The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

“She is too succulent to be left alive.”

  “She torments our king. He neither wakes nor sleeps in peace.”

  “Let us cut her up and divide her soft flesh.”

  Sita jumped up and, stopping her ears, ran out of the little temple. She stood panting under an asoka tree like a fawn at bay. The pack of rakshasis still growled and raged.

  “Her flesh will be better for us to eat, than to warm Ravana’s bed.”

  “She is so vain she will be cold in his arms anyway.”

  “When he knows she is dead, he will come to his senses again.”

  “We will be doing him a service.”

  “If we are to die anyway, let us kill her first.”

  “Let us do it now; this folly has gone on too long.”

  The rakshasis streamed out of the little shrine with murder on their minds.

  “Rama!” Sita cried outside. “Lakshmana! O my mothers in Ayodhya! Why have you all forsaken me?”

  She saw the rakshasis advance on her, their eyes full of death. She moaned. When they were just a few feet from Sita, an older rakshasi called Trijata awoke from a strange dream. She came flying out of the little temple. She slapped two of the younger ones resoundingly. “Have you gone mad? Do you want to die a slow death in the king’s dungeons? Come away, you fools, and listen to what I have to tell you.”

  She was the strongest of them, their leader, and the ones she slapped whined. Trijata said, “Sita, come and hear what I dreamed.”

  Trijata had always been kind to Sita, since Ravana first brought her to the asokavana. As time wore on, and Sita resisted the Demon’s every effort to seduce her, Trijata’s kindness had grown into adoration. Now Sita was not averse to listening to the old rakshasi’s dream, though she would not go any closer to hear it, but stood wiping her tears, still shaking from her near escape.

  Her fierce eyes full of her dream, Trijata said, “I saw blue Rama clad in flowing white silk. He wore a garland of white lotuses, which were not of this world. Oh, he was handsome past imagining. He sat in a chariot of the firmament, an ivory vimana drawn by white swans. Our Sita wore royal white as well, and she sat beside him.

  “Then I saw Rama riding a four-tusked elephant, a son of Airavata. As glorious as his brother, Lakshmana rode beside him through a deep forest. Someone waited for them in a glade hidden in the heart of that forest. I saw her face; it was our Sita, and Rama and Lakshmana came to her in joy. Rama set Sita on his elephant and they flew through the sky, for the children of Airavata go that way.”

  The other rakshasis, who were impressionable and superstitious for all their fierceness, listened raptly to Trijata, their thick mouths hanging open. Under her tree, Sita thought Trijata’s dream had come like a Godsend to answer her prayer.

  The rakshasi went on, “In my dream, they flew to the gates of Lanka. I saw Rama in a golden chariot drawn by eight mighty bulls. As I watched him, he opened his mouth and swallowed the earth. I was terrified. Then there was an ocean of milk everywhere, and a pale mountain rose out of it, majestically. Rama set his elephant upon that mountain, and Lakshmana and Sita rode with him.

  “I saw Rama, resplendent, his body made of light, in a fabulous palace. He sat facing east on a golden throne. He was being crowned by an immortal rishi, and congregations of Devas and munis had gathered for his coronation. Sita sat beside Rama. It did not seem to me that throne was any of this earth, and I knew there was no throne in any of the three worlds loftier than the one on which dark Rama sat.”

  Lowering her voice to a whisper, Trijata said to her rakshasis, “Rama was Narayana himself, the Parabrahman, and this Sita was Lakshmi at his side. She is a Goddess, I tell you; don’t even think of harming a hair of her. There was unearthly music everywhere, like nothing I had ever heard before, and the host of Devas surrounded Rama and Sita.

  “I saw Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana again, in the pushpaka vimana, flying north through the sky.”

  Trijata paused. She glanced left and right to make sure no guard had entered the asokavana, no spy of Ravana’s. Gathering her rakshasis closer, draping her long arms around their shoulders, she said in the softest whisper yet, “I saw Ravana clad in red, karavira flowers around his neck and his body glossy with oil. I saw him fall screaming out of the sky from his vimana. On the ground, he wore black garments and he was dragged along by a dark woman. I saw him sitting in a chariot drawn by donkeys, and it went south, ever south. He drank oil from a bottle in his hands and laughed insanely, as if he had lost his mind.

  “I saw Ravana’s brother Kumbhakarna sink beneath the waves. I saw our king’s sons all slain.”

