Hanuman saw the kumbha holding the flickering torch leer one last time at him as he walked around behind him. When he went out of sight, he felt his heart sink. And for one brief instant, he felt utterly alone, misunderstood, incompetent, useless, pathetic. He was only a vanar after all. His father and mother were dead. He had finally found a being who believed in him enough to entrust him with a great responsibility, given him this one mission to fulfil, and he had failed in that. Failed utterly. Sita was still Ravana’s prisoner, so bereft of hope that she herself did not expect to survive until Rama arrived. And Lanka’s forces were far, far greater than any of them had ever imagined. Through his visionary powers, he had seen entire levels where great armies of rakshasas drilled and trained endlessly, lakhs upon lakhs of them, millions all told. His fellow vanars would be sadly outmatched. The bears might fare better, but on the whole, Rama’s army was little more than a great gathering of … animals. There was no other word for it. Unarmed, untrained-in-warfare animals. These were rakshasas, the fiercest fighting race in the three worlds. Led by Ravana, the being who had invaded even the heavenly realm and destroyed Indraloka. His son was named Indrajit because he had defeated Lord Indra himself, the god of warfare! Even if Nala’s bridge was completed quickly and the armies of Rama crossed to Lanka soon enough to save the lady Sita, it would be a slaughter rather than a battle.
Unless.
He felt the heat of the torch at the tip of his tail. He smelled the crisp pungent reek of his own fur burning, the smells of his own sweat and bodily odour mingled with the oil and the unmistakable stinging stench of the fire itself, for as every vanar knew, each fire has its own smell. His fire smelled like a charred corpse.
Unless he could return to Rama, and tell him what he had learned about Ravana, about his forces, about his magic. About his secret.
The tip of the tail caught, then the edge of the cloth, and then the oil itself ignited, and the whole went up in a roar. The crowd echoed the roar and the din was deafening. The kumbhas laughed in his ears, their foul spittle falling onto his face, his snout.
Unless he could even the odds a little. Tip the balance just so. And in the process, show them that even a single vanar armed with weapons of faith and dharma, could stand up to their combined might. That way, when Rama arrived, the armies of Lanka might hesitate a fraction before starting the slaughter, and in such a war, even that tiny fraction of doubt could be leveraged into an advantage.
And there was a chance he could do a bit more than that as well.
He felt the fire scorch his entire tail now, the whole length of it burning quite thoroughly. The kumbhas had turned him around, so all the watching hordes could see. He was forced to show his back to the boulevard, which made him face the tower. It lay yawning like a length of bread split open and put to stand on its end. He could see tiny antlike shadows of rakshasas on every one of the hundreds of levels, waving and cheering and applauding, and chanting. Burn, vanar, burn, they were chanting. The guards continued hustling him till he had completed the full turn and was facing the boulevard again. Now he was truly a dancing monkey act put on display for the viewing pleasure of millions.
‘Burn, vanar, burn!’ they sang.
And he felt the excrutiating agony of his tail, his flesh and blood and skin and fur, that part of himself that was to a vanar no less than a hand or a leg, even more valuable than those limbs, for it was the mark of a vanar, his badge of race.
‘BURN, VANAR, BURN!’
And now the fire was creeping up to the top of its length, to the place where the tail met his lower spine. In another instant, his nether fur would ignite and then he would be lost.
He closed his eyes, shut out the deafening roar, and focussed. Willing his tail to do as he desired. A simple enough thing for a vanar who had mastered his inner powers. Who had overcome his self-doubt and realised his true self-worth. A vanar who served …
‘Rama.’
The kumbhas were the first to see it. One of them said something to the others, who bent and peered and stared disbelievingly. Then all three of them squatted down and tried to get a better look at what was happening. Then, as one, they looked up at his face, and the look on their faces was not disbelief, but fear.
He was the slayer of Akshay Kumar. And Jambumali. And the five generals. And legions of fierce rakshasa warriors.
The kumbhas backed away. A shout from above made them glance up briefly. It was Prahasta, inquiring about what was going on. They shouted an incomprehensible reply, then pointed to Hanuman, to the tail. Then they backed away, almost falling over in their eagerness to put as much distance between themselves and the vanar. Prahasta yelled at them furiously, ordering them to stop.
He had crushed Mount Mahendra beneath his feet, leaped a hundred yojanas across the ocean, confronted the flying mountain, and outwitted the great sea-serpent. He had endured the temptations of the palace of pleasures and the realm of intoxication and had triumphed over both.
The crowd saw it now. The chanting died out and they began to shout to one another, pointing, gesticulating, staring. Hanuman took one step forward, then another, then yet another. The fire was no longer lapping at his back, it was well away from him.
He took several steps away, then stopped and looked back.
The burning end of his tail, still wrapped in oiled cloth, lay back there, several yards behind. The rest of its length, extending to his back, trailed along the street. As he watched, the flames spread further, like a fire finding its way along the length of a fuse.
It needed to be longer. Much longer.
He willed it once again. Growing it. It took a great effort to grow just the tail, not all of himself. But he did it. The tail grew ten yards, then twenty, then forty … And kept on growing.
