It was then that Hanuman, grappling with the problem, began to realize his true powers. He stood on a mountain in deep concentration, and with every breath he took, he grew larger and larger. Finally, he took a gigantic leap.
All kinds of strange monsters reared up from the sea, blocking, biting, grabbing, grasping—all determined to stop him. But he evaded them and blazed across the sky like a comet.
Once Hanuman landed in Lanka, however, he used his new-found powers to shrink to a size no bigger than a cat, and made his way in secret to Sita. He wanted to be sure that she was safe.
He scampered in and around the magnificent city, through its streets and mansions, palaces and courtyards, searching for any sign of Sita. He had roamed through almost all of Lanka and was about to give up hope when he finally found her, trapped in a little garden surrounded by high walls and heavily guarded by Ravana’s soldiers.
When Hanuman first spoke to her, Sita, who had never seen him before, was worried. What if it was but another trick? But Hanuman finally convinced her that he was Rama’s friend.
Sita took out a jewel from a knot in her sari and gave it to Hanuman, saying, “Give this to my husband as a sign from me.”
Hanuman traveled all the way back to the other side of the sea and handed the jewel to Rama. Rama’s heart rejoiced to know that Sita was still alive.
Quickly, Rama, Lakshmana, Hanuman, and all their friends gathered their weapons and prepared to rescue Sita. Calling on the sea god to help calm the waters, they built a strong bridge over the sea so that the army could march across and enter Lanka.
Then, with the enemies on either side seemingly evenly matched, the war began.
And, oh, what a fearsome war it was! People say that such a war had never been seen before and will never be seen again.
Both Rama and Ravana possessed extraordinary skills and spectacular powers. And the relatives and allies in their armies were no ordinary mortals, either.
Rama and Lakshmana had magic arrows that could burn like flaming golden suns or fall like silver rain, killing hundreds at a time. Hanuman and his band of warriors, too, had skills equal to the fiercest of Ravana’s monsters. Their nails were like swords and their teeth were like arrows. They scratched and clawed, leapt and attacked.
But Ravana’s army would not be easy to defeat, even for these strong warriors. No matter how many times Ravana’s ten heads might be chopped off, they would grow again and again. And, to go with his ten heads, Ravana had twenty hands, which he could use all at once.
Ravana’s son, Indrajit, was a master of magic. With spells and potions, he could conjure up shapes to confuse and befuddle his opponents. Another powerful fighter was Ravana’s brother, Kumbakarna, who was the biggest giant the world had ever known. He could sleep for six months at a time, but when he awoke he would be so ravenous that he could devour entire armies at a time.
When these famous warriors met, the land, sea, sky and universe itself seemed to explode as incredible weapons flew in every direction.
Finally, Rama and Ravana faced each other. Rama drew his bow, and with unerring aim, he shot one splendid, flaming arrow straight into Ravana’s heart, killing him.
With that, the war ended. Rama had finally accomplished what he had been born on earth to do.
The gods celebrated, trumpets blew, the air was scented with flowers that fell from the heavens.
Rama, Sita and Lakshmana, having been away for fourteen years, returned to the land of their birth to claim what was rightfully theirs.
Bharata, Rama’s brother, welcomed him warmly. “Never have I sat on the throne, Rama. I have guarded it for you. You are the rightful king.”
Rama took the throne, and was a good and wise ruler.
And that is the story of Rama, which will be told as long as the mountains shall stand and the rivers shall flow.
Sukhu and Dukhu
Long ago and far away, there lived a man who had two wives and two daughters. The elder wife’s daughter was called Dukhu. Though she and her mother were good, kind and very hardworking, the man cared more for his younger wife and her lazy, spiteful daughter, Sukhu.
Sukhu and her mother knew this, so they treated Dukhu and her mother with scorn and made them do all the work, while they themselves did nothing but primp and preen, and try to look pretty.
One day the man died, and the younger wife drove Dukhu and her mother out of the house, saying, “You are the cause of all our sorrow!”
A kindly neighbor who took pity on them gave them shelter and an old spinning wheel. Every day, Dukhu and her mother struggled to spin, cook, clean, and do the chores around the little hut.
But one day, as Dukhu sat at the spinning wheel by the front door, dark clouds began to gather. A sudden gust of wind blew and—Poof!—carried away the wad of cotton she was about to spin into thread.
It was more than poor Dukhu could bear. She chased after that fluff of cotton, tears streaming down her face, as the wind called out, ‘Dukhu…Dukhu…!’
The wind led her past a dirty cowshed. “MoooOO!” said the cow mournfully. “Help me, Dukhu!”
Dukhu looked at the cow, ankle-deep in dung. “Poor cow! You must be so uncomfortable.” She brushed away her tears and stopped to clean and wash the shed. When she was done, she stroked the grateful cow and hurried on.
Outside the shed, the wind rose again, beckoning, leading her further away from home.
She came across a banana plant. Trailing vines and creepers wound around it so tightly that it could hardly stand. Its broad, flat leaves hung limply, and it called out, “Please help me, Dukhu!”
