by Ramesh Menon
In other antapuras slept strong-limbed kinnara women with high cheekbones, whose men are centaurs. In yet other apartments were chambers full of green and serpentine naga women, sinuously exquisite, with jewels embedded in their sleeping heads. It struck Hanuman that all these women were Ravana’s lovers. It did not seem to the vanara they were restrained here as captives; they slept much too languorously. Hanuman thought, what a king this Rakshasa must be! However grudgingly, he felt a stab of admiration for Ravana.
The little monkey shook his head at the ways of fate. Here was a sovereign who had delectable mistresses from every race in the three worlds; yet he chose to court death at Rama’s hands. And Hanuman believed that however impossible it might seem to him just now, death would come ineluctably for Ravana.
4. In Ravana’s antapura
On and on, through the maze of corridors in Ravana’s harem, tiny Hanuman wandered. Some had floors of marble, others of smooth glass, and yet others were tiled with tinted stone not quarried on earth. As he searched for Sita, wondering again what manner of rakshasa the Lord of Lanka must be for so many of the most beautiful women in the worlds to be in his antapura, Hanuman came to a taller door than all the others he had eased open tonight. Softly, he entered that apartment which was the only one in this wing of the seraglio.
The first chamber was a great living room, richly, tastefully furnished. No one was here. He tiptoed across its expanse and opened a door in the far corner. The vanara froze. Before him, in a bedroom as big as a court, upon a bed of crystal, ivory, and sandalwood, at the head of which he saw the white parasol of kingship, slept a rakshasa who could only be Ravana himself. He was darker than Hanuman had imagined; his sleeping presence was that of a thundercloud. Golden kundalas hung from his ears; his arms lay long at his sides, down to his knees. He was lean and powerful, with not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him. The clothes he slept in were of white silk, and the room was redolent with the sandalwood paste which had been massaged into his dark skin by women’s fine hands.
Hanuman went closer. A potent emanation of evil from the sleeping Demon touched him fiercely, and like a frightened little monkey, he scampered back a few paces. The Rakshasa’s arms lay like ebony pillars on the spotless sheets. That bed was made not just for one sleeper, but Ravana slept alone in it tonight. His breathing was slow and even; he slept deeply.
Hanuman raised his eyes past Ravana’s sleeping form. He saw there was another bed in the room, as beautifully wrought as the king’s was, but smaller. The chamber was dark and Hanuman could not see clearly. He crept around the first bed to the side of the second one. He sighed when he saw how beautiful the woman was who slept in it. Springing up onto the ivory headboard, he peered down at the sleeping queen, for so she must be.
She wore ornaments richer than any he had seen all this extraordinary night. The pearls she wore so carelessly around her neck were each a princess’s dowry. When Hanuman saw her skin was softly golden, he felt a surge of excitement: thus Rama had described Sita’s complexion to him. She was so beautiful that as he gazed at her, Hanuman grew convinced she was Rama’s love. The vanara slapped his shoulders in delight; he scrambled up and down the pillars of that room. Then he went back to awaken her. Luckily for him, a warning instinct restrained him.
Hanuman thought, “By her beauty she must be Sita. But how does she sleep so contentedly in Ravana’s bedchamber, with a smile curving her perfect lips?” He slapped himself again, across his cheek this time, as monkeys do. How, even for a moment, could he think that Sita would sleep in Ravana’s bedchamber? She would rather die! He was right. The breathtaking woman, who slept alone in her regal bed, was Mayaa’s daughter Mandodari. She was Ravana’s queen, a rakshasi. Realizing his mistake, Hanuman crept out of that apartment.
Dejectedly the little monkey wandered again through the palace. Hundreds of sleeping women he saw, but none of them was Sita. He wandered into the kitchen, big as mansions, and the wine cellar, which stretched on interminably, with casks, vats, and sparkling bottles, in row upon row, shelf upon shelf. Hanuman was unhappy about having gazed at the lovely mistresses of Ravana of Lanka; not all of them were fully clothed, and some wore nothing at all.
The vanara said to himself, “But my mind is not moved by what I see, not by all the nakedness, not by what I saw in the garden. It is the mind that sins, not the senses. And I am unmoved, though I realize how easy it would be for anyone to yield to temptation.”
