The Ramayana

by Valmiki

  When night fell, he rose and entered the magnificent city which was divided into quarters by huge, wide roads. Its multi-storied mansions had floors of crystal set in gold and the mansions themselves were studded with pearls and gems. Their golden doorways were beautifully decorated and the entire city was brightly lit at night. Hanumān was delighted with the loveliness of the city, but he was also filled with despair when he saw how impossible it would be to conquer Lankā.

  At that very moment, a full moon with its many thousand rays rose up into the night sky, accompanied by a cluster of stars. It flooded the earth with light as if to help Hanumān. And as the monkey watched the moon rise in all its glory, white as a conch shell, white as milk, white as lotus stalks, it reminded him of a swan gliding on a lake.

  Chapter Two

  Hanumān entered the city filled with lofty mansions that were like autumn clouds. It was served by the wind and the seas, and from a distance the tumult within the city sounded like the rumbling of the swelling ocean. Hanumān climbed onto Lankā’s ramparts which were made of precious metals, and stared in astonishment at the golden gates adorned with pearls and lapis and diamonds, decorated with beaten gold and silver.

  Hanumān saw the moon, brilliant and shining in the middle of the sky, strutting like a restless bull as it poured its light over the earth. It purified all beings and made the ocean swell as it lit up everything. Like a white bird in a silver cage, like a lion in its den on Mount Mandara, like a heroic warrior on the back of a proud tusker, the moon shone in the sky. It dispelled the darkness and seemed to leave the gates of the heavens wide open as it shone down upon the flesh-eating rākṣasas.

  Sweet music filled the air and fell gently on the ears as virtuous women slept by their husbands’ sides. Other night-stalking rākṣasas, who were capable of terrible things, were all at play. The wise monkey saw hundreds of houses filled with drunken rākṣasas who seemed unaware of their surroundings. Their houses had chariots and horses and magnificent furniture and everywhere Hanumān could sense the pride the rākṣasas had in their strength and heroism. All around him, rākṣasas got into drunken brawls, they insulted each other and gesticulated with their sturdy, powerful arms. They ranted and raved in their intoxication. They threw out their chests with pride and clasped their beloved women in their arms, pressing them against their bodies. Hanumān saw beautiful women anointing themselves and others who were asleep.

  Lankā had its share of good men who deserved to be honoured and respected, as well as heroes spoiling for a fight. Hanumān saw rākṣasas who were among the most intelligent of all beings, others who were devout and pious and those who were eloquent and learned. He was delighted to see that some of them were handsome and virtuous and followed the rules of good conduct. But he also saw rākṣasas who were ugly and deformed and seemed to have wicked ways.

  Hanumān saw exquisite women who appeared to be high-minded, virtuous and pure. They shone like stars, absorbed in their lovers and in drinking. He saw other women who were illuminated by their own beauty, but they were shy and hid in their lovers’ arms, like birds clinging to their mates, enjoying a night of bliss. He saw still others on the terraces of their mansions, sitting in their lovers’ laps in the throes of passion. He saw women with smooth complexions, bare-breasted, with skin the colour of molten gold, others with skin like moonlight. Some were alone, without lovers. Some went out to meet their lovers, anticipating a night of ecstasy, and others were satisfied with the lovers who came to their homes.

  Everywhere he looked, Hanumān saw rows upon rows of moon-bright faces, eyes with long, curling lashes and ornaments that glittered like garlands of lightning. But nowhere did he see the supremely beautiful Sītā, born into a family that adhered to dharma, Sītā who clung to the eternal vows of marital fidelity, whose eyes rested only on Rāma whom she loved so dearly, who was firmly lodged in her husband’s heart and who was better, even, than the best of women. This same woman, who had worn beautiful necklaces, whose voice had been sweet, whose eyelashes were curved and long, who had wandered lovely as a peacock in the forest, was now tormented by separation from her love and her throat was choked with tears. She was like a barely visible streak of moonlight, like a flash of gold hidden in the dust, an arrow-wound covered with blood, a scrap of cloud scattered by the wind.