Dukhu looked at the plant. “You poor thing!” she said as she deftly removed the creepers. She scooped some water from a nearby stream in her palms and watered the plant as best she could. Then she hurried on.
The wind whipped round a little hill and as she followed it, further up the stream. Dukhu found an old horse, gaunt and bony, sighing deeply. Its saddle and bridle had been pulled so tight that it could not bend down to drink the water. “Please help me, Dukhu,” it begged. “I am so thirsty.”
“Oh, poor horse!” said Dukhu as she loosened the leather straps and buckles.
“That should make you feel better.” And she hurried on.
The wind led her to the very edge of the village. Out there in the gathering gloom, it lifted her hair, tickled her cheeks and whispered softly in her ear, “Stand very still and look carefully, Dukhu. You will see what you should see.” Then suddenly all was silent.
Dukhu squinted and stared out into the dusk till her eyes began to water. Slowly, the misty outlines of a distant palace swam into view through her tears. It shimmered and shone. It seemed so far and yet so near. Could she be imagining it?
She walked towards it timidly, worrying that it would disappear. Finally, she stood in an open doorway. She thought she heard a gentle voice call out, “Come in,” but when Dukhu entered, there was nobody there.
She wandered through empty hallways and around large rooms with walls glowing palely white. Finally, she came to a small room at the far end of the palace.
Peering into it, she saw a hunched figure bent over a spinning wheel. An old woman sat there, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight that streamed in through the window.
“So, you are finally here,” said the old woman, turning to greet Dukhu.
Dukhu stepped forward. Respectfully, she reached out and touched the old lady’s feet. Then she brought her palms back to touch her own head in a sign of reverence. She tried to speak, but no words came from her mouth. She knelt there, her head bowed.
The old lady reached out and stroked her hair gently. Then she helped Dukhu to her feet. “Never mind. I am the Mother of the Moon. Do not be afraid. Come with me.” She led Dukhu to a pond in the garden. “Dip yourself in it twice, and
you will get what you truly deserve.”
Dukhu dipped herself in the water once. When she came out, she found she was no longer a plain village girl. She could barely recognize the beautiful face that was reflected in the water.
She dipped herself in the pond a second time.
Now she found that she was draped in the finest, softest muslin silk sari, its beautiful colors and patterns swirling gracefully around her. Gold necklaces circled her neck. Rubies and emeralds gleamed and glittered from the bracelets on her arms and the rings on her fingers. Pearls hung from her ears and a diamond flashed from her nose ring.
Then the Mother of the Moon led her back to the room and said, “Now eat, my child.” And there, laid before her were delicious mounds of steaming rice dotted with raisins and nuts; curries rich with fragrant spices; light, hot bread, some crisp and some soft with melted butter and ghee; and sweets and desserts. It was much more than she could ever eat.
When she had had her fill, Dukhu bowed to give thanks. Then the Mother of the Moon showed her three treasure chests and said, “Choose one.”
Dukhu, more than grateful for what she had so far received, chose the smallest one. Then, bidding the old lady goodbye, she left the palace.
As she passed the horse, it gave her a beautiful, sprightly young colt to take home with her. The banana plant gave her a bunch of golden bananas and a pot of gold coins. The cow gave her a healthy brown calf, which would provide Dukhu and her mother with fresh milk for the rest of their lives.
Dukhu thanked them all and made her way home.
Her poor mother was delighted to see her. Dukhu showed her all the presents the Mother of the Moon had given her. “And, oh! There’s one more!” said Dukhu, as she remembered the small treasure chest.
When she opened the chest, a handsome young man appeared in a puff of smoke. “I have come to marry you,” he said, simply.
All Dukhu’s friends and relatives were invited to her grand wedding. Even Sukhu and her mother came, curious to find out how Dukhu had become so wealthy.
Once they heard about the Mother of the Moon, Sukhu’s mother wasted no time. She bought her daughter a spinning wheel, sat her outside their door and instructed her to cry loudly when the wind carried away her wad of cotton.
Just as her sister had done earlier, Sukhu followed the wind when it whisked away her cotton. But when the cow called out for help, she scorned it.
Tossing her head, she said haughtily, “Who do you think I am—a cowherd’s daughter?” And she stomped on.
When she met the weak and withering banana tree, she said, “I’m no farmer’s daughter. My hands are too soft for such tasks!” And she stamped her feet and flounced on.
When she met the horse, she shouted angrily, “Get out of my way, you old nag! Do you think I am a stable-hand? I am on my way to see the Mother of the Moon herself!” And she kicked the horse and strode on.
By the time she finally found the palace of the Mother of the Moon, she was tired, hungry and crosser than ever.
With one hand on her hips, she waved the other angrily at the silver-haired, hunched old woman and scolded, “The stupid wind has carried away my wad of cotton! And you’d better do something about it…or else!”
The old woman replied patiently, “Go to the pond that glistens with the reflection of the moon and dip yourself in it twice. Then you will get what you deserve. Remember, only twice, not more.”