Hanuman wandered out into the rambling gardens around the palace. His eyes roved everywhere, in some despair now; he had come this far, and nowhere yet was there any sign of Sita. Through exotic, steamy greenhouses Hanuman ranged, whimpering to himself now and again, every bit the lost little monkey. The moon had sunk low over the satin ocean and would soon set into burning silver-gold waves. He realized he had wandered for hours in vain. Tears welled in his eyes; the vanara grew awfully certain that Sita was dead. Perhaps, when she refused to give in to him, Ravana had killed her.
Hanuman was tempted to make the crossing back to Bharatavarsha by darkness, before the sun rose. But then what would Angada and Jambavan say, who pinned their hopes on him? He thought of the shame of failure, and Hanuman persuaded himself to stay on and to search again, more thoroughly. Once more, the little monkey combed Ravana’s palace. Scampering up and down the wide golden stairways, he searched all its floors of antapuras. He combed its gardens, its private arbors with their tonsured lawns, vibrant plants, and curling vines. He searched every inch of the palace; he even peered under the beds in each room to be quite sure he had not missed her. Yet no Sita did Hanuman find.
He thought, “Sampati the eagle said he saw her here from across the sea. Then where is she? Ravana must have killed her between then and now, and cremated her body. Or perhaps there are dungeons below the palace where he holds her. But I have looked everywhere, and I saw no sign of such a prison, or a stairway leading down to one.”
Hanuman perched on top of a round pillar on a flight of stone steps outside the palace, and sat hugging himself. Then he thought of Rama. How would he tell the prince that Sita was nowhere to be found in Lanka, that she was probably dead? He shivered at the thought.
“Rama will certainly kill himself,” moaned poor Hanuman. In misery, he wrapped his arms even more tightly around himself. He swayed from side to side, wondering what on earth he could do, short of putting an end to himself out here in Lanka. Wretched thoughts followed each other across his mind in a morbid procession.
“If Rama dies, Lakshmana won’t stay alive; he will also take his life. Bharata and Shatrughna will follow them, and so will their mothers. The glory of Ikshvaku, House of the Sun, will be extinguished forever. And the purpose of that handsome Demon, who sleeps so soundly in his bed of crystal and ivory, will be well served.”
He sighed, and again a serpentine evil seemed to reach out for him from the heart of the palace framed against the light of the setting moon. Hanuman’s train of brooding continued, “If Rama dies, Sugriva will kill himself for not having kept his word that he would find Sita. Then, Ruma and Tara will also kill themselves. When Tara dies, Angada will hardly stay alive. And all this because I failed them!”
Hanuman wanted to cry. As the moon sank into the sea on silver fire, he began to mumble to himself in despair.
“Even if Sita is dead, it is better that I never go back to Kishkinda. If I don’t return, they will at least live in hope; while if I do, their hearts will be broken. I will go into the jungle and take sannyasa. Or better still, I will take myself to an obscure corner of this island and set myself on fire. But they say it is a grievous sin to kill oneself, worse than murder.
“Whether I find Sita or no, Ravana I must kill for the grief he has caused. Or perhaps I should take him back to Kishkinda and let Rama deal with him.”
Now and again he craned his neck to watch the luminescent spectacle of the setting moon. As the last sliver sank under foaming waves, suddenly a dying beam of moonlight lit a hidden
copse at the very edge of his vision. Hanuman got up on to his toes and peered at the concealed wood. It was set cunningly in the shadow of the palace, so one could see it only as the moon set, by its last rays. At first, Hanuman did not peer with any great hope; by now, the night had taught him such despair he hardly dared let hope into his heart again.
But stretching on tiptoe, he saw there was certainly a grove of asoka trees below him. He decided he must investigate it, at least to satisfy his conscience. He slipped down from his pillar. As he scampered toward the hidden grove, the heaviness lifted away from his heart and a great, fresh hope surged through his body. Hanuman cocked his head from side to side, wondering. He silently invoked the eight Vasus, the eleven Rudras, the twelve Adityas, the seven Maruts; he solemnly saluted them all, begging their forgiveness if arrogance had entered his heart after his leap across the sea. With tears in his eyes, he begged them to lead him to Sita.
