The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

  They ran to the river, but she was nowhere on its banks. The trees seemed to droop around them; the deer were forlorn and the flowers all sorrowful. Rama, unhinged, went up to the trees.

  “Have you seen her?” he cried to the kadamba and the tilaka, the asoka, the karnikara and the kritamala. But they stood mute, on the eloquent verge of speech.

  He cried to the grieving deer, “She loved you so much. She must have bid farewell to you before she went.” But the deer could not speak either. He looked at them, his tears welling over. “Her eyes are like yours,” he said, and stroked their faces.

  Grief making his movements stiff, he turned to Lakshmana. “I cannot live without her! But I can’t die either: my father in heaven will not look at my face, because I did not protect Sita.”

  Lakshmana took him in his arms, and Rama sobbed against his brother’s shoulder. Lakshmana stroked his head: “Don’t give in to sorrow like this. I am sure she is not dead. This is such a vast forest; she may be hidden in any of a hundred caves. We must not despair, or all will surely be lost. Instead, let us search for her. Calm yourself; dry your eyes and be brave again.”

  Through his tears, Rama gave him a wan smile. He heaved a sigh and said, “You are right; we must not let despair conquer us.”

  “She could not have gone far, or been taken far,” Lakshmana said. “It hasn’t been long since I left her.”

  Again they searched the asrama for any sign of Sita. They sought her among the trees and on the riverbank. They looked for her in the cave where Lakshmana and she had sheltered when Rama razed Khara’s army. They called her name, many times; but there was no response. Exhausted, they came back to the asrama and sat sunk in despair.

  Rama’s face twitched with anxiety. It was not radiant any more, but like the face of a corpse, ashen. His body was limp. At that moment he would have made easy prey, had anyone chosen to attack him. Sighs came from him like his very breath; his tears flowed.

  Rama said, “Lakshmana, there is no greater sinner than me, that I am punished like this repeatedly. Who knows what I may have done in my previous lives to suffer such torment in this one? I have lost my kingdom, my father, and my family. My sorrow had just grown quiet in the peace of the forest, when now … Look, we used to sit on this slab of rock, she and I. We spoke of everything under the sky: about love and time, life and death, sorrow and dharma. No, she could not have gone to the river for water, or to the woods to gather flowers. She was too timid, my brother. We must face the truth: a rakshasa has taken her.”

  Panic took him again, and once more he ran to the edge of the woods. He cried out for her as a wild creature to its lost mate. But only the silence of the Dandaka vana answered him.

  Lakshmana was terrified to see his serene Rama like that. It was so far from his nature, his brother feared he might lose his reason altogether. The younger prince put an arm around the older and led him back to the rock seat. He said, “Show me your fortitude now, Rama, or we are both lost. Let us seek her with patience and courage, and we will find her.”

  But Rama still had a faraway look in his eye. Jumping up, he cried, “There she is! I saw her behind that asoka tree. Quick, Lakshmana, before she gets away.”

  When they found no Sita there, he sent his brother to the river again. Twice Lakshmana went and returned, shaking his head. Then Rama went himself to the Godavari, and cried in anguish, “River, did you see where my Sita went? Tell me, who has taken my love from me?”

  But the river only flowed, sorrowing. She could see into his destiny and she had no part to play in it. Rama cried to the deer and the trees around the asrama. But they only stood drooping with sadness and dared not say anything for fear of Ravana.

  Rama howled, “When my father died, Sita was with me and I could bear the grief. For her smile made me forget everything else. But now what will I do? Who will keep my heart from breaking? Lakshmana, I can’t live without her.”

  His brother winced to see Rama in such torment. But there was little he could do, save wait for him to recover some composure. Then some deer, which had been friendly with Sita, came and nuzzled their heads in Rama’s hands. He caressed them blindly, crying, “Look at their eyes: they have something to tell us!”

  In quaint chorus, the deer pointed their long faces to the southern sky, to show where Sita had gone. Quickly they lifted their heads, to show that she had been borne away like the wind. Numb with grief, Rama did not understand at first. But Lakshmana cried, “South! She was taken south and through the air. Rama, we must go that way.”

  They did not pause to think any more. Rama embraced the deer and the brothers set off toward the south.

