Chapter 64

But Hanumán, while Tára, best Of splendid chiefs his thought expressed, Perceived that Báli’s princely son A kingdom for himself had won.(757) His keen eye marked in him combined The warrior’s arm, the ruler’s mind, And every noble gift should grace The happy sovereign of his race: Marked how he grew with ripening age More glorious and bold and sage,— Like the young moon that night by night Shines on with ever waxing light,— Brave as his royal father, wise As he who counsels in the skies:(758) Marked how, forwearied with the quest, He heeded not his liege’s hest, But Tára’s every word obeyed Like Indra still by Śukra(759) swayed. Then with his prudent speech he tried To better thoughts the prince to guide, And by division’s skilful art The Vánars and the youth to part: “Illustrious Angad, thou in fight Hast far surpassed thy father’s might, Most worthy, like thy sire of old, The empire of our race to hold. The Vánars’ fickle people range From wish to wish and welcome change. Their wives and babes they will not leave And to their new-made sovereign cleave. No art, no gifts will draw away The Vánars from Sugríva’s sway, Through hope of wealth, through fear of pain Still faithful will they all remain. Thou fondly hopest in this cave The vengeance of the foe to brave. But Lakshmaṇ’s arm a shower will send Of deadly shafts those walls to rend. Like Indra’s bolts his shafts have power To cleave the mountain like a flower. O Angad, mark my counsel well: If in this cave thou choose to dwell, These Vánar hosts with one accord Will quit thee for their lawful lord, And turn again with thirsty eyes To wife and babe and all they prize. Thou in the lonely cavern left Of followers and friends bereft, Wilt be in all thy woe, alas, Weak as a blade of trembling grass: And Lakshmaṇ’s arrows, keen and fierce From his strong bow, thy heart will pierce. But if in lowly reverence meek Sugríva’s court with us thou seek, He, as thy birth demands, will share The kingdom with the royal heir. Thy loving kinsman, true and wise, Looks on thee still with favouring eyes. Firm in his promise, pure is he, And ne’er will vex or injure thee. He loves thy mother, lives for her A faithful friend and worshipper. That mother’s love thou mayst not spurn: Her only child, return, return.”

Canto LV. Angad’s Reply.

“What truth or justice canst thou find,” Cried Angad, “in Sugríva’s mind? Where is his high and generous soul, His purity and self-control? How is he worthy of our trust, Righteous, and true, and wise, and just, Who, shrinking not from sin and shame, Durst take his living brother’s dame? Who, when, in stress of mortal strife His noble brother fought for life, Against the valiant warrior barred The portal which he stood to guard? Can he be grateful—he who took The hand of Ráma, and forsook That friend who saved him in his woes, To whom his life and fame he owes? Ah no! his heart is cold and mean, What bids him search for Ráma’s queen? Not honour’s law, not friendship’s debt, But angry Lakshmaṇ’s timely threat. No prudent heart will ever place Its trust in one so false and base, Who heeds not friendship, kith or kin, Who scorns the law and cleaves to sin. But true or false, whate’er he be, One consequence I clearly see; Me, in my youth anointed heir Against his wish, he will not spare, But strike with eager hand the blow That rids him of a household foe. Shall I of power and friends despoiled, In all my purpose crossed and foiled,— Shall I Kishkindhá seek, and wait, Like some poor helpless thing, my fate? The cruel wretch through lust of sway Will seize upon his hapless prey, And to a prison’s secret gloom The remnant of my years will doom. ’Tis better far to fast and die Than hopeless bound in chains to lie, Your steps, O Vánars, homeward bend And leave me here my life to end. Better to die of hunger here Than meet at home the fate I fear. Go, bow you at Sugríva’s feet, And in my name the monarch greet. Before the sons of Raghu bend, And give the greeting that I send. Greet kindly Rumá too, for she A son’s affection claims from me, And gently calm with friendly care My mother Tárá’s wild despair; Or when she hears her darling’s fate The queen will die disconsolate.”

Thus Angad bade the chiefs adieu: Then on the ground his limbs he threw Where sacred Darbha(760) grass was spread, And wept as every hope had fled. The moving words of Angad drew Down aged cheeks the piteous dew. And, as the chieftains’ eyes grew dim, They swore to stay and die with him. On holy grass whose every blade Was duly, pointing southward, laid, The Vánars sat them down and bent Their faces to the orient, While “Here, O comrades, let us die With Angad,” was the general cry.