Hanuman prayed to Rama and Lakshmana; he prayed to Sita whom he had never seen. He bowed in the darkness to Indra, to his father Vayu, to Yama, Surya, and Soma. Then, cautiously, he began to seek a way into the asokavana. It took a while but he found one, craftily hidden between a flight of stone steps and a tall hedge. Hanuman crept along carefully. Though there were no rakshasa guards in Ravana’s harem, out here in the open he might well encounter a night patrol. He knew this was his last chance; a stirring breeze blew around his face.
The asokavana lay beyond the high wall that encircled Ravana’s palace. It stood between the palace and the sea. Thinking how beautiful Sita must be, Hanuman leaped up onto the wall. He saw the care with which that garden was maintained, its trees elegantly clipped and planted in the ground with knowing design. There were rare trees here, trees even he had never seen before. He saw those that were sons of ancient sires that grew in Indra’s Amravati: great plants that stirred Hanuman’s monkey’s heart and spoke to him in silent and primeval tongues of living leaf, twig, and blossom.
He jumped lightly down into the asokavana. At once, the heady scents of a hundred different kinds of night-blooming flowers swept over him. He looked up and saw birds in dense flocks roosting in the branches, their heads tucked under their wings. He saw tame deer sleeping curled up under the bushes and on the lawns. Koyals and peacocks Hanuman saw, and they, who were sensitive to the smallest sound, raised their heads in annoyance that an intruder had found his way in here. Little Hanuman saw the eyes of chital and sambur glowing nervously at him from the pitched night.
When the birds in the trees grew disturbed and flapped their wings in half-sleep, flowers from the branches where they roosted streamed down to the ground in scented showers. Hanuman stood covered in petals, a bright little mound. Smiling, he shook the flowers from his fur and crept on through the darkness. It could not be long before the sun rose behind him, and then he must either hide or flee.
Shaking those trees with strength quite disproportionate to his size, parting creepers and peering into the dark crypts behind their lattices, Hanuman went along, a little storm of quest through the asokavana. Ahead, he heard the murmur of flowing water. Peering by just starlight into the gloom, he saw a small stream frothing down a hillock that loomed in the night. This rivulet fed a handful of lotus pools, which reflected the canopy of stars above upon surfaces still as mirrors.
Like jewels those pools lay, banked with white sea sand. There were stairways leading down to them, made of deep slabs of unworldly turquoise. Viswakarman of Devaloka had created them and conceived their sublime arrangement. By now, Hanuman was so tired he had to sit somewhere and rest. He saw a shimshupa tree before him. Its branches hung low; the creepers that clung to it cascaded from its highest twigs in a stream of dim color.
Hanuman sprang up into that tree and sat among its middle branches, hugging himself again in disappointment, thinking that the surge of hope in his blood as he entered the asokavana had deceived him. The little monkey whimpered; but he refused to abandon his quest, telling himself that when the sun rose he would see Sita under the bowers of this asokavana. Hanuman sat staring around him and often up at the stars strewn across the sky like silver lotuses on another lake. He prayed fervently that his mission might still not prove futile.
5. The little temple
Exhausted by now, Hanuman told himself, “Rama said that Sita loves flowers, trees, and all wild things, deer, squirrels, and birds. He said she spoke to them as if she knew each one’s tongue. The stream is cool and pure. Perhaps she will come to touch its water and worship the sun at dawn.”
He whispered on to himself like this. He dared not relinquish hope; his very life hung by just that thread. Like many creatures of the jungle, he could see almost as clearly by night as by day. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Hanuman marveled at the great garden he had come into. It was at least as lovely as Indra’s Nandana or Kubera’s Chaitra. The night flowers seemed to bloom back at the stars unfurled in the sky above.
The scents, which were wafted on the night, reminded him of Gandhamadana, the fragrant mountain to which Hanuman had once gone during Sugriva’s long flight from Vali. Hanuman did not know this, but the scents of Ravana’s asokavana were heavenly because the plants, shrubs, and trees that grew here had sprouted from seeds brought down from Nandana and Chaitra themselves.
