Hanuman

by Vanamali

  A ring of interested spectators had formed a circle around them, but Sita and Rama stood alone within that circle, gazing at each other as if they could not bear to look apart. For twelve long years they had been starved of this pleasure. Time stopped as they beheld Heaven in their eyes. Their whole life passed like a dream in front of their interlocked gaze and still they could not bear to look away.

  At last Sita broke the spell and whispered, “My Lord, do I have your permission to make a public avowal of my purity?”

  Rama nodded. Wearing the ochre robes of the ascetics, yet looking as beautiful as a bride, Sita, the daughter of the earth, stepped into the center of the circle and with folded palms she bowed before her mother earth and said, “O Madhavi! Goddess of the earth, beloved mother! If you know that I have never loved any man other than my husband, even for a moment, then please open your arms wide and accept me, your daughter, for I can no longer bear to live in this vale of tears. Grief alone has been my lot in this life and now I long for the comfort of your arms, O mother! Take me to your bosom, as you brought me once out of your womb to the field of my father, Janaka!”

  Hardly had she finished speaking when the earth split open with a shudder and out of the chasm there arose a beautiful flower-bedecked throne on which was seated the goddess of the earth in all her bounty, covered with flowers and carrying the nine types of grains in sheaves in her hands.

  She opened her arms wide and Sita ran into them and was made to sit beside her on the throne of flowers. In front of the astonished gaze of the spellbound audience, the earth gaped open once more and the throne carrying Sita and her mother slowly descended into the bowels of the earth as the gods rained flowers from above. The earth shuddered and the wind moaned as the gap closed over their heads. The crowd came out of their mesmerized state and a great sigh broke from every mouth.

  As she disappeared from sight, Rama woke up from the grip of terror that had paralyzed him. He ran to the spot where she had disappeared and called to her piteously.

  Holding a staff picked from the sacrificial ground, he leaned on it as if his body were too weak to stand alone. Bending his head over it, he cried out loud, “O Janaki! O Vaidehi! O Sita! My beloved wife! Why have you deserted me just when I thought I could have you back? Once you were stolen by the wicked Ravana, but I brought you back and then I was forced to send you away again. At that time, I was able to bear the parting only because I knew that you were alive and being looked after somewhere, but now I cannot bear to live when I know that I cannot see you any more. I fear I am being punished for my cruel act in having banished you.”

  His sorrow turned to anger, and he smote the earth with the staff and said, “O goddess of the earth, return my beloved to me at once. I have suffered enough. I cannot live without her—or open your arms once again and accept me also. I would rather live with her in the bowels of the earth than here as king. Remember I am your son-in-law and have pity on me. You know my valor. If you refuse my reasonable request, I will destroy you, burn your forests, crush your mountains, and reduce everything to liquid!”

  All the worlds trembled with fear at the anger and agony in Rama’s voice. None dared to approach him.

  At last Brahma, the creator, came to him and said, “Rama! Remember who you are. Let me remind you of your divinity. Immaculate Sita will be reunited with you in Heaven for she is none other than your consort, Lakshmi. Do not grieve. Take delight in your children and listen to the rest of the tale of your life, which your sons will recite at dawn tomorrow. It is an exquisitely beautiful poem of a life that was ruled by dharma alone. You should be the first to hear it, for it is about you. O Rama! You are not just the foremost of all kings but of all rishis.” With these words, Brahma vanished.

  Rama and his sons spent a night of anguish in the hut of sage Valmiki, grieving for Sita. Valmiki had the unhappy task of comforting all three of them. It is only to be expected that a poem that began with the bereavement of a female bird should end with the bereavement of the human couple. At that time when he had watched the male bird being shot down by the cruel arrow, Valmiki had felt as if he had been pierced by the same fatal arrow. How much more did he feel it now, when he saw the tortured king bemoaning his loss over and over again, throughout the long and lonely hours of an endless night?

  The next day, in front of the assembled crowd, Rama asked his children to chant the last portion of the epic. He then distributed wealth to all those assembled there—the Brahmins, the citizens, the tree dwellers, the cave-dwellers, and the night wanderers who had come from Lanka. The yaga was over, the people dispersed, and the jungle once more crept over the space that had been cleared for the function.

  Rama returned to Ayodhya and spent the rest of his life a lonely ascetic. Without Sita, life had no meaning for him. He never married again but kept the golden effigy of his lovely wife beside him, and he performed ten thousand ashwamedha yaga s in order to please his guru and the people.

  His rule was noted for its exemplary nature. The kingdom prospered and thrived and the citizens rejoiced. Rama and Sita had paid for this glory with their unceasing tears. They suffered so that the rest of the country could rejoice, blossom, and flourish. Never once did the citizens think that the price of their prosperity was the sacrifice of their queen—their land was watered with her tears, their happiness bought with her sorrow. She was the sacrificial offering, tied to the stake of their malice, banished to the forest of their poisonous tongues, and eventually swallowed in the chasm of their doubts! They rejoiced and sported with their wives while their king retired to his lonely chamber every night with only his memories for company. Rama carried on his duties for the rest of his life with his usual charm and adherence to dharma and showed a pleasant and happy face to all. Only Lakshmana knew that this was just a facade and inside he was burning with regret at what he had done to his queen and waiting for the day when he could join her in their celestial abode.