Canto LVI. Sampáti.

Then came the vultures’ mighty king Where sat the Vánars sorrowing,— Sampáti,(761) best of birds that fly On sounding pinions through the sky, Jaṭáyus’ brother, famed of old, Most glorious and strong and bold. Upon the slope of Vindhya’s hill He saw the Vánars calm and still. These words he uttered while the sight Filled his fierce spirit with delight: “Behold how Fate with changeless laws Within his toils the sinner draws, And brings me, after long delay, A rich and noble feast to-day, These Vánars who are doomed to die My hungry maw to satisfy.”

He spoke no more: and Angad heard The menace of the mighty bird; And thus, while anguish filled his breast, The noble Hanumán addressed: “Vivasvat’s(762) son has sought this place For vengeance on the Vánar race. See, Yáma, wroth for Sítá’s sake, Is come our guilty lives to take. Our king’s decree is left undone, And naught achieved for Raghu’s son. In duty have we failed, and hence Comes punishment for dire offence. Have we not heard the marvels wrought By King Jaṭáyus,(763) how he fought With Rávaṇ’s might, and, nobly brave, Perished, the Maithil queen to save? There is no living creature, none, But loves to die for Raghu’s son, And in long toils and dangers we Have placed our lives in jeopardy. Blest is Jaṭáyus, he who gave His life the Maithil queen to save, And proved his love for Ráma well When by the giant’s hand he fell. Now raised to bliss and high renown He fears not fierce Sugríva’s frown. Alas, alas! what miseries spring From that rash promise of the king!(764) His own sad death, and Ráma sent With Lakshmaṇ forth to banishment: The Maithil lady borne away: Jaṭáyus slain in mortal fray: The fall of Báli when the dart Of Ráma quivered in his heart: And, after toil and pain and care, Our misery and deep despair.”

He ceased: the feathered monarch heard, His heart with ruth and wonder stirred: “Whose is that voice,” the vulture cried, “That tells me how Jaṭáyus died, And shakes my inmost soul with woe For a loved brother’s overthrow? After long days at length I hear The glorious name of one so dear. Once more, O Vánar chieftains, tell How King Jaṭáyus fought and fell. But first your aid, I pray you, lend, And from this peak will I descend. The sun has burnt my wings, and I No longer have the power to fly.”

Canto LVII. Angad’s Speech.

Though grief and woe his utterance broke They trusted not the words he spoke; But, looking still for secret guile, Reflected in their hearts a while: “If on our mangled limbs he feed, We gain the death ourselves decreed.”

Then rose the Vánar chiefs, and lent Their arms to aid the bird’s descent; And Angad spake: “There lived of yore A noble Vánar king who bore The name of Riksharajas, great And brave and strong and fortunate. His sons were like their father: fame Knows Báli and Sugríva’s name. Praised in all lands, a glorious king Was Báli, and from him I spring. Brave Ráma, Daśaratha’s heir, A glorious prince beyond compare, His sire and duty’s law obeyed, And sought the depths of Daṇḍak’ shade Sítá his well-beloved dame, And Lakshmaṇ, with the wanderer came. A giant watched his hour, and stole The sweet delight of Ráma’s soul. Jaṭáyus, Daśaratha’s friend, Swift succour to the dame would lend. Fierce Rávaṇ from his car he felled, And for a time the prize withheld. But bleeding, weak with years, and tired, Beneath the demon’s blows expired, Due rites at Ráma’s hands obtained, And bliss that ne’er shall minish, gained. Then Ráma with Sugríva made A covenant for mutual aid, And Báli, to the field defied, By conquering Ráma’s arrow died. Sugríva then, by Ráma’s grace, Was monarch of the Vánar race. By his command a mighty host Seeks Ráma’s queen from coast to coast. Sent forth by him, in every spot We looked for her, but find her not. Vain is the toil, as though by night We sought to find the Day-God’s light. In lands unknown at length we found A spacious cavern under ground, Whose vaults that stretch beneath the hill Were formed by Maya’s magic skill. Through the dark maze our steps were bent, And wandering there a month we spent, And lost, in fruitless error, thus The days our king allotted us. Thus we though faithful have transgressed, And failed to keep our lord’s behest. No chance of safety can we see, No lingering hope of life have we. Sugríva’s wrath and Ráma’s hate Press on our souls with grievous weight: And we, because ’tis vain to fly, Resolve at length to fast and die.”