  Terribly disheartened that he had not found Sītā in the city, Hanumān took on a form that seemed appropriate and searched through the tall mansions again. As he wandered through Lankā, he came to Rāvaṇa’s palace complex which was surrounded by walls as bright as the sun. It was guarded by fierce rākṣasas like a forest is by lions, but the monkey took a good look around it. Its decorated, arched doorways led into pleasant courtyards and enclosures that teemed with warriors on elephant back who never knew fatigue and highly bred horses that were well trained. There were chariots covered with lion and tiger skins, adorned with ivory, silver and gold that hummed musically when they moved. The enclosures were filled with enchanting birds and animals of all kinds.

  The king’s palace, guarded by deferential rākṣasas, overflowed with lovely women who were like jewels, and it murmured like the ocean with the tinkling of their ornaments. The air was fragrant with sandal and other rare unguents and filled with the music of drums and conch shells. Worship and sacred rituals were performed there regularly and the entire place was as vast and as noisy as the ocean. The monkey looked around the palace complex which was studded with gems and filled with good people and rightly decided that this, indeed, was the jewel of Lankā.

  Fearlessly, Hanumān went from house to house and garden to garden, systematically examining each one, and everywhere he saw evidence of wealth and opulence. When he had explored all the houses in the area, he returned to the main palace. He saw the deformed rākṣasīs who guarded Rāvaṇa as he slept and noticed that those cross-eyed creatures were armed with spears and other weapons. Inside, there were groups of armed soldiers and the best of horses, red and white, as well as magnificent pedigreed elephants who were capable of crushing enemy elephants in battle. Highly disciplined and equal to Airāvata in the arts of war, they dripped ichor as clouds drip water, as mountains drip cascades, and they trumpeted like thunder.

  There were thousands of golden vehicles and heavily-carved palanquins that shone like the sun. There were vine-covered arbours, opulent rooms, picture galleries, recreation areas with hills fashioned out of wood, pleasant sitting rooms and lavish bedrooms. The palace shone like the sun because of its jewels and because of Rāvaṇa’s own splendour. Flowing with honey and all kinds of liquor in jewelled vessels, it was like the palace of the god of wealth.

  In the middle of the vast residential area, Hanumān saw Rāvaṇa’s own magnificent mansion. It had many floors and was one yojanā long and half a yojarā wide. Hanumān began to search every inch of it, looking for the large-eyed Sītā. Inside, he saw elephants with four tusks, some with two and some with even three tusks, and mighty armed warriors ready to attack. The mansion teemed with Rāvaṇa’s wives and with other princesses he had carried away by force. It was like an ocean tossed by storm winds, teeming with fish and whales and crocodiles and other aquatic creatures. Hanumān saw that the opulence and wealth of Kubera were firmly established in Rāvaṇa’s mansion and that it equalled the splendours of Indra’s and Kubera’s homes together.

  In the middle of it all, Hanumān saw an exquisitely fashioned structure, carved all over with elephants. This jewelled vehicle was the fabulous Puṣpaka, created by divine Viśvakarmā for Brahmā to use in heaven. Kubera had won the Puṣpaka from Brahmā because of the austerities he had performed but Rāvaṇa had taken it away from him on the strength of his superior powers.

  Its dazzling pillars of gold and silver were covered with carved animals. Puṣpaka was so large that it even had rooms within it for rest and recreation, as vast and lofty as the mountains Mandara and Meru. The great monkey climbed into the magnificent, celestial Puṣpaka and saw stairways of gol
d inlaid with lapis and emerald and sapphire, and golden windows with delicate lattices. Hanumān inhaled deeply and the air was redolent with the fragrance of food and drink, so thick that it seemed to have taken corporeal form. Like an old friend, it invited him in to where Rāvaṇa was.

  Going further in, Hanumān came upon large and pleasant rooms which were as dear to Rāvaṇa as his beloved wife. There was golden lattice work over the windows, the stairs were studded with jewels and the crystal floors were inlaid with pearls, ivory and coral. The decorated pillars were uniform and well-proportioned and seemed to soar into the sky as if they had wings. A magnificent embroidered carpet covered the floor and the design on it represented the entire earth with all its various regions and rows of houses. The rooms in Puṣpaka were filled with the songs of birds and divine fragrances and priceless fabrics. Rāvaṇa, king of the rākṣasas, used them as his personal apartments.