  After reigning for several years, Rama chose to leave this world. The gods, with Brahma at their head, came to him and said, “O Rama! You have fulfilled your destiny on earth. It is time for you to return to your divine abode.”

  “So be it,” said Rama. He was only too happy to leave this world, which offered no joys to him without Sita.

  Brahma continued, “Kaala, the spirit of Time, cannot enter your portals, which are guarded by Hanuman, so send him away.”

  Rama bowed his head. He then dropped his signet ring in a hole in the ground and requested Hanuman to bring it back. Maruti immediately dived into the hole to search for the ring. The search led him to the land of the serpents (Naga Loka). There he found a huge platter of rings, each exactly like the one worn by Rama. And here we find another version of the lesson learned earlier when the sage had dropped Sita’s ring in the water pot.

  The Naga King told him, “The wheel of time keeps turning, and each time it comes to the yuga known as Treta, Vishnu takes an avatara as Rama. Whenever his time on earth comes to an end, his ring falls here and he sends you to retrieve it. This is done to help you to accept the fact that your master’s time on earth is coming to an end.” Hanuman was filled with sorrow at the thought of his master’s approaching end, but he had to bow to the decree of the eternal law.

  In the meantime, when Hanuman was away, Kaala, the Time spirit, came to the palace in the guise of an old Brahmin. Rama was waiting for him. He had been waiting for a long, long time. He seated him on a golden seat and politely asked him what he wanted.

  “If you want to honor me and the gods, you will have to promise me that our meeting shall be private. Anyone who dares to interrupt us should be put to instant death.”

  “So be it,” said Rama. “Since Hanuman is not here, I’ll ask Lakshmana to guard the door so that we can be sure that no one will interrupt us.”

  He asked Lakshmana to take up the position of the doorkeeper, for anyone who dared to enter would be put to death. Then he returned to the ascetic and asked him to freely say wh
atever he wished to say without fear of interruption.

  “Listen, O king,” said the spirit of Time, “I have been sent by Brahma to recall you to your heavenly abode. Your time on earth is over. You have accomplished all that you have set out to do. You are Vishnu! The Eternal, the Immutable, the all-pervading protector of the universe. Your stay among the mortals is over. It is time now for you to return to your heavenly abode.”

  Rama smiled and said, “I am honored by your visit and happy with your message. I will do as you say.”

  Just as they were talking, Durvasa the short-tempered sage arrived and demanded an immediate audience. Lakshmana politely barred the way and declared that he had strict orders that no one should be allowed to enter as Rama was giving a private audience to someone. Hearing this, the sage lost his temper and shouted, “Announce my presence immediately or else I shall curse you and your brothers and your whole race, as well as the land of Kosala, so that nothing and no one remains to tell the tale!”

  Lakshmana thought for a minute and decided that it was better to sacrifice his own life for the sake of the country, and so he went in and announced the arrival of the sage. Rama was horrified to see him but went out immediately to attend to the needs of the sage.

  He asked the sage politely what he wanted and was told that since he had just ended a fast that had lasted for a hundred years, he wanted to be fed sumptuously. Rama saw to it that he was fed lavishly. Durvasa was immensely pleased and showered his blessings on the land, instead of his curses, and returned to his ashrama. Now Rama remembered the promise he had made to Kaala and went inside with bowed head, lost in thought. Was this going to be the last sacrifice? Was he being asked to sacrifice his beloved brother, his alter ego, at the altar of dharma ?

  Lakshmana knew what was passing through his mind and said cheerfully, “Brother! Do not hesitate. Kill me this minute. I am prepared for it. I thought it better for me to die rather than that the whole country be cursed by the sage as he threatened to do. If you wish to abide by dharma, then kill me, O King! One who does not keep his word will go to hell. In order to keep our father’s word, you were prepared to forgo a kingdom. What am I compared to that?”

  Rama spoke not a word but summoned his priests and ministers and asked them to advise him, for he had promised the ascetic that anyone who interrupted him would be executed, little realizing that this was going to be his final test.

  The priests and ministers were silent since they knew the agony that was passing through the king’s mind. At last Vasishta spoke. “If a king does not keep his word, dharma will be corrupted and the morals of the country will decline. But banishment can be given in lieu of death, so it is your duty to banish Lakshmana!”

  Lakshmana stood with his head thrown back, his eyes gazing fearlessly into Rama’s. Rama looked into those adoring eyes that had always regarded him with such love, looked at that beloved form he had known since childhood and that had followed him faithfully like a shadow that can never be parted. He knew that one need not die when parted from a shadow, but what about the shadow? Would it not come to an end when parted from the body? Pain flowed out of his eyes while love flowed from Lakshmana’s.

  “It does not matter, brother,” he whispered. “Command me to leave as sternly as you once ordered me to leave Sita in the forest.”

