by Ramesh Menon
One by one, lulled by the drone of the waves, the vanaras fell asleep. The moon rose regally behind them, over the shoulder of the mountain. Long after the last vanara soldier was asleep, the leaders of that force sat huddled together around Angada, deliberating in quiet voices the impossible task before them: to cross a hundred yojanas of water. Past midnight, when the moon was at his zenith, Angada, Hanuman, and the other chieftains also fell asleep. The beach presented a strange spectacle as Soma Deva passed above: wrapped in his spectral light, a teeming army of monkeys covered the white sands.
* * *
The next morning, the vanaras rose with the sun’s first rays slanting across their faces. They washed in the velvet sea, which lay like an interminable dream before them. There was no sign, even by daylight, of any southern shore to the ocean; no speck of island dotted the vacant horizon. Standing on the embankment, Angada raised his arms to call his people to him.
When they thronged around him, he said to them, “We are an ancient and magical race. Many of us have Devas for fathers and grandfathers. Some say the roots of the tree of the race of vanaras plunge deeper into time than those of the tree of men. I want to know who among you can leap across this yawning sea, find Sita, and leap back again? A hundred yojanas and death by drowning if you fail! Who can do it? Which of the vanaras will make the leap of faith?”
Only the dawn waves, washing ashore, answered him. Angada’s call echoed there and the sea seemed to mock him.
He cried again, “I know there are great heroes among you; why have you all fallen silent? Let us hear of your prowess, vanaras. Let us hear how far each of you can leap.”
Gaja of the monkey folk raised his voice above the ocean’s ceaseless roar. “I can leap ten yojanas!”
Gavaksha shouted, “With my ancestors’ blessing, I can leap twenty!”
Another vanara cried, “And I, thirty!”
Thus they shouted their abilities, one after another. Until one of the mightiest of them, Dwividha, cried, “I can jump seventy yojanas!”
Jambavan, the old king of the reekshas, the black bears, had journeyed from Kishkinda with the monkey force. Now he cried, “Once, I made a pradakshina around our Lord, the Dwarf Trivikrama of the three strides. And that was a great way indeed. Now the journey of my life draws near its end, and I stand on the brink of another ocean and another shore. Yet for Rama I will leap at least ninety yojanas, even at my age.” He paused in doubt. “But a hundred, I wonder if I can leap a hundred. But if need be I can try!”
Then Angada himself cried, “I can cross the hundred yojanas easily!” His monkeys broke into loud cheers. He held up a hand for silence. “But I don’t know if I can cross back again.”
Jambavan said, “Angada, my child, I am certain you can cross to Lanka and back. Why, I am sure you could fly a thousand yojanas. For aren’t you great Vali’s son? But this task is not yours. It is not for a crown prince to risk his life, leaping into a strange land ruled by a rakshasa.”
At once, Angada’s eyes welled up. He said gently, “I thank you for your love, Jambavan. But who else will make this gravest leap? And you know it must be made. What is our solution, wise one? You think of a way.”
Jambavan said quietly, “I shall, my prince.”
He turned to where a solitary vanara sat upon a smooth rock, outside the throng of monkeys around their leaders. Hanuman sat all alone, gazing out over the implacable waves.
20. The son of the wind
Jambavan said to the moody Hanuman, “Why, O Son of the wind, do you doubt yourself so much? But it is the curse of all the greatest. Those who cannot do a tenth of what you can, those who haven’t a shadow of your strength, stand up and boast about their prowess, while you sit here listening to them and say nothing. Hanuman, we need a hero to leap across the sea and bring glory to the vanaras.”
But Hanuman was so unconfident, he said with a nervous laugh, “You have too much regard for me, good Jambavan.”
“Do I indeed? Have you forgotten who you are, Vayuputra? Let me remind you of your ancestry, and let these monkeys hear who our modest Hanuman truly is. Once, Anjana, the apsara of heaven, was born as a vanari. She was so beautiful the wild wind was smitten by her. She could not resist him either, for their love was destined.”
Jambavan grew thoughtful. “Yes, just as it was destined that one day you would sit here on this shore, doubting yourself with all your heart. Even as Anjana lay in Vayu Deva’s coiling embrace, a voice spoke to her out of the sky: Anjana, a soul of matchless glory will be born as your son. He will have no equal in goodness or valor, wisdom or strength. Being his father’s son, he will fly more swiftly than Garuda!’