Sukhu hurried to the pond and dipped herself in it once. When she rose from the water, she was more beautiful than she could ever have imagined.
Excitedly, she dipped herself in the water again.
Now she was more richly dressed than any princess she had seen. She laughed aloud with joy as the bracelets and bangles on her arms jingled gaily. She examined the jewels and thought to herself, “One more time and I will be forever richer than Dukhu!”
One more time she dipped herself in the pond—though she had been warned not to do so. When she rose from the water, she screamed madly as she watched all of the jewels melt away. Her nose grew long—as long as an elephant’s trunk—and she was horribly ugly!
When Sukhu ran howling back to the old woman, the Mother of the Moon pointed to the three treasure chests. Sukhu grabbed the largest one and hobbled home.
Sukhu’s mother almost fainted when she saw her daughter, but she hoped the large chest would hold some treasure.
Sukhu and her mother opened the box and out came an enormous black snake. It grew larger and larger and seemed to fill the room as it reared up, hissing loudly, ready to strike. They ran for their lives, and nobody ever saw them again.
Dukhu, on the other hand, lived happily with her husband and mother, wanting for nothing till the end of her days.
Tenali Raman
“Aiyoh, Rama, Raama…!”
People in the village of Tenali either threw their hands up in despair or laughed out loud at the antics of Raman, a scrawny village lad. Irrepressible and mischievous as a monkey, there was no denying the bright intelligence of the little rascal.
One day, a sanyasi—a holy man with no worldly possessions—came to the village.He watched the escapades of the naughty little fellow with amusement. He saw brown limbs dart out of reach as housewives chased him round their houses in a temper. He noticed that although they shrieked at him at first, they laughed as they gossiped about the boy’s pranks later. They even saved a snack for him! Impressed with his quick wit and sense of fun, the sanyasi taught Raman a special chant, or mantra, a powerful prayer.
“Go alone at night to the temple of the fearsome goddess Kali. Repeat this mantra three million times and she will appear before you. Remember! The goddess has a thousand faces—each one is more frightful than the last. Grown men would tremble in terror at the sight of her, but you must not be afraid. If you can face her bravely, she will give you what you ask for.”
Raman was determined to face Kali. He waited for the auspicious night.
The Kali temple was some distance away from the village. The path leading there wound round open fields and past a rocky outcrop before it went through the woods. The trees stood stiffly in the dark, their branches forming strange twisted shapes in the faint moonlight. All was still and silent as Raman stepped lightly over the uneven ground. A sudden gust of wind rustled the dry leaves in a whisper. An owl hooted nearby, and then a jackal howled in the distance. He hurried on and came out on the other side of the forest.
The temple was close to the cremation grounds. It loomed out of the darkness. Raman stared up at it, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Be brave, he told himself as he slipped in through the entrance.
Inside the temple, it was dark and shadowy. Pale moonlight filtered through the dusty skylight. Raman shut his eyes for a moment. Then slowly he opened them again and looked around.
Shrines to other gods and goddesses formed little niches with darker hollows. But, up ahead, he could make out the imposing black figure of the goddess Kali herself.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the idol, he walked right up to it. He examined it carefully. It was every bit as terrifying as people said it would be. But while many feared Kali, he knew that many others worshipped her.
Raman shut his eyes and began his holy chant. He had no idea how long it would take. He focused with all his might on doing it right. He repeated it, as he had been instructed, three million times.
Then he opened his eyes.
Slowly the figure in front of him began to gleam. The cold stone seemed to soften and breathe. Finally he was face to face with the goddess!
The idol came to life. It began to move and the one thousand faces of Kali began to flash before him in quick succession, each one more terrible than the other. The boy watched with fascination as the horrific figure grew larger and larger and larger.
But, by the time the
one-thousandth face appeared, Raman was rolling on the floor and clutching his sides laughing!
The goddess was outraged. “You shameless little scallywag! How dare you laugh at me!”
Raman was unrepentant. Still giggling, he explained. “Oh Mother Kali, I honor you as I should. But it struck me that you have just two hands. When we humans get a cold, we have enough problems trying to keep our noses dry. Imagine if you should get a cold! However will you manage with just two hands and a thousand runny noses?”
The goddess was furious. “I shall punish you! For daring to laugh at me, you will have to earn a living for the rest of your life by making people laugh. You will be a jester, a clown, a vikatakavi!”
Raman paused for a minute to take a breath and consider what she had said. Then, he began to prance around the room chanting, “Vi-ka-ta-ka-vi! Vi-ka-ta-ka-vi! Oh! That is great! The sounds of the word form a palindrome. It sounds exactly the same, whether you say it from left to right, or the other way, from right to left!” And he continued to prance and chant mischievously.
No one could stay angry with Raman for long, not even the goddess Kali. After all, she had a sense of humor, too! She smiled and relented.
“A curse is a curse and it cannot be easily changed. You shall be a jester, a vikatakavi, just as I said. However, you will be no ordinary jester. You deserve to serve a king.” Then the goddess disappeared.
Indian Children's Favorite Stories Page 3