  Trijata was thoughtful for a moment. She resumed, “I saw Ravana’s other brother, the gentle Vibheeshana, and he shone like the sun at noon. He sat with the royal parasol unfurled above him; he wore the white silks of kingship and a crown upon his head. Vibheeshana came with his head bowed to Rama on his elephant.

  “By what I know of dreams, and they never lie, Rama will come to Lanka, kill Ravana, and take Sita back with him. Lanka’s great army will be razed.

  “Finally, just before I awoke, I saw a monkey, one of the vanara folk. He set fire to our Lanka and she burned down in ashes.”

  Open-mouthed still, the other rakshasis listened to her. Nearby, under her asoka tree, Sita sobbed quietly. Hearing Trijata’s dream made her cry for joy. It was as if Rama reached a hand across the sea and stroked her face.

  Sita’s left eye throbbed, as did her left shoulder, piquantly, and a current of enchantment coursed through her body. It was a long time since she had felt any hope at all. But now, though there was no sign of it except the old rakshasi’s dream, Sita thought rescue was nearer than she had imagined. She felt Rama had flown into the asokavana as a breeze and caressed her; she was certain it would not be long before he came for her.

  In his tree, Hanuman still thought Sita was about to do something drastic to herself. He felt impelled to comfort her. But how could he approach her without being seen by the rakshasis? Yet if he went back across the sea without speaking to Sita, the prince would be sad. He might even be angry and burn Hanuman up with a look. Worse still, if he did not bring some hope to Sita quickly, she might take her own life before Rama even landed on the shores of Lanka.

  “I am just a little monkey,” said Hanuman to himself. “Even if the guards see me, they will think I am harmless. I only hope Sita does not think I am Ravana, who has become a monkey to trick her into his bed.”

  He grew pensive indeed, as his imagination raced ahead of him. “If she thinks I am Ravana or some other rakshasa, she might scream. Then, surely, the rakshasis will come to capture me. If I am killed, Rama and Sugriva will never land on Lanka, because no one else can leap across the sea. All will be lost. I must be very careful; careful indeed, Hanuman. You do not realize what is at stake here, what awesome affairs of the world depend on you. You must not startle her, little monkey; you must be subtle.”

  Then, as if someone unseen decided to help him, an ingenious idea struck the good vanara.

  8. The shimshupa tree

  The branches of the shimshupa tree, on which Hanuman was perched, grew out a good way from its trunk. Creeping surefootedly along those branches, the vanara went out as far as he could without showing himself. The rakshasis who had been ready to kill Sita were frightened by what Trijata said. Most of them wandered back to the little temple and had already fallen asleep under its round pillars. A few conferred together, and decided to meet Ravana to tell him that none of their persuasions had moved their ward.

  Sita stood beneath the asoka tree, gazing out across the ocean with unseeing eyes. She stood fidgeting with her limp plait, torn between her instinct of hope and the terror of her predicament. Suddenly, out of the sky, a little voice spoke. Little but so solemn, it spoke half to her and half, musingly, to itself. Strange things this voice was saying or chanting.

  “There once was a king called Dasaratha. He was a rajarishi; great was his power and radiant his truth. His
wealth and valor were legend, famed in all three worlds. More renowned, yet, was the tapasya of Dasaratha of Ikshvaku, of the race of Surya Deva. He was as strong as Indra, kind as a father to his people, noble and generous. Not only among men, but among the Gods this king had renown and honor.”

  Sita looked around her in amazement and she saw no one. But the quaint chanting continued, like an intimate mantra.

  “Four sons mighty Dasaratha had; the eldest was Rama and the king loved him more than his life. Rama is a kshatriya among kshatriyas. He is the greatest archer in the world, a terror to his enemies. A protector of his people, wise, compassionate, and immaculate in dharma is Rama of Ayodhya.”

  Sita quivered with joy waking in her; the tide of hope surged higher than ever. She stood rapt, listening to the charming voice rambling on: “To preserve Dasaratha’s honor, Rama went to the jungle, renouncing kingdom and comfort, wealth and power. With Sita and Lakshmana, Rama went to the Dandaka vana. Clad in tree bark and deerskin, like any tapasvin, the prince of dharma went into the fearful vana.

  “Fate brought Rama to the jungle where austere rishis, whose tapasya blesses the earth, were harassed by rakshasas. The demons desecrated the hermits’ yagnas; they killed the munis and drank their blood. Rama slew the evil ones. The forest resounded with his bowstring and, far away, the Emperor of sin trembled on his crystal throne. Deep in his soul, he sensed a light come into the world, for its liberation from his reign of fear.

