floor. Reviving, he sobbed, “First Dhūmrāksha, then Akampana, Prahasta, and Kumbhakarna. No one has ever defeated them. Now my dear sons and brothers have been killed by these giant monkeys. How endless must be the strength of Rāma and Lakshmana, that they could escape the bonds of Indrajit. By whose magic, by whose power do they operate? Rāma must be Vishnu himself, for no other being could lay my forces low.”
The doomed rākshasa king managed to dispense a few orders. “Let all the gates be fortified with strong warriors and watchmen. Especially guard the entrances to the Ashoka Grove, where Sītā sleeps.” Then he was again lost in grief.
Seeing his all-powerful father crushed with anguish, Indrajit said, “Do not mourn while the conqueror of Indra still lives. I will lay waste this monkey army. I swear on my honor and my strength that I will cut down Rāma and Lakshmana today.”
With that vow, Indrajit mounted his chariot and flew onto the battlefield, accompanied by elephants, horses, chariots, and thousands of fierce warriors armed with weapons that flashed in the sun and dazzled the eyes. They followed him joyfully, singing his praises.
Shining like the sun and moon together, the powerful rākshasa Indrajit first sat down by a sacred fire at the Nikumbhilā Grove, the secret place on the western slope of Trikūta Mountain where he performed his rituals. Wearing red shining robes, he uttered magical spells over his weapons, chariot, and bow. Next he made himself invisible. Finally, he invoked the weapon of Brahmā, making the earth shake and the sky crack.
Having secured his strength, Indrajit drove his invisible chariot into the monkey army, flanked by whooping, frenzied rākshasas. Drawing his bow, Indrajit dropped a curtain of arrows on the monkey forces. The brave monkey warriors looked up but could see nothing but a blaze of arrows. Unable to see where the arrows came from, unable to retaliate in any way, the monkeys were struck by arrows, hatchets, spears, swords, and javelins from all sides. Seven monkeys at a time were struck down by Indrajit’s missiles. Many fled in terror. Those left standing showered rocks, boulders, and trees on the spot where they thought Indrajit was hiding, but they could do nothing to defend themselves against the relentless storm of arrows that glinted in the sun like a cascading waterfall of glass shards.
Soon nearly the entire monkey army was wounded, dead, or in a faint. Even the heroic monkey chiefs—Hanumān, Angada, Nīla, and Nala—were struck down, their bodies covered with hundreds of arrows. Then Indrajit increased his attack and shot hundreds of arrows at Rāma and Lakshmana. The two brothers could scarcely see each other in the hail of arrows.
Rāma, who felt no pain or fatigue despite being struck, called out to Lakshmana, “There is no way we can defend ourselves against Indrajit when he is invisible to us. And these missiles he is sending, which have their origin in Brahmā himself, are unfathomably powerful. Let us honor the missiles of Brahmā, and let them overcome us. Indrajit will think we are dead and go back to Lankā to celebrate.”
Indeed, when he saw those two illustrious heroes lying on the ground, Indrajit shouted, “Victory is ours!” and raced his chariot back to Lankā to offer his victory at the feet of his father.
Soon after Indrajit left the battlefield, Hanumān, Nīla, Nala, and Angada recovered, being uncommonly strong and powerful. Then they saw that Rāma and Lakshmana had fallen. Confused and frightened, they did not know what to think. Vibhīshana, who had not been injured, saw their confusion and said, “Do not worry, they are only showing honor to the missiles of Brahmā by allowing themselves to be struck down.”
When he ransacked the Ashoka Grove, Hanumān himself had submitted to Indrajit in order to honor the missile of Brahmā. Now he suggested that the monkey leaders go to the battlefield to bring comfort to those still breathing. Picking their way among the thousands of bodies, lighting the way with torches, they came upon Sugrīva and many other mighty warriors lying prostrate on the field. Then they searched out Jāmbavān, the eldest warrior and the son of Brahmā. Vibhīshana found the great bear lying with hundreds of arrows poking from his body like the quills of a porcupine.
“O brother of Rāvana,” said Jāmbavān in a hoarse voice, “I cannot open my eyes but I recognize your voice. Tell me, has the Son of the Wind survived?”