As his eyes saw the night more clearly, Hanuman peered out sharply from his perch. Ahead of him, glowing through the darkness, was a little temple supported by white pillars all around, its arches overgrown with ivy.
Hanuman shinned down his tree and crept toward that temple. He stiffened in surprise when his feet encountered smooth coral, cool in the night. He saw that the pathway leading to the domed edifice was paved entirely with slabs of the red stone of the sea. He saw the steps that led up to it were also of dark coral. As he drew nearer, he saw that the little shrine glowed by starlight because its outer walls had been gilded with molten gold.
He heard heavy breathing within, and gingerly he glided through the shadows right up to its entrance. He saw the flickering light of the torches, which dimly lit the cloister. He heard the sound of snoring, and then someone sigh softly. In a flash, Hanuman darted his little head round the arched ingress. His eyes grew round and his heart gave a lurch. Her yellow silk was soiled, her face was stained with tears, and she sighed from time to time amidst the rakshasis who lay asleep around her. But she shone in that shrine like a wafer of the moon, and there was no doubt in the vanara’s mind. This was Rama’s love, this was Sita!
She had not eaten properly for days. But if anything, her beauty was heightened by her plight; it smoldered like fire hidden by ashes. Her face was tear-stained and unwashed. But not for a moment could any of Ravana’s queens within their secure chambers, not even Mandodari by a long way, have held a candle to Sita. She had cast away all her ornaments and sat drooping like a wilted lotus. But she was the most beautiful woman Hanuman had seen, and would ever see.
Her great eyes were full of disbelief at what she now endured. Nothing in her sequestered past had prepared her for these brutal days and nights. Even as Hanuman watched, riveted, unable to tear his gaze from her, tears flowed down her face. Then, as if she sensed his presence in the shadows, she stiffened. She stared anxiously around her, and his heart nearly broke with the terror he saw in those gentle eyes.
Like a black snake, her hair trailed behind her, twisted into a single limp braid. Hanuman thought breathlessly, “Even like this she is more beautiful than I had imagined, more lovely than Rama described her as being. Though dirt and sorrow stain her face, the night shines with her beauty. Beloved of all the world is she who sits grieving on the bare ground because of the Rakshasa’s cruelty. Ravana must pay with his life for what he has done.”
His mind was a whirl. “Truly, she belongs with Rama; no other will do for her or for him. How do they live without each other? Their love is so strong it prevents them from dying of grief.”
A breath of that sorrow touched Hanuman’s imagination, and he
shivered. “Only Rama could stay alive after being separated from this Goddess.”
Hanuman thought worshipfully about Rama, as if only now, seeing Sita pining for him, did he begin to understand the prince of Ayodhya. He prostrated himself before Rama in his mind, and cried silently up at the stars, “Rama, Lord, I have found your Sita!”
Then he also fetched a deep, deep sigh, and said softly to himself, “Fate is powerful indeed. Look at Sita, so lovely, so chaste, and yet she suffers as the wicked never seem to. Ravana’s haughty queen sleeps peacefully in her bed and so does the Rakshasa himself. Rama and the mighty Lakshmana were her guardians in the forest, and still she was taken. Such are the ways of fate, irresistible; or, perhaps, such is the beauty of Sita.
“Vali died of this fate, or for her beauty, and Kabandha. Rama killed fourteen thousand rakshasas, when Surpanaka turned on Sita. For Sita’s sake I have leaped across an ocean, and I would not wonder if Rama stands the universe on its head for her; for she is the rarest jewel in all of it. Oh, nothing in the three worlds can compare with Sita’s beauty.”
Hanuman reflected on her character, more immaculate than her beauty. “She could have had any man or king, every luxury. She could have had the Devas at her disposal, had she been inclined to. But she followed Rama into the jungle, and she was happier there with him than she had ever been. Look at her now. What has she done to deserve the torment she suffers, the grief that savages her?
“She does not notice the charms of this asokavana. She is blind to everything save the vision in her heart, of Rama’s face.”
For a while he watched her weep silently. Then, fearful of the rakshasis who lay around her, and he saw two that were awake, he crept away into the night. Hanuman climbed back into his shimshupa tree. His heart overcome equally by pity and rage, and his body by great exhaustion, the little monkey fell asleep in a cleft branch of that tree.