Canto LVIII. Tidings Of Sítá.

The piteous tears his eye bedewed As thus his speech the bird renewed; “Alas my brother, slain in fight By Rávaṇ’s unresisted might! I, old and wingless, weak and worn, O’er his sad fate can only mourn. Fled is my youth: in life’s decline My former strength no more is mine. Once on the day when Vritra(765) died, We brothers, in ambitious pride, Sought, mounting with adventurous flight, The Day-God garlanded with light. On, ever on we urged our way Where fields of ether round us lay, Till, by the fervent heat assailed, My brother’s pinions flagged and failed. I marked his sinking strength, and spread My stronger wings to screen his head, Till, all my feathers burnt away, On Vindhya’s hill I fell and lay. There in my lone and helpless state I heard not of my brother’s fate.”

Thus King Sampáti spoke and sighed: And royal Angad thus replied: “If, brother of Jatáyus, thou Hast heard the tale I told but now, Obedient to mine earnest prayer The dwelling of that fiend declare. O, say where cursed Rávaṇ dwells, Whom folly to his death impels.”

He ceased. Again Sampáti spoke, And hope in every breast awoke: “Though lost my wings, and strength decayed, Yet shall my words lend Ráma aid. I know the worlds where Vishṇu trod,(766) I know the realm of Ocean’s God; How Asurs fought with heavenly foes, And Amrit from the churning rose.(767) A mighty task before me lies, To prosper Ráma’s enterprise, A task too hard for one whom length Of days has rifled of his strength. I saw the cruel Rávaṇ bear A gentle lady through the air. Bright was her form, and fresh and young, And sparkling gems about her hung. “O Ráma, Ráma!” cried the dame, And shrieked in terror Lakshmaṇ’s name, As, struggling in the giant’s hold, She dropped her gauds of gems and gold. Like sun-light on a mountain shone The silken garments she had on, And glistened o’er his swarthy form As lightning flashes through the storm. That giant Rávaṇ, famed of old, Is brother of the Lord of Gold.(768) The southern ocean roars and swells Round Lanká, where the robber dwells In his fair city nobly planned And built by Viśvakarmá’s(769) hand. Within his bower securely barred, With monsters round her for a guard, Still in her silken vesture clad Lies Sítá, and her heart is sad. A hundred leagues your course must be Beyond this margin of the sea. Still to the south your way pursue, And there the giant Rávaṇ view. Then up, O Vánars, and away! For by my heavenly lore I say, There will you see the lady’s face, And hither soon your steps retrace. In the first field of air are borne The doves and birds that feed on corn. The second field supports the crows And birds whose food on branches grows. Along the third in balanced flight Sail the keen osprey and the kite. Swift through the fourth the falcon springs The fifth the slower vulture wings. Up to the sixth the gay swans rise, Where royal Vainateya(770) flies. We too, O chiefs, of vulture race, Our line from Vinatá may trace, Condemned, because we wrought a deed Of shame, on flesh and blood to feed. But all Suparṇa’s(771) wondrous powers And length of keenest sight are ours, That we a hundred leagues away Through fields of air descry our prey. Now from this spot my gazing eye Can Rávaṇ and the dame descry. Devise some plan to overleap This barrier of the briny deep. Find the Videhan lady there, And joyous to your home repair. Me too, O Vánars, to the side Of Varuṇ’s(772) home the ocean, guide, Where due libations shall be paid To my great-hearted brother’s shade.”

Canto LIX. Sampáti’s Story.

They heard his counsel to the close, Then swiftly to their feet they rose; And Jámbaván with joyous breast The vulture king again addressed:

“Where, where is Sítá? who has seen, Who borne away the Maithil queen? Who would the lightning flight withstand by Lakshmaṇ’s hand?”