  Rama was in anguish. Over and over again he murmured, “Everything passes, everything perishes, nothing will remain. Time is all-powerful. Everything will be swept away in the powerful river of time. I have to abide by my promise; I have to be true to the only thing to which I have clung to all my life—dharma, the cosmic law. I have been tested time and time again and I have not failed. Let me not fail now.”

  He was facing Lakshmana but could not look into his eyes. Instead he fixed his gaze at a spot just above his head and said in an expressionless voice, drained of all emotion, “In honor of truth, in honor of dharma, in honor of the law I have always upheld, I banish you, O Lakshmana, forever. You shall never return to this land of Kosala again on pain of death!”

  Lakshmana looked lovingly at his brother, whom he had implicitly obeyed all his life and said, “My dearest brother, do not grieve. I have loved you all my life and obeyed you without a murmur. It shall be as you wish. Farewell! And once again fare thee well. We will never meet again in this life. Perhaps we will meet in Heaven.”

  So saying, he went thrice round Rama and prostrated himself to him; then, he went without a backward glance out of the gates of the palace. He proceeded to the banks of the swiftly flowing Sarayu River, which encircled Ayodhya like a girdle. The thought of a life apart from Rama was unthinkable. Death was preferable to such a life. He did not even consider it. Going to the Sarayu River, he sat in yogic contemplation on the banks. He gathered in his vital breaths, withdrew into his atman, and merged into the Brahman, the cosmic whole. Thus he sat in deep samadhi. Indra, the king of gods, sent his chariot and took Lakshmana, the fourth part of Vishnu, to heaven, where he became one with that essence.

  Back in Ayodhya, Rama knew that Lakshmana would never be able to live without him and he himself no longer cared to carry on a life which had ceased to have any meaning for him. He realized that, firm as he had been in his vows of dharmic discipline, he had been forced to part, one by one, from all those whom he held most dear. He had always known that life was only a dream, a drama in which he had been called upon to play a part. He had come to the end of his lines. The curtain was going up for the final scene and he had already been given his cue to quit the stage. He called his priests and ministers and announced his decision to them.

  “I hereby appoint Bharata as Lord of Ayodhya. The southern portion of this fair land of Kosala will be given to Kusha and the northern to Lava. I myself shall follow Lakshmana.”

  Both Bharata and Shatrugna refused to live without Rama and decided to follow him. Many of the citizens for whose sake he had sacrificed his all decided that they could not live in a land without their beloved king. Hearing of his decision to leave this world, the monkeys and the bears and Vibhishana from across the sea all arrived and begged to accompany him. Hanuman also arrived from the netherworld, where he had gone to get the ring.

  Rama said to Vibhishana, “O Lord of the rakshasas ! Stay on in Lanka and continue to perform your duty. Rule with dharma as your guide. Your kingdom will endure as long as I am remembered on Earth.”

  Turning to the bear Jambavan, he said, “O wise one! You shall continue to live on this earth until my advent as Krishna, scion of the race of Yadu. Until then, you shall suffer no defeat. When you meet one who is able to defeat you, then you will know that I have returned.”

  To the others, he said, “All those who wish to follow me may do so. This very day you will enter Heaven along with me.”

  “What about me?” asked Hanuman, with tears streaming out of his eyes.

  “Live long, O Noble Hanuman! Wherever my story is told, wherever the name of Rama is mentioned, you will be there to hear it. This story will be told as long as the sun and the moon shine, as long as people remain on this Earth, and as long as you are there to hear it!”

  Most of the people of Ayodhya followed Rama with love and devotion. Even the animals followed him, the cows and goats and elephants, not to mention the monkeys and bears. The very stones on the streets of Ayodhya wept, for they could not follow him, and the trees bent low and brushed his head while he passed. Every creature that could walk or roll or dance or totter followed him. Sumantra was waiting at the banks of the river with the four red horses that he had freed from the chariot. Guha, the hunter king, was also there. The whole procession wound its way to the pellucid waters of the Sarayu River, which circled the land of Kosala like a silver girdle. Rama walked into the icy waters of the river accompanied by all the rest. The waters closed over their heads like a benediction.

  Hanuman stood on the banks with closed eyes, from which poured tears in torrents while the heavens opened and the celestials rained flowers.

&n
bsp; Brahma spoke, “O gracious Vishnu! Be pleased to return to your celestial abode. Thou art the soul of all—indestructible, immutable and eternal. Be pleased to give up this form of maya and resume your swarupa [actual form].”

  As he finished speaking, out of the waters rose the incredibly beautiful form of Lord Vishnu, holding the discus, conch, mace, and play lotus in his hands. All those who had decided to join him also came out of the waters, endowed with celestial forms, and all rose up to the heavens as the music of the spheres floated down in the velvet twilight.

  With the ascension of Rama to his heavenly abode, the twenty-four thousand verses were complete. Back in the deserted city of Ayodhya, Lava and Kusha sang the final verses of the song, to an invisible audienc, the song known as the Ramayana, The Way of Rama, the first poem ever to be composed by the first of all poets—Valmiki.