He began to walk towards the crowd. Directly at the hordes of watching rakshasas.
They parted quickly, to make a pathway for him to pass through. All of them were in awe of him, staring at the slayer of their great champions. Some at the back of the crowd peeled away and ran. Those at the fore and centre had no choice and in any case, they were too eager now to see what he did next.
He walked down the street, his tail growing longer and longer behind him, the fire growing at almost the same pace. Then he began to run, to leap, and bound. Now he allowed himself to grow. To expand himself. Twice his size. Four times. His chains and bindings fell to pieces like confetti. A dozen times. A hundred times …
The crowds broke at last. They began to run, screaming from the giant vanar with the leagues-long burning tail.
He laughed and laughed at their fear. At their panic. They stampeded. Not a single one dared stop and confront him. The whole scenario was too bizarre for them to comprehend. A giant vanar, growing larger every eyewink, with a burning tail now a mile in length, now two miles, now ten … What were they supposed to do? How were they supposed to fight him?
He flew up into the air, the size of a mountain now. But still he continued growing, his tail elongating at as fast a rate. It snaked through the whole of Lanka now, like an endless serpentine coil, burning. He twitched it this way, and a street full of marble mansions went up in flames. He flicked it that way, and an avenue of stables blazed. Houses, palaces, camps, parks, he set them all on fire. In mere moments, the whole of Lanka was burning. The fire lit up the night sky for yojanas around, illuminating even the night-darkened ocean’s white swells beyond.
He stood in the midst of the burning city, and continued to expand himself. His head rose so high, he could barely hear the screams of the frightened, stampeding Lankans any longer. They were far below, minuscule pawns in a great game of fire and death.
He faced the tower. He was still only half its height.
He grew faster, shooting up through the clouds, to the stars.
Finally, when the clouds were around his waist, and the city below was barely visible, when the back of his feet rested on the gritty edge of Lanka’s southern shore, he was head-to-head with
the tower.
On the uppermost level, in a realm of pristine whiteness, the lady Sita was standing, leaning upon a balustrade of white marble.
Hanuman bowed to the lady Sita, folding his palms together. ‘My lady, I am relieved that you are safe from the fire. I would not wish you to be harmed by it.’
She smiled and returned his greeting. ‘The lord Ravana is good enough to keep me safe. At least so long as he desires me kept safe.’ She glanced around, as if making sure the subject of her words was not standing behind her. ‘He was here until but a moment ago. I think he has gone to attempt to undo the havoc you have caused.’ She smiled, and his heart leaped to see her smile, so wondrous a thing it was to behold. ‘Again.’
‘It is my parting gift to you, my lady,’ he said. ‘Now, I will go back to Rama and tell him that I have seen you here safe and sound and much else besides.’
‘Go, my brave Hanuman. And tell him to come quickly. And then let him wreak havoc too. You have lit the funeral pyre of Lanka. Rama must inter the corpse and turn it to ashes.’
He bowed one last time, then said to her. ‘My lady, hold on tightly to the railing before you.’
She did as he asked, without questioning. He reached out and grasped a great section of the marbled level, then wrenched it apart from the rest of the tower. It came free with a peculiar screaming sound, not like marble cracking, but like metal being torn apart by a great force. He turned and sought out a place near the outer wall of Lanka which he recognised even from so high by the shining gold and many gems all of which reflected the flames of the burning city. He put down the section of marble floor there, so gently that the lady Sita was not discomfited one bit. She smiled up at him.
Then he turned back to face the tower, crouched down, and leaped.
He landed on top of the tower itself. He teetered there a moment, getting his balance. When he was sure of his equilibrium, he crouched down, then hopped. He rose up a few leagues, then landed on the tower. It groaned and protested loudly. He leaped again, then came thumping down on it. It screamed now. He continued jumping up and down, just as he had done before departing from the mainland earlier in the day, building up momentum for his great flight across the ocean. Each time he leaped up higher, and each time he came down, he crushed the tower further. It began to shudder, then to collapse onto itself, entire levels demolished, pushed one into the other. The entire island thundered and echoed with the reverberations of his jumps, and the screaming rakshasas fleeing the flames below were further startled by the amazing sight of the giant Hanuman jumping up and down, pounding on the great tower.
Finally, he launched himself into the air. ‘Jai Shri Rama’, he bellowed.
Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that he had pounded the tower into the ground on which it had stood. All that remained of it was debris and shattered fragments. Soon, even that was obscured by the gouting smoke from a thousand fires. He let his long trailing tail fall into the ocean, dousing the fire. He relished the cool relief for a moment, then drew his tail into himself, to a length proportionate to his size, and sighed. The night wind was cool and refreshing on his face and limbs. The sky was clear and cloudless. And the ocean stretched before him, vast and dark and empty, a desert of brine demanding to be crossed.
He flew back to Rama.
Invocation
Ganesa, lead well this army of words
Dedication
For Biki and Bithika Banker,
The Gemini twins.
One saved my life,
The other gave me
Two new ones.
For Ayush Yoda Banker,
Friend, son, Jedi Master.
When you were born,
I was born again.