“It seems strange that you ask about Hanumān before inquiring after the welfare of Rāma and Lakshmana and all the monkey chiefs,” said Vibhīshana.
“I will tell you why if you listen carefully,” whispered Jāmbavān. “If Hanumān is alive, he can save us all. If he is dead, we all are as good as dead.” Hearing this, Vibhīshana summoned Hanumān, who bowed to the ancient bear, greeted him respectfully, and waited patiently for him to speak, hands folded in respect.
“O Hanumān, just hearing your voice makes the life force throb in me again, even though every limb of mine is wounded,” said the venerable leader Jāmbavān. “For you alone can heal us all and restore Rāma and Lakshmana to their full strength. Fly across the ocean to the Himālayas, and there between Mount Rishabha and the sacred Mount Kailāsa, you will see Mount Mahodaya, home of all medicinal herbs. O best of monkeys, you will see four luminous herbs that grow on its peak and light up the ten regions of the sky with their brilliance. One is the reviver of the dead (mritasanjīvanī), another is the healer of wounds (vishalyakaranī), the third is the restorer of the skin (sandhānī), and the last the restorer of the skin pigment (suvarnakaranī). Now is the time for you to show your immeasurable valor and grant health to all the monkeys. Pluck the herbs and bring them here, son of the bearer of fragrance, and heal us all.”
Hanumān felt a rush of energy and power coursing through his veins, like the ocean rising in waves, and he started to swell in size. He bounded up one of the three peaks of Trikūta Mountain, which crumbled under his weight. Trees tumbled to the earth and burst into flames. Lankā reeled and lurched as if it were dancing on hot coals, and its turrets tumbled to the ground.
From Trikūta Mountain Hanumān sprang to Malaya Mountain, covered with lotuses and lilies, waterfalls tumbling down its cliffs like strings of jasmine flowers. Landing on the mountain, Hanumān opened his mouth and let loose an earth-shattering howl. The citizens of Lankā cowered in their houses. Lifting his tail high and springing from his haunches, he leapt into the air, the force of his flight yanking trees and boulders along with him like a hurricane.
Stretching his arms out before him, he coursed through the air, fast as the wind. Hanumān crossed over forests, rivers, lakes, and cities far below. Without a twinge of fatigue he reached a distant summit in the Himālayas.
Landing on one of the snow-covered peaks, he gazed down on remote caves, pristine forests, and frothy streams cascading down cliffs. There he surveyed holy hermitages dotting the mountainsides and divine sages meditating in orange robes. He saw the mountain home of Brahmā, the silvery Mount Kailāsa where Shiva sat deep in medit
ation, the heavenly abode of Indra, and the luminous palace of Kubera.
Between the rocky cliffs of Kailāsa and Rishabha he recognized Mount Mahodaya, a mountain covered with herbs that glowed with an inner light even in the twilight. Landing on that mountain, Hanumān searched for the celestial healing herbs. But the herbs made themselves invisible, and he was unable to find them. The courageous Hanumān, who had traveled far to reach the mountain, grew angry and his eyes burned like coals.
“How could you behave this way, when Lord Rāma lies on the battlefield waiting for you to heal him?” he shouted. “Do not trifle with me or I will break you into pieces!”
Then that immensely strong monkey, out of patience, broke off the mountain peak with all its precious metals, trees, herbs, and forest animals, and hoisted it with one arm like a platter of food. Holding it high he leapt into the air and flew back to Lankā, while the Devas, Gandharvas, and Rishis showered him with praises and shouts of “Wonderful! Wonderful!”
Hanumān blazed like a comet as he flew across the night sky. Reaching Lankā, he set down the mountaintop in the center of Rāma’s army as the monkeys cheered. Bowing his head to his commanders and other monkey chiefs, he embraced Vibhīshana.
As soon as they inhaled the scent of those divine herbs, Rāma and Lakshmana were revived. Soon the casualties of Rāma’s army were completely healed—not only those who were wounded, but those who had perished in battle rose from the dead. In this way the entire army of monkeys was restored to life, their wounds mended. By Rāvana’s order the rākshasas had thrown their dead into the sea, so they could not be revived.