  “From a dark stirring in the lord of savagery, his brothers attacked Rama at Panchavati. But Rama killed them all. Khara he dispatched, Trisiras, Dushana, and fourteen thousand others, with lucific arrows.”

  Sita stood motionless, the soft words binding her in a trance.

  “When Ravana heard about the massacre of his people, he was furious. He decided Rama must die. But when the Evil One heard of Rama’s prowess, he thought cunning and grief Were better weapons than arrows to fight the prince of Ayodhya with. With the help of a golden stag, which was no deer at all, he kidnapped Sita from Panchavati.”

  Now she was agog to hear what followed. For, of course, she did not know what had happened to Rama after Ravana abducted her. Her face was alight with eagerness; her eyes darted all around her and up at the leafy branches. Still she saw no one.

  The little voice went on serenely. “Grief-stricken, and consoled by his loyal brother, Rama wandered through the forest seeking his love. And on a mountain in the wilderness, he made friends with a monkey. The monkey was called Sugriva and he promised to help Rama find his Sita. In return, Rama killed Vali and set Sugriva on the throne of Kishkinda, from where he rules all the monkeys of the earth.

  “At his command, Sugriva’s monkeys combed the ends of Bharatavarsha for Sita. Nowhere did they find her. At last, on the southern shore of Bharatavarsha, an army of vanaras led by their prince Angada thought of killing themselves, because they had failed in their quest. But then an eagle called Sampati, who is Jatayu’s brother, told them where she was. One of those monkeys leaped across the ocean to this Lanka, and he was the son of the wind. At long last, he found Sita in an asokavana. But he did not know how to approach her, lest he frighten her.”

  The voice paused, then said, “Devi, I am that vanara.”

  Sita quivered in amazement. Twisting her long plait in her fingers, her eyes full of wonder, full of fear, she peered up into the branches of the shimshupa tree. At first she saw nothing. Nervously, she looked around her: suppose the rakshasis had also heard the little voice? But they were all asleep inside the white temple. She peered more closely now; she scrutinized every branch of the spreading tree. Slowly, Hanuman climbed out on a leafless fork and smiled sweetly down at her.

  Sita gasped when she saw a tiny monkey, clad in fine silk, his fur the color of the bricks that paved the paths in the asokavana. Fear had become so much part of her life, and the vanara saw it flash across her perfect features. For a long moment, she stared silently up at him. He was so small and affable, his eyes kindly and golden; there seemed to be no harm in him at all. But she looked up at him through her own suspicions and saw him as a sinister creature. Certain that he was evil, she turned away with a cry. She began to chant Rama and Lakshmana’s names feverishly, under her breath.

  “I must be dreaming,” Sita told herself. “They say that to dream of a monkey is an evil omen. I pray no harm has befallen Rama and Lakshmana that this monkey speaks so knowingly of them. I hope my father Janaka is well.”

  Doubt had its way with her. She wrung her hands and said to herself, “But I am not asleep; it must be madness that grips me in my misery. I think of Rama so much that my imagination is playing tricks on me. I hear these words of hope in my desolation, though no one speaks them.”

  She paused, considering this for another moment. Then she whispered, “But what about the monkey? He is no figment of my fancy.” She shut her eyes, and said in a quavering voice, “May the Gods help me; may Indra, Brihaspati, Brahma, and Agni have mercy on me. May what the monkey says be true!”

  Hanuman slipped down the tree and prostrated himself, small and elegant, at her feet. When he rose, he held his hands folded together above his head, and said to her, “Devi, your soiled silk shimmers like sunlight; your eyes are like lotus petals. You seem to me to be quite perfect, yet you stand here so forlorn, clinging to a tree. As water drips from a lotus, tears spill from your eyes. Why do you weep, Devi? What ails you, what terrible sorrow? Who are you? Are you a gandharvi, or a naga kanya? Are you an Asuri, a yakshi, or a kinnari? Ethereal one, you are surely not of this world. Perhaps you are Rohini separated from the Moon, that you are stricken? Your eyes are so beautiful, they were not meant to shed tears.

  “But I see that your feet rest on the ground; so you must be a human princess. The wife of a great prince perhaps? Even Rama’s wife? Yes, I do believe you are Sita. When I see your sorrow, I know that no other woman on earth grieves as you do.”