“You have forgotten who you are, Hanuman. You have forgotten how, when you were just a child, you leaped into the sky because you thought the sun was a fruit you could eat. You flew three hundred yojanas into the air. Indra thought you were arrogant, and flung his thunderbolt of a thousand joints at you. But, Son of the wind, the awesome weapon merely grazed your cheek: for Brahma had blessed you to be immune to every ayudha. When the vajra fell away tamely, your people named you Hanuman: Invincible One.
“Vayu was incensed at Indra and he would not blow at all through the three worlds. At last, Indra realized it was only a child’s fancy and not arrogance that had made you leap up like that. He was so charmed by your leaping for the sun that, laughing aloud at the thought, he also blessed you. He blessed you that you can summon your own death, like a servant, whenever you choose!”
Hanuman had risen beside Jambavan on that golden beach. Every word the king of bears said seemed to sever a link in the chain that bound his spirit. His eyes shone; his back was very erect. Hanuman smiled, and his doubts left him like mist before the sun.
Jambavan continued, “We stand not just on the shore of a sea, but at the brink of despair. You are Vayu’s son, powerful as the wind himself. Don’t hesitate, Hanuman: fate is calling you to make your name immortal. You are our hope; only you can save us all from death. Shed your unconfidence; your moment of glory has arrived.”
There was a stirring of air above them. The vanaras sensed another implacable presence there. They huddled together and whimpered in fear. But caressed by his father’s subtle fingers, Hanuman began to grow before the monkeys’ eyes. His body shone with uncanny splendor and, moment by moment, as if Jambavan’s words had unleashed the mahima siddhi, Hanuman grew bigger, and bigger still! As he grew, his expression also changed: from despondency to one of imperturbable joy. Now grown into a gigantic savior of his race, he smiled benignly down at the astounded vanaras.
He was tall as a hill; he was bright as the morning. He growled deep in his throat and shook his body like some unimaginable lion. The vanaras clutched at one another for comfort. They no longer saw Sugriva’s wise and gentle, faithful and quiet minister Hanuman. This was another elemental being who towered over them, his great eyes glowing. This was Hanuman, the wind’s magnificent son; and the challenge of the sea was no longer as daunting as it had seemed.
He was titanic already. Still he grew, until it seemed to the monkeys, dwarfed at his feet, that the sun would ignite his mane. He was like some great flame, and he bowed to the monkey elders and to his prince Angada. When he spoke to them, his voice was thunder.
“Agni’s friend Vayu is powerful,” boomed that immense vanara. “He is tameless, and he pervades the universe. I am that Vayu’s son. No one can leap as far as I can. I can fly a thousand times around Mount Meru. I can fly around the world with the moon!”
It was as if a stranger spoke in their Hanuman’s voice. The ocean trembled when he cried, “Do you know the strength of these arms with the sinews of the wind in them? I can thrust the mountains down into the earth and plunge the jungles into the sea. I can crush the greatest peaks into dust with my hands. And I, Hanuman, serve my Rama!”
The stupendous monkey smiled from ear to ear. “And now I will fly across this little sea to find Sita. I will cross the waves in a moment and carry
her back to safety. If need be, I will draw Lanka up by its roots and bring it to Rama. I go now, I go!”
No monkey stood on that shore who was not slightly relieved that he went. Though he was always kindly, he was so awesome now they could not help being afraid of him. Yet they also rejoiced. Seeing him like that, they had no doubt that wherever she was, Hanuman would find Sita. It seemed that he was always intended to find her, none but he. Only he had to be pushed to the edge of despair before he summoned this other Hanuman from within himself: this pristine vanara who neither doubted nor knew the meaning of fear.
Jambavan, who alone was old enough not to be overwhelmed, cried, “We will wait upon this shore for you, Son of the wind. Remember our lives are in your hands.”
Hanuman smiled. “Fear not, uncle, great Jambavan. My prince Angada, give me leave: I go now to find Sita in Lanka. But the soft ground will be riven if I leap from here. I must climb to the top of Mahendra where the rock is firm for a thousand hands. From there I will fly and cause the earth no injury.”