As soon as the herbs had done their work, Hanumān lifted the mountain peak and carried it back to the Himālayas, restoring it to the mountain like a hat on its head. Without feeling weary, he flew back to Lankā and took his place by Rāma’s side.
O best of monkeys, you will see four luminous herbs that grow on its peak
and light up the ten regions of the sky with their brilliance.
—Yuddha Kānda 74.32
CHAPTER 49
Indrajit Meets His Destiny
AFTER HANUMĀN RETURNED from his flight to the Himālayas, Sugrīva said, “Rāvana has lost so many warriors, he will not be able to defend the city properly. Let us scramble over the walls with torches and again set fire to the city.”
Monkeys swarmed through the gates and over the walls, setting fire to every house in Lankā. As the fire blazed once again through the city, jeweled turrets toppled, mansions crumbled, and demons rushed through the streets in screaming throngs, desperate to escape the heat and smoke. Multitudes of rākshasas perished in the blaze, and the burning skyline of Lankā reflected in the sea like a mirror, turning the waters crimson.
As the once-glorious mansions collapsed in molten heaps, the scent of burning aloe and sandalwood filled the air. Thousands of demon warriors, roused from their sleep, armed themselves with armor, sharp spears, javelins, clubs, and maces. They marched out of the city, ankle bracelets ringing, their grotesque rākshasa faces made more ghoulish by the flickering light and shadow of the blaze.
They rushed to meet the monkey army, and a ferocious battle took place. He who bit was bitten, he who stabbed was stabbed, and soon the field was covered with the bodies of the dead and wounded.
Seeing his city once more on fire, Rāvana became a storm of fury. His anger swelled in his body and shook the four quarters of the universe.
“Kumbha and Nikumbha!” he shouted to the sons of Kumbhakarna. “Now is the time to join the other rākshasa warriors in battle.”
They immediately followed their uncle’s command, but soon the fierce Kumbha was killed by a blow from Sugrīva, and Nikumbha was beheaded by Hanumān. In a battle as ferocious as the one between the Devas and asuras at the beginning of time, monkeys and rākshasas grappled with each other on the battlefield.
Now Rāvana sent the wicked Makarāksha, son of his other dead brother, Khara, to duel Rāma. All the Devas and celestials gathered to see the marvelous sight of the two superb bowmen fighting. Arrow stopped arrow as they fell like rain all around. After a terrific fight, Rāma employed the missile of Agni and shattered the evil Makarāksha’s heart.
When Rāvana heard of the deaths of his nephews, he exploded with rage. He again summoned his eldest and only remaining son, the invincible warrior Indrajit. “You have run off the king of the Devas, so you will easily vanquish these mere men,” he said. “Go now and come back victorious.”
Indrajit rolled his chariot to the Nikumbhilā Grove, where he once again performed ceremonies to gain the power of invisibility. Surrounded by monsters riding lions and tigers, he drove his magical chariot to the place where Rāma and Lakshmana were dispatching their arrows into the rākshasa ranks.
Having covered himself and his chariot with a smoky veil that obliterated the four directions, Indrajit rained down arrows on Rāma, Lakshmana, and the monkeys. No one could tell where the arrows came from, for his chariot and bow made no sound, and he nimbly shot them from all directions. Soon the monkeys were wounded and fainting on the field, and soon the limbs of Rāma and Lakshmana were covered with brightly feathered arrows like blossoming trees.
“Let me send the Brahmā missile, and I will obliterate the entire rākshasa race,” suggested Lakshmana.
“We cannot kill all rākshasas just for the sins of one,” said Rāma. “It is forbidden to kill one who cannot defend himself, who hides, begs with folded hands, surrenders, runs away, or is taken unawares. We must try harder to conquer Indrajit alone. If the monkey chiefs could only see this trickster who hides behind a magical veil, they themselves could vanquish him. No matter, whether he hides in the core of the earth or the celestial heavens, he will fall when struck by my arrows.” Then Rāma was quiet, as he contemplated how to bring an end to Indrajit.