  Her hand still resting on the asoka’s branch, she said, “I am Dasaratha of Ayodhya’s daughter-in-law. I am Janaka of Videha’s daughter. I am called Sita and I am Rama’s wife. Once, Dasaratha wanted to crown Rama yuvaraja. But on the day of the coronation, fate took a cruel hand in our lives. When Rama was exiled by Kaikeyi, he told me to stay behind in Ayodhya. But I could not bear to be separated from him, and I went with him into the Dandaka vana. We were so happy together in the forest, until Ravana carried me away.

  “For six months, I have lived in dread in Lanka. The Rakshasa gives me two more moons to submit to him. At the end of that time, when I do not yield, he will have my body served in pieces for his morning meal and my blood in a golden goblet to drink.”

  She stood distraught before Hanuman.

  9. The way of dharma

  Hanuman said, “Devi, Rama sent me here. I bring you news of him. He grieves every moment for you, and Lakshmana consoles him. Rama sends word to you, and inquires how you are.”

  A thrill of excitement swept through Sita. She cried, “I have heard that hope is always answered, and joy comes to the most miserable. Now it streams into my heart!”

  They stood speaking softly about Rama for a while. When he thought Sita trusted him, Hanuman went nearer. With a cry, she released the branch she held and sat abruptly on the ground. She was certain Hanuman was Ravana in disguise, scheming to come near her, to touch her, perhaps force himself on her. She said defiantly, “If you are Ravana, trying to deceive me as you did at Panchavati, all I have to say to you is: stop tormenting me! Even you must think I have suffered enough.” At once Hanuman lay on his face again at her feet. While her breath came in gasps, the little monkey lay motionless.

  Slowly, she saw he meant her no harm, and understood her fear. She wept again. Then she grew quiet and said, “But perhaps you are just what you say you are, since you lie so humbly before me. Perhaps you are indeed a messenger from Rama. When I look at you my mind grows calm, and peace steals over my heart even in this terrible place. If you are truly who you say you are,
then arise, little monkey; you have my blessing. Arise and tell me about my Rama. Despite my worst fears my heart is drawn to you, for you appear to be a soul of great goodness. Tell me about my husband, vanara, tell me how he is.”

  Hanuman’s eyes were full, but he said nothing. Suspicion flared up again in Sita’s heart. Once more she was certain Ravana had become a little monkey to approach her. She withdrew again into silence.

  Now Hanuman said so gently, “Trust me, Devi, I am not deceiving you. I have come from Rama. If you do not believe me, I will describe him for you. Rama is as brilliant as the sun and as tender as the moon. As Kubera is of the earth, he is Lord of all the worlds. His power is as profound as Narayana’s, and his speech as wise and gentle as Brihaspati’s. He is as handsome as Kamadeva would be, if the God of love took a human form.

  “Though he is the noblest of men, and grows angry only when he is grievously wronged, he is a terror to his enemies and there is no archer like him anywhere. Soon, very soon, you will see Rama’s arrows burn up the sky and bring death’s justice to Ravana. Don’t doubt me, Sita. Rama has sent me to find you; he grieves for you night and day.

  “Lakshmana sends his greetings to you, and so does my master Sugriva. As soon as I take word back to them, Rama and Lakshmana will storm Lanka with a vanara army, and rescue you. I am Sugriva’s minister, Devi, and my name is Hanuman. When Sampati told us you were held here, I leaped across the sea to find you. Don’t doubt me; Rama sent me to you.”

  A smile dawned on Sita’s face, and it was like the sun appearing from behind dark clouds. As if she had just woken from an evil trance, and saw Hanuman before her for the first time, she cried eagerly, “When did you meet Rama? Where did you meet my husband? Tell me, good monkey, how do you know Lakshmana?” Then, again, the shadow of doubt. “Describe them, describe them carefully. I must be sure that you really know them.”

  Hanuman launched into the story of how he first met Rama and Lakshmana on Rishyamooka; and how he took them to Sugriva, who hid in fear lest the kshatriyas were Vali’s agents come to kill him. The monkey described the oath of friendship Rama and Sugriva swore, with Agni as their witness. He told of the slaying of Vali and the crowning of Sugriva. He spoke of how Rama and Lakshmana lived in the cave when the rains came; how Sugriva forgot himself in the pleasures of his harem, and the vanaras’ quest for Sita was delayed.