With a few strides, climbing nimbly as monkeys do, he gained the summit he sought; his people stood on the beach below, watching him. He waved from his height, and it seemed to them he was bigger than the mountain. Far away were the eyes of the son of Anjana and the wind: in his mind, he had already reached Lanka and discovered Sita. With each foot on a different peak, he straddled Mahendra. Hanuman stood, swaying in his father’s lofty gusts, whistling around him in exhilaration. Back and forth he swayed, readying himself for the leap of a hundred yojanas across the plumbless sea.
BOOK FIVE
SUNDARA KANDA
{Hanuman’s adventure}
1. The leap of faith
Hanuman was a tremendous beast, straddling the Mahendra. As he craned toward the sky, the sinews on his neck and back stood out like cobras. Restlessly, the son of the wind paced the mountaintop. Tigers, bears, and leopards that lived near the summit scurried out from their caves and fled down the mountain: this was not a monkey they would care to contend with. Mahendra, which stood unmoved by tidal wave and typhoon, shuddered beneath Hanuman’s footfalls. Elephants blundered down the slopes. Gandharvas and kinnaras who lived in some of the caves flew into the air in flashes, or fled with the animals.
The mountaintop swirled with gusts of wind, as Vayu enfolded his son in his airs. No one had made this leap before; only birds had ever gone this way to Lanka. Hanuman saluted the Lokapalas, the guardians of the four quarters: he worshipped Surya, Indra, Varuna, and Kubera with folded hands. Again he turned to the east and worshipped his father Vayu. He thought of Rama and Lakshmana; he prayed to them in his heart. He paid obeisance to the holy spirits of the rivers, and the mother of them all, the ocean. He worshipped Varuna Deva.
The trees on Mahendra shook at Hanuman’s advent and the mountainside was covered with a colorful mantle of flowers that fell from their branches. Still, Hanuman grew. As he paced the mountain’s summit, rocks cracked under his feet, while the peaks echoed with his quest for an unyielding place from which to launch himself. Smoke issued from those cracks.
Cowering in caves in the lower reaches for terror of the monkey a hundred hands tall, the animals of Mahendra gave throat to their fear. Some roared, some bayed, some howled; but they all huddled together: tiger and deer, elephant and panther, the great bears of those hills, Jambavan’s cousins, and hissing, venom-spitting serpents. A thousand flights of birds flew screaming from their nests in caves and crannies, and the sky was full of their dark wheeling alarm. On the mountain’s summit, Hanuman paced and paced, gathering himself.
It is said even the rishis of Mahendra scuttled off that massif, and secret vidyadharas flew into the sky and hovered there like strange birds to watch Hanuman’s leap. Then the awesome vanara stood still on a spot that did not give below his feet, as if it had once been created just for him. He turned his face to the sky and roared like the wild creature he was, lord of them all, while above him the sky recoiled at the sound. Behind him, longer than the longest hamadryad pulled out of its hole by Garuda, his tail coiled and twitched with life of its own. Far below on the seashore, Angada’s vanaras stopped their ears with their hands.
When the echoes of his roar had died away, suddenly Hanuman squatted down, his hands resting on two jagged peaks beside him. He thrust his neck out at the sky. He shook the final shred of doubt from his head and turned his eyes across the endless sea. He drew a deep, deep breath and crouched, quivering in readiness.
“God speed, Hanuman!” the vanara army cried from below.
He thundered at them, “Like an arrow from Rama’s bow I fly to Lanka! If Sita is not there, I will fly to Devaloka to seek her.”
A clap of thunder rent the air and the vanaras below saw the most amazing sight they ever had: swift and steep as a thought, gigantic Hanuman rose into the firmament. With him, pulled up by their roots by his velocity, rose a thousand flowering trees, as if to see him off on his auspicious journey and keep him company part of the way. Then their flowers fell out of the sky in a cascade, an enchanted shower onto the calm sea. The waves washed ashore in every color imaginable, and they carried their soft cargo to the sands at the feet of Angada and his army.
But above them, Hanuman did not fall back to the earth. Up he flew and away, carried by the power unleashed by his mighty legs and arms, borne on the swift currents of his father the wind: truly like the manavastra of Rama of Ayodhya. They heard the peals of his exhilarant laughter, floating down like more blooms from the sky.