Indrajit divined Rāma’s intentions, and he wheeled his chariot back to Lankā to plan a different strategy. His brain sizzled with anger as he thought of his sons, brothers, cousins, and uncles who had been killed by Rāma, Lakshmana, and the monkey chiefs. Feeling the pain of their deaths, he came up with a wicked plan. Using his considerable powers of sorcery, he created an illusion of Sītā and placed her in his chariot. Then he drove her toward the monkey army.
Hanumān felt his eyes fill with tears to see Sītā in such dire straits. Pale, thin, and distraught, the phantom Sītā wore a dirty garment, and her body was streaked with grime.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” cried Hanumān as he and the other monkey forces rushed on Indrajit’s chariot.
As he saw the monkeys coming, Indrajit stood up and seized Sītā by the hair. He struck her and she cried out, “Rāma, O Rāma!”
By now Hanumān was sobbing, so keenly did he feel the grief of Rāma’s beloved wife. “You are doomed to the netherworld by seizing Sītā’s hair,” Hanumān’s voice rang out. “It is known that you are a descendant of the revered Rishi Pulastya. How could you treat her so heartlessly, she who has been deprived of husband, kingdom, and home? You deserve to suffer along with others who murder women.”
“You say that it is wrong to murder women,” said Indrajit. “But it is right to do anything possible to vanquish the foe.” With those words, while Hanumān and the other monkeys watched in horror, Indrajit pulled out his sword and stabbed the phantom Sītā, who crumpled to the floor of the chariot.
Laughing wickedly, he said, “Now what do you have to fight for?” He bellowed victoriously, rejoicing in his heinous deed.
Witnessing this unspeakable act, the dejected monkeys scattered like leaves in a windstorm. But even in his shock, the fearless Hanumān rallied them, saying, “It is not fitting for brave warriors to run like this. For the sake of Sītā and Rāma, gather your forces and attack!” He seized a monstrous boulder and flung it at Indrajit’s chariot. The charioteer nimbly drove away, and the boulder killed a hundred rāksha
sas instead.
Inspired by Hanumān, the other monkeys lashed at the rākshasa army, smashing them with their open palms, and with rocks and trees. When Indrajit saw the destruction being wielded on his army, he turned his chariot on the monkeys and flung hatchets, spears, clubs, and arrows on them.
The monkeys fought fearlessly and were holding their own, but Hanumān eventually said, “We cannot win this battle. Let us withdraw and tell Rāma the dreadful news of Sītā’s death.”
When Indrajit saw Hanumān withdrawing the monkey army, he turned his chariot around and drove it straight to the Nikumbhilā Grove. There, in the presence of his rākshasa troops, he began a ceremony of sorcery to once again make himself invisible, making all the necessary offerings to the blazing fire according to all the proper rules.
Meanwhile Rāma had heard the din raised by Indrajit’s trick and the ensuing fight, and he said, “No doubt Hanumān is performing great feats. Jāmbavān, take your army of bears to support him.”
But as the bear army marched onto the battlefield, they met Hanumān and his army retreating. “Turn back,” cried Hanumān. “All is lost.”
When he reached Rāma, Hanumān bowed at his feet. He could barely speak, for his emotion overtook him. “O Rāma, I have come here to tell you that the wicked Indrajit has killed Sītā before our eyes as we fought him.”
Rāma fainted. Lakshmana knelt beside his stricken brother and cradled his head in his lap. The monkeys, seeing Rāma unconscious, ran to fetch water and sprinkled it over his face to revive him.
“You who are the knower of truth,” cried the ever-devoted Lakshmana, “what use was your steadfastness to Dharma? Surely, those who adhere to Dharma suffer from misfortune, for even though you have never harmed anyone, you have had your wealth, your kingdom, and your wife snatched from you. If Dharma and adharma were real, you would be enjoying all prosperity and Rāvana would be in hell. Instead he laughs and enjoys his wealth. The moment you gave up the kingdom, Dharma was severed like the root of a tree. Without wealth, all streams of happiness dry up—without wealth there are no friends, no well-wishers, no pleasures, and no rest for the mind. The death of Sītā is the result of giving up your wealth and your kingdom.
The Ramayana Page 36