  18. Wrath

  Scanning the trees and the undergrowth along the way, the princes came south in search of Sita. At the edge of the asrama, Rama pointed to some lotus petals that lay crushed on the earth. He whispered, “She was taken this way. I gathered these lotuses for her this morning, and she wore them in her hair.”

  Then his eyes rolled in his head and madness seized him again. Rama raged at the mountain, “Say where she went, silent witness, or I will crush you with an astra!” His eyes blazing, he turned to Lakshmana: “I will consume the river; I will smash the mountain into dust. Watch me, my brother: I will burn up the earth!”

  He drew an awesome shaft from his quiver, an astra made of the fire that ends the stars, and began to fit it to his bowstring. Just then Lakshmana pointed to the ground with a cry. They saw splayed footprints in some soft earth where Ravana had trodden. Rama forgot his fury, and Lakshmana cried out again: ahead of them lay the Rakshasa’s broken sky chariot and his dead mules, mutilated by Jatayu.

  They saw blood everywhere, in great splashes. Rama breathed, “There was more than one rakshasa. They fought over her and devoured her.”

  Lakshmana said, “Look here.”

  On the ground, riven by Jatayu’s beak, lay Ravana’s gold-inlaid bow, the fire of its jewels put out. Rama picked it up and examined it. He said in amazement, “Only a great warrior could wield this bow.”

  They saw the white parasol that lay rent and broken. Rama breathed, “Sita was taken by a king.”

  Then they saw Ravana’s sarathy, dead on the ground. “A rakshasa,” whispered Rama, his courage ebbing from him. “We were right; it was a conspiracy of demons. But which king flew here in a mule chariot to abduct Sita?”

  Lakshmana only stared mutely at his brother; the tragedy was plain to him. Rama said slowly, “If they meant to avenge the death of Khara and the slaughter of his army, they have succeeded beyond their greatest hopes.” He laughed bitterly. “I cannot live without her, Lakshmana. I will kill myself.” He grew silent and his face was dark. A rare glitter in his gentle eyes, Rama said, “Do you remember what you said to me that day in Ayodhya, after Kaikeyi had banished us?”

  “How can I forget the day that changed our lives?”

  “You said I was too soft, and I think you were right. That day I kept dharma in the face of all Ayodhya. From that day my family and, I think, even the Gods who rule our fates mistook my gentleness for cowardice: that now they allowed my Sita to be taken from me.

  “But from today, I will be another man. Lakshmana, the softness of the moon will give way to the blazing heat of the sun. The rakshasas of the world will feel my wrath; the Devas, the gandharvas, and the yakshas will know who Rama is. I will burn up the earth; I will make ashes of heaven. I will dislodge the planets from their orbits, and consume fire and air. I will drain the sea with my astras. The darkness of eternal night will be complete, for I will put out all the stars in the sky!”

  He was transformed before his brother. Rama became more awesome than he had been when he humbled stormy Parasurama; again he was more God than man. Lakshmana fell at his feet. “Rama, this rage does not suit you. Your emotions have always been your slaves. But now your anger rules you and I am afraid. I beg you, calm yourself; be gentle again. I dare not look at your face for what I see in it. The footprints on the earth are
still fresh; I am sure Sita isn’t dead. We will find her, if we only look for her.”

  But Rama stood above him, breathing hard. Lakshmana cried, “If we do not find her, you can burn up the earth. But at least let us look.”

  Rama seemed undecided what he wanted to do first: look for Sita or consume the world. His eyes were still full of pale light, and Lakshmana said, “You bore your sorrow like a kshatriya when our father banished you from Ayodhya. That fortitude was kingly. But if you succumb like this to grief, how will your subjects rely on you?

  “Rama, who among the living has not had to bear suffering? Great Nahusha was made a python for a thousand years. Yayati was cast out of heaven. Even Viswamitra lost a hundred sons in just a day. The earth is convulsed by quakes and eruptions. The sun and the moon, the eyes of the universe, are eclipsed by Rahu. No one escapes fate’s ordeals. But how often you have said to me that one should not let one’s mind be broken by them.

  “You, of all men, must never give in to sorrow. Be yourself again, Rama. How can you think of burning up the world for one man’s sin? You should seek out the sinner, and consume him with your wrath.”