Like a thundercloud sped along by a tempest, Hanuman flew through the air. His arms were stretched before him like two streaks of lightning. The Devas saw his flight and gathered on high to watch. On flashed the vanara, and they whispered among themselves in awe, the immortal ones. They said he might swallow the very sky with his cavernous mouth. Hanuman’s shadow on the placid ocean was thirty yojanas long, as he flitted across the firmament like a mountain in the days before Indra sheared their wings.
Through fleecy clouds, like a plunging moon he flew; and eager for his success, the Devas showered unearthly petal rain over him. Not wanting him burned, the sun shone softly on his back as he arrowed along. And, of course, his father Vayu held him precious in his arms, heart to heart. Never before had he felt his son so near him, so much his own, and he sped him on with a timely gust.
Varuna, the ocean below, watched Hanuman’s flight and thought, “I would not exist, but for the Ikshvaku kings; and this monkey flies on a mission for the finest prince of that line. I will give him a place to rest on, and then he can gain his destination with ease.”
Varuna summoned Himalaya’s son, Mainaka, who lay submerged deep below his waves. The Lord of waters cried to the mountain, “Rise up into the air; become a resting place for Hanuman.”
That legendary mountain, with the peak of gold for which he was called Hiranyanabha, plowed up like another sun rising out of the sea, and stood gleaming in Hanuman’s path. But the son of the wind thought Mainaka was a demoniacal obstacle and, with a nudge of his chest, thrust him aside. Suddenly, Mainaka’s spirit appeared on his golden pinnacle, refulgent before the flying vanara.
Mainaka cried to the monkey, “Varuna bade me rise to be a resting place for you. The Lord of waves would like to be of use to you, Hanuman, and to the prince of the House of the Sun whom you serve. Your father Vayu saved me from Indra’s vajra, when the Deva king severed the wings of all mountains. The wind hid me under the ocean when Indra hunted my kind. Look!” And silver wings shimmered behind that resplendent being. Mainaka said again, “Come, Hanuman, rest a while upon me. Then you can fly to Lanka from my summit.”
Hanuman replied, “I am moved by your love and by the ocean’s kindness. But my time is short and I have none to rest. Farewell, good mountain, we shall meet again someday.”
Hanuman waved to the golden one. As Mainaka sank under swirling waves again, the vanara streaked on through the sky. But then the Devas of light are never content to leave any hero unt
ested in his most difficult hour. They called Surasa, who is the mother of all serpents.
The Devas said, “We want to see how great this monkey really is. He is the wind’s son; just this leap is too easy for him. But we can test his mettle if he finds someone dreadful in the sky barring his way. Become a rakshasi in the air, Surasa. Let us see how worthy Hanuman truly is.”
Soon, spread across the sky like a thunderstorm, Hanuman saw a rakshasi who dimmed the brightness of the sun. She grinned, baring fangs big as hills. She licked her lips when she saw him, and bellowed, “How hungry I have been! But here comes a fair feast, flying into my mouth. Come to me, little ape, and be my lunch.”
Hanuman folded his palms to the awful one. He said humbly, “Devi, I am on a sacred mission. On my way back I will fly into your mouth. You have my word.”
But she cried, “By Brahma’s boon no one can pass me without going through my mouth! Brahma’s boon shall not prove false.”
She yawned her mouth wide as the horizon. Exasperated, Hanuman cried, “Rakshasi, your mouth is too small to contain me. Open wider, so I can fit in it.”
She yawned her firmament of a mouth still wider; she let it gape a hundred yojanas. In a flash, Hanuman was the size of a man’s thumb and, before the demoness realized what was happening, he flashed in and out of her plumbless maw. Outside its darkness again, Hanuman grew vast once more.
He bowed to Surasa. “I flew into your mouth. Now let me pass.”
Surasa laughed; she liked this clever monkey in the sky. She cried to him, “Pass in peace, Hanuman, it was only the Devas testing you. May your journey be fruitful; may all your missions succeed.”
She vanished out of the sky and Hanuman flew on. His path was many thousands of feet high. It was the skyway of the birds he flew along, the subtle path of rishis and gandharvas. Vayu had wafted his son up to where he flew as swiftly as he wished. It was damp today, the celestial skyway, and raindrops fine as dew moistened his face pleasantly as Hanuman flashed along.