For Yashka Banker,
Devi, daughter, princess.
You made me believe in luck again,
And, more important, in love.
Epigraph
Om Bhur Bhuvah Swah:
Tat Savitur Varenyam
Bhargo Devasya Dhimahi
Dhiyo yo nah prachodayat
Maha-mantra Gayatri
(whispered into the ears of newborn
infants at their naming ceremony)
INTRODUCTION
Adi-kavya: The first retelling
Some three thousand years ago, a sage named Valmiki lived in a remote forest ashram, practising austerities with his disciples. One day, the wandering sage Narada visited the ashram and was asked by Valmiki if he knew of a perfect man. Narada said, indeed, he did know of such a person, and then told Valmiki and his disciples a story of an ideal man.
Some days later, Valmiki happened to witness a hunter killing a kraunchya bird. The crane’s partner was left desolate, and cried inconsolably. Valmiki was overwhelmed by anger at the hunter’s action, and sorrow at the bird’s loss. He felt driven to do something rash, but controlled himself with difficulty.
After his anger and sorrow subsided, he questioned his outburst. After so many years of practising meditation and austerities, he had still not been able to master his own emotions. Was it even possible to do so? Could any person truly become a master of his passions? For a while he despaired, but then he recalled the story Narada had told him. He thought about the implications of the story, about the choices made by the protagonist and how he had indeed shown great mastery of his own thoughts, words, deeds and feelings. Valmiki felt inspired by the recollection and was filled with a calm serenity such as he had never felt before.
As he recollected the tale of that perfect man of whom Narada had spoken, he found himself reciting it in a particular cadence and rhythm. He realized that this rhythm or metre corresponded to the warbling cries of the kraunchya bird, as if in tribute to theloss that had inspired his recollection. At once, he resolved to compose his own version of the story, using the new form of metre, that others might hear it and be as inspired as he was.
But Narada’s story was only a bare narration of the events, a mere plot outline as we would call it today. In order to make the story attractive and memorable to ordinary listeners, Valmiki would have to add and embellish considerably, filling in details and inventing incidents from his own imagination. He would have to dramatize the whole story in order to bring out the powerful dilemmas faced by the protagonist.
But what right did he have to do so? After all, this was not his story. It was a tale told to him. A tale of a real man and real events. How could he make up his own version of the story?
At this point, Valmiki was visited by Lord Brahma Himself.
The Creator told him to set his worries aside and begin composing the work he had in mind. Here is how Valmiki quoted Brahma’s exhortation to him, in an introductory passage not unlike this one that you are reading right now:
Recite the tale of Rama … as you heard it told by Narada. Recite the deeds of Rama that are already known as well as those that are not, his adventures … his battles … the acts of Sita, known and unknown. Whatever you do not know will become known to you. Never will your words be inappropriate. Tell Rama’s story … that it may prevail on earth for as long as the mountains and the rivers exist.
Valmiki needed no further urging. He began composing his poem.
He titled it, Rama-yana, meaning literally, The Movements (or Travels) of Rama.
Foretelling the future
The first thing Valmiki realized on completing his composition was that it was incomplete. What good was a story without anyone to tell it to? In the tradition of his age, a bard would normally recite his compositions himself, perhaps earning some favour or payment in coin or kind, more often rewarded only with the appreciation of his listeners. But Valmiki knew that while the form of the story was his creation, the story itself belonged to all his countrymen. He recalled Brahma’s exhortation that Rama’s story must prevail on earth for as long as the mountains and the rivers exist.
So he taught it to his disciples, among whose number
were two young boys whose mother had sought sanctuary with him years ago. Those two boys, Luv and Kusa, then travelled from place to place, reciting the Ramayana as composed by their guru.
In time, fate brought them before the very Rama described in the poem. Rama knew at once that the poem referred to him and understood that these boys could be none other than his sons by the banished Sita. Called upon by the curious king, Valmiki himself then appeared before Rama and entreated him to take back Sita.
Later, Rama asked Valmiki to compose an additional part to the poem, so that he himself, Rama Chandra, might know what would happen to him in future. Valmiki obeyed this extraordinary command, and this supplementary section became the Uttara Kaand of his poem.
Valmiki’s Sanskrit rendition of the tale was a brilliant work by any standards, ancient or modern. Its charm, beauty and originality can never be matched. It is a true masterpiece of world literature, the ‘adi-kavya’ which stands as the fountainhead of our great cultural record. Even today, thousands of years after its composition, it remains unsurpassed.
And yet, when we narrate the story of the Ramayana today, it is not Valmiki’s Sanskrit shlokas that we recite. Few of us today have even read Valmiki’s immortal composition in its original. Most have not even read an abridgement. Indeed, an unabridged Ramayana itself, reproducing Valmiki’s verse without alteration or revisions, is almost impossible to find. Even the most learned of scholars, steeped in a lifetime of study of ancient Sanskrit literature, maintain that the versions of Valmiki’s poem that exist today have been revised and added to by later hands. Some believe that the first and seventh kaands, as well as a number of passages within the other kaands, were all inserted by later writers who preferred to remain anonymous.
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