  Rama heaved a sigh, and the darkness left his face. Next moment, he hugged Lakshmana and there were tears in his eyes. “What would I do without you? You have shown me the way of dharma and I will do as you say. But anguish roils me and I cannot think clearly. Be the thinker for both of us: decide our next course, until I am calm again.”

  Lakshmana said, “Let us first comb Janasthana for some sign of Sita. If we don’t find her, we will go south as the deer said to.”

  19. Jatayu dies

  Rama struggled with a God’s wrath, maddening him so he wanted to raise his bow and end everything. But when he looked at Lakshmana, leading the way resolutely, he swallowed his anger like bile.

  Lakshmana walked ahead toward Janasthana. His eyes scoured the bushes, the ground, and the trees for any sign that might help them, any sign at all of Sita. Suddenly he gave a shout; they had come to a clearing where Jatayu lay dying. He was like a little hillock, drenched in crimson, unrecognizable. His blood was everywhere, seeping vividly into the earth. Quick as thinking, Rama drew an arrow and would have killed Jatayu had Lakshmana not caught his arm.

  “It is the rakshasa who killed Sita!” cried Rama. “He is bathed in her blood.”

  But Lakshmana said, “It is Jatayu and he is dying.”

  Rama ran forward and took the eagle in his arms. Jatayu bent his head to ask the prince to listen to him. He could barely speak, and he had hung on by a last thread of his life, just so he could see Rama before he died. His eyes were bright with death, and blood flowed from his beak as he spoke in an agonized whisper. “Don’t waste your time in this forest, Rama; the one who killed me has taken Sita far from here. It was Ravana who took her when you were away.” His dying eyes grew wistful. “I fought him in the air. I broke his chariot so he plunged down to the earth. But he is fell and strong. He hewed off my wings with his sword and flew up into the sky with her.”

  Rama wept; tenderly he stroked the great bird’s face. “Jatayu, noblest friend, you are dying for my misfortune. Why did Ravana take Sita? I have done him no wrong. Who is Ravana, Jatayu? What does he look like? Where does he live?”

  Jatayu said, gasping, “He was like a black tempest and he carried her through the sky. He went south, child, south.” The eagle’s eyes closed in exhaustion. Opening them again, he said, “Hold me in your arms, Rama. My eyes have lost their vision and I am going now.” He paused, breathless, then said, “It was the hour of vinda when Ravana carried Sita away. Anything lost at that time will always be found again. You will have Sita back from the Rakshasa. You will kill him and have her back. He is Visravas’s son, Kubera’s brother…”

  Then life had gone from Jatayu; he was dead in Rama’s arms. Rama whispered, “Jatayu gave his life to keep his word of protection. Only a father would die like this for his child. Collect some wood for me, Lakshmana, so I can cremate him with honor.”

  With the eagle’s body in his arms, Rama walked slowly toward the Godavari. Lakshmana made a bed of darbha grass on the ground and Rama laid Jatayu upon it. Lakshmana fetched dry branches and twigs and covered the corpse.

  Rama said solemnly, “Foster father, king of birds, may you fly straight into the heaven meant for the greatest tapasvins. Noble Jatayu, I, Rama, give you the freedom of that realm.”

  He kindled the pyre by rubbing two arani twigs together, and offered anjali to the departed soul. He offered pinda to pacify the spirits of the manes; he recited the slokas for srarddha. The brothers bathed in the Godavari and, standing in the river, offered tarpana for Jatayu. The great eagle rose into the Swarga of the most exalted rishis.

  20. Kabandha

  Jatayu’s death, and cremating him, made Rama forget his anger. Even the grief of Sita’s disappearance mellowed when he saw the golden eagle had died for her sake. Rama grew quieter and more determined. Lakshmana’s terror subsided with his brother’s brief madness. But he would never forget how fearsome his gentle Rama had been during the moments when he wanted to burn the earth. Lakshmana heaved a sigh of relief: he had no doubt his brother could consume the world.

  They went south now, and a joyless journey they had without Sita. They missed her lively observations about this mighty tree and that tiny flower, and the little deer with eyes too big for his face. She was not with them to make the jungle come alive with the miracle of her endless fascination, and the Dandaka vana was a wan place, as forlorn as the princes themselves. Wrapped in gloom, they marched on. Though his tread was firmer now, not a word did Rama speak. Lakshmana walked in silence at his side, his eyes alert for any further sign of Sita.