  ‘This must be heaven or the realm of the gods!’ thought Hanumān in utter amazement. ‘Or Indra’s city! Or the reward for all efforts!’ To Hanumān, it seemed as if the entire place was on fire, blazing as it was with Rāvaṇa’s splendour, with glittering ornaments and bright lights.

  He saw thousands of lovely women wearing all kinds of different clothes and jewels and garlands lying on the priceless carpet. They lay there, sleeping, after they had finished with their pleasures for the evening. The gentle tinkling of their ornaments had been stilled, like a pool where the birds and the bees have fallen silent. Hanumān stared at them as they lay there with their eyes shut, lips closed over pearly teeth. Their faces seemed like fragrant lotuses that had closed their petals for the night. Those lovely women lit up Rāvaṇa’s apartments like the autumn sky adorned with stars. ‘These must be stars that have fallen to earth when they still had some merit left,’ thought the monkey.

  Their thick garlands and lovely ornaments had fallen into disarray as the women had played their games of love drunkenly before falling asleep. The vermillion on the foreheads of some of these women had smeared and spread, others had lost an anklet, yet others had their pearls over to one side where they had slipped. The necklaces of some women had broken, the girdles of others had snapped, some even lay there totally naked like mares who, with their burdens removed, were free to roll in the grass. Pearl necklaces gleaming like soft moonlight lay between their breasts like sleeping swans. Even the marks left by their ornaments on their bodies were as lovely as the ornaments themselves.

  Stirred by their soft breathing, their upper garments fluttered over their mouths and their earrings quivered gently. Their naturally sweet breath mingled with the fragrance of wine and liquor and fanned Rāvaṇa gently. Some of his wives kissed their companions again and again, imagining that they were kissing Rāvaṇa. One slept with her arm thrown over another’s breasts. Overcome with love and alcohol, they slept happily, their limbs entwined, breasts, hips and thighs pressed to each others’. Even when their ornaments, garlands and limbs were in the right places, it was not possible to tell which belonged to whom.

  With Rāvaṇa peacefully asleep, it seemed as if the golden lamps watched over those splendid women with fixed, unblinking eyes. There were women from the families of royal sages, daityas, gandharvas and rākṣasas and they had all come to Rāvaṇa out of love. None had been carried away against her will, they had all been won over by Rāvaṇa’s personality. None had ever loved another or been the wife of another, none except Sītā, the daughter of Janaka. Each of Rāvaṇa’s wives was nobly-born, beautiful, skilled in the arts of pleasure and extremely desirable. And the monkey, who had only worthy thoughts, said to himself, ‘How lucky Rāma would be if his wife was like the wives of the rākṣasa king!’ Then he grew very agitated and reminded himself that Sītā was far better than these other women and that the king of Lankā had done a terrible and ignoble thing.

  Then, Hanumān saw a magnificent crystal bed, studded with jewels. A white canopy which shone like the moon hung over it, decorated with garlands. Young women stood around it waving fly whisks and perfumes filled the air. The bed was covered with luxurious sheepskin and had rare flowers strewn all over it.

  Rāvaṇa lay upon it, dark as a mighty rain cloud, with red eyes and huge, powerful arms. He wore a cloth of gold and glittering earrings. Anointed with rare red sandal paste, he was like a cloud in the red evening sky with lightning playing upon it.

  Rāvaṇa, joy of the rākṣasas, was loved by all his women. He had fallen asleep after a night filled with drink and sensual pleasures, adorned with all his jewels. Hanumān came upon him suddenly, and saw him asleep upon that dazzling bed with his breath hissing like angry snakes. The monkey was startled and leapt back in fright. He fled up a flight of stairs onto a raised platform and settled down there to get a better look at the sleeping rākṣasa.

  He saw Rāvaṇa’s mighty arms adorned with bracelets, sturdy as Indra’s flagstaff. They were scarred with battle wounds from Airāvata’s tusks and Viṣṇu’s discus and his shoulders bore the marks of Indra’s thunderbolt. Rāvaṇa’s shoulders were strong and powerful, his arms mighty, and his fingers were finely shaped, right down to their nails. Sturdy as rounded iron clubs and powerful as an elephant’s trunk, his arms spread on the bed looked like five-hooded snakes. They were anointed with sandal as red as hare’s blood. The same arms that had been lovingly caressed by beautiful women made the gods, gandharvas, dānavas, pannagas and yakṣas cry out in pain.