  They walked three krosas from Janasthana and came to the jungle called Krauncharanya. This was a black forest, with hardly a sunbeam breaking through the dense thatch of branches and leaves above. Often, they saw glowing eyes staring at them from behind a great tree trunk or a black thicket, as they went cautiously along. Their bows were fitted with arrows, ready in their hands. Their progress was slow because they stumbled along mainly through pitch darkness. Frequently, they sat on a convenient tree root or a smooth rock to rest. This was a dangerous jungle, and they needed all their wits about them to pass safely through it.

  They went three krosas, laboriously, through that densest of vanas; while nameless creatures moved unseen through the thick undergrowth beside them, and above them through the matted branches. Then they saw sunlight ahead and came out into the open. They stood in a clearing, shading their eyes from the glare, until slowly their vision adjusted itself to the sun.

  They saw a cave before them, and at its mouth stood a rakshasi gazing at them with interest. In fact, she stared just at Lakshmana. When she saw the princes noticed her, she detached herself from the cave mouth and came ambling toward them with long strides. She was all smiles and fluttering eyelashes.

  Laying a hand on him enticingly, she said in her coarse, mannish voice to Lakshmana, “I am Ayomukhi. Come into my cave, fair stranger, I am a mistress of love. Let us range the green jungle and the hill slopes of Krauncharanya together, making love by daylight and darkness, moonlight and starlight.”

  She stroked his cheek; she let her hand rove over his chest. With a cry of rage, Lakshmana drew his sword and lopped off not just her nose and ears, but her heavy breasts as well, and she fled shrieking and gushing scarlet into her cave. They walked on into the jungle before them, forbidding as the one they had emerged from. They crept forward, with Ayomukhi’s howls ringing in their ears.

  Abruptly, Lakshmana stopped in the dark. He whispered to Rama, “My left side throbs and my mind is full of fear. Something evil lies in wait not far ahead.”

  A vanjulaka bird cried its thin, lilting cry. Rama touched his brother’s arm: “By the omen of the vanjulaka’s call, we will overcome whatever it is.”

  More carefully than ever, they crept along through the darkness. Ahead of them the forest thinned an
d again some light shone through. They went gingerly toward the light; the feeling of threat was now a palpable thing. Then two enormous hands flashed out from the trees like lightning and seized them. Dragged over leaves, scraping against tree trunks and branches, struggling but held firm, they were hauled a long way toward brightness and the strangest monster they had ever seen.

  He was mountainous. But he had no head or legs, just a huge barrel of a trunk with these arms, nearly a yojana long, attached to it. A single gigantic eye was set in the middle of his hirsute body. Below it was a fanged maw All around the rakshasa were splashes of blood, and bones picked clean, and the intestines and skins of creatures he had eaten, among them deer and boar, elephant and tiger. The giant eye regarded them hungrily and the slavering mouth grinned. The creature’s breath was a fetid roar.

  He said in a thick lisp, “Kabandha is lucky today. Long time since Kabandha has eaten human meat.”

  He licked his lips and, yawning his mouth wide, its stench unbearable, he brought his captives slowly toward it. He paused and manipulated his fingers, each one thick as a young tree, to loosen the deerskin and valkala they wore. These he did not want to eat. Momentarily, the princes’ arms were free. Quick as light, they drew their swords and hacked off Kabandha’s hands at their wrists.

  His eye rolled in shock; his roars shook the jungle. Kabandha lived by hunting with his hands and his eye, for he had no legs. But life went out of him now, with the gushers of blood from his severed wrists. His eye streamed tears and, through the rest of his screaming, he cried shrilly at them, “Who are you, humans? Who are you?”

  The younger prince said, “We are Rama and Lakshmana. And who are you, awful one?”

  A bitter laugh came from Kabandha. He blinked his eye several times in some deep remembrance. At last, in a voice transformed, he said, “It is my good fortune that brought you to me today. I think my long suffering is finally over. I was not always as ugly as you see me now, O Lakshmana. Once my name was Dhanu, and I was as handsome as Soma. And I was arrogant. I would frighten the rishis of the forest with my maya. I would assume one monstrous form after another, and roar at them from behind the trees.