  As Rāvaṇa exhaled in his sleep, his breath seemed to fill the entire palace. His golden crown, slightly awry, was studded with pearls and jewels and his face was illuminated by his glittering earrings. His broad chest was smeared with sandalpaste and his exquisite necklace added to his blazing splendour. A dazzling white cloth, fine and silken, was draped carelessly across his body and his loins were covered in yellow silk. Dark as a mound of black beans, Rāvaṇa breathed like a hissing serpent and he appeared like a mighty elephant asleep on the banks of the Gangā. Lamps blazed at the four corners of his bed and illuminated him as lightning would a dark cloud.

  In the king’s own chamber, Hanumān saw more of his lovely wives lying at his feet, for they loved him dearly. The monkey gazed at their beautiful moon-like faces, their dazzling earrings, their unfading garlands and their rare jewels. They were all skilled musicians and dancers and Rāvaṇa would often hold them in his arms as they played their instruments. These slim-waisted women, exhausted from love-making, seemed to have fallen asleep during a lull in their pleasures. Some of them slept holding their musical instruments clasped to their breasts like lovers.

  And then, Hanumān saw the most beautiful woman of them all. She slept alone, in a bed a little apart from the rest. Adorned with pearls and other shining jewels, she seemed to light up the entire room with her beauty. She was the golden-skinned Mandodarī, Rāvaṇa’s beloved and the queen of the inner apartments.

  As he stared at that lovely woman endowed with youth and beauty, Hanumān became convinced that she was Sītā. Delirious with joy, he jumped up and down and kissed his tail. He played and sang and ran from pillar to pillar, displaying his essential monkey nature.

  But he banished the thought from his head and calmed himself. ‘Sītā would never eat or drink or adorn herself while she is separated from Rāma,’ he said to himself. ‘Nor would she sit near another man, even if he were the king of the gods! This woman must be some one else,’ he decided and continued his search inside the palace.

  As he wandered from room to room, he saw that Rāvaṇa’s palace lacked nothing in the way of any luxury that the heart might desire. In the vast dining halls, he saw heaps of venison and boar and buffalo meat, roasted peacocks, capons, pork and rhino and leftovers from a feast of partridges, game birds, fish and mutton done to a turn. He saw pickled meats and preserves that were salty, sweet and sour. The banquet halls were made even more beautiful by flowers used in ritual offerings, and there were overturned pitchers and jars and fruit scattered all over the floors.

>   There were plenty of couches and seats which were so lovely that they seemed to light up the room. There were wines and sherbets, sweet as nectar, made from honey and different kinds of fruits and flowers. Flowers lay in heaps all over, between jugs and casks made of gold and silver and crystal. Golden pitchers overflowed with rare and priceless wines, and liquor was stored in golden pots. Some containers were empty, others were half full, while others had not been touched at all. Everywhere he looked, he saw rare and exotic delicacies, fine wines and half-eaten foods. The halls were strewn with broken pots and overturned jugs so that water mixed with the overflowing liquors.

  And again Hanumān saw scores of lovely women, lying on couches and embracing each other, for there was no male company. Their clothes and garlands rose and fell as they slept, their breathing as gentle as a whisper of breeze. The air was redolent with the fragrance of sandal, flowers, incense, bath oils, unguents and a soft wind carried these scents through the halls of Puṣpaka.

  Hanumān searched through these halls but he did not see Sītā. Suddenly, as he looked among the women, the monkey was seized with panic and became anxious about the propriety of his actions. ‘I have violated dharma by looking at the wives of another man as they lie asleep in their private apartments,’ he thought.

  ‘But my gaze was not really directed towards them at all,’ he reassured himself. ‘I was looking at an adulterer, one who has taken the wife of another man.’ Then another thought occurred to the monkey who was single-minded and devoted to his task. ‘Granted that I looked upon Rāvaṇa’s women while they were relaxed and secure. But they did not create any turbulence in my mind. It is the mind that causes the agitation of the senses. My mind is firm and unwavering, even in adverse circumstances. I could not possibly have searched for Sītā in any other place, a woman must be sought among other women! Surely I could not have found a missing woman amongst a herd of deer! I have looked for Sītā with a pure heart in the midst of all Rāvaṇa’s women and I have not found her.’