Again Sampáti spoke to cheer The Vánars as they bent to hear: “Now listen, and my words shall show What of the Maithil dame I know, And in what distant prison lies The lady of the long dark eyes. Scorched by the fiery God of Day, High on this mighty hill I lay. A long and weary time had passed, And strength and life were failing fast. Yet, ere the breath had left my frame, My son, my dear Supárśva, came. Each morn and eve he brought me food, And filial care my life renewed. But serpents still are swift to ire, Gandharvas slaves to soft desire, And we, imperial vultures, need A full supply our maws to feed. Once he turned at close of day, Stood by my side, but brought no prey. He looked upon my ravenous eye, Heard my complaint and made reply: “Borne on swift wings ere day was light I stood upon Mahendra’s(773) height, And, far below, the sea I viewed And birds in countless multitude. Before mine eyes a giant flew Whose monstrous form was dark of hue And struggling in his grasp was borne A lady radiant as the morn. Swift to the south his course he bent, And cleft the yielding element. The holy spirits of the air Came round me as I marvelled there, And cried as their bright legions met: “O say, is Sítá living yet?” Thus cried the saints and told the name Of him who held the struggling dame. Then while mine eye with eager look Pursued the path the robber took, I marked the lady’s streaming hair, And heard her cry of wild despair. I saw her silken vesture rent And stripped of every ornament, Thus, O my father, fled the time: Forgive, I pray, the heedless crime.” In vain the mournful tale I heard My pitying heart to fury stirred, What could a helpless bird of air, Reft of his boasted pinions, dare? Yet can I aid with all that will And words can do, and friendly skill.”

Canto LX. Sampáti’s Story.

Then from the flood Sampáti paid Due offerings to his brother’s shade. He bathed him when the rites were done, And spake again to Báli’s son: “Now listen, Prince, while I relate How first I learned the lady’s fate. Burnt by the sun’s resistless might I fell and lay on Vindhya’s height. Seven nights in deadly swoon I passed, But struggling life returned at last. Around I bent my wondering view, But every spot was strange and new. I scanned the sea with eager ken, And rock and brook and lake and glen, I saw gay trees their branches wave, And creepers mantling o’er the cave. I heard the wild birds’ joyous song, And waters as they foamed along, And knew the lovely hill must be Mount Vindhya by the southern sea. Revered by heavenly beings, stood Near where I lay, a sacred wood, Where great Niśakar dwelt of yore And pains of awful penance bore. Eight thousand seasons winged their flight Over the toiling anchorite— Upon that hill my days were spent,— And then to heaven the hermit went. At last, with long and hard assay, Down from that height I made my way, And wandered through the mountain pass Rough with the spikes of Darbha grass. I with my misery worn, and faint Was eager to behold the saint: For often with Jaṭáyus I Had sought his home in days gone by. As nearer to the grove I drew The breeze with cooling fragrance blew, And not a tree that was not fair, With richest flower and fruit was there. With anxious heart a while I stayed Beneath the trees’ delightful shade, And soon the holy hermit, bright With fervent penance, came in sight. Behind him bears and lions, tame As those who know their feeder, came, And tigers, deer, and snakes pursued His steps, a wondrous multitude, And turned obeisant when the sage Had reached his shady hermitage. Then came Niśakar to my side And looked with wondering eyes, and cried: “I knew thee not, so dire a change Has made thy form and feature strange. Where are thy glossy feathers? where The rapid wings that cleft the air? Two vulture brothers once I knew: Each form at will could they endue. They of the vulture race were kings, And flew with Mátariśva’s(774) wings. In human shape they loved to greet Their hermit friend, and clasp his feet. The younger was Jaṭáyus, thou The elder whom I gaze on now. Say, has disease or foeman’s hate Reduced thee from thy high estate?”

Canto LXI. Sampáti’s Story.

“Ah me! o’erwhelmed with shame and weak With wounds,” I cried, “I scarce can speak. My hapless brother once and I Our strength of flight resolved to try. And by our foolish pride impelled Our way through realms of ether held. We vowed before the saints who tread The wilds about Kailása’s head, That we with following wings would chase The swift sun to his resting place. Up on our soaring pinions through The fields of cloudless air we flew. Beneath us far, and far away, Like chariot wheels bright cities lay, Whence in wild snatches rose the song Of women mid the gay-clad throng, With sounds of sweetest music blent And many a tinkling ornament. Then as our rapid wings we strained The pathway of the sun we gained. Beneath us all the earth was seen Clad in her garb of tender green, And every river in her bed Meandered like a silver thread. We looked on Meru far below And Vindhya and the Lord of Snow, Like elephants that bend to cool Their fever in a lilied pool. But fervent heat and toil o’ercame The vigour of each yielding frame, Our weary hearts began to quail, And wildered sense to reel and fail. We knew not, fainting and distressed, The north or south or east or west. With a great strain mine eyes I turned Where the fierce sun before me burned, And seemed to my astonished eyes The equal of the earth in size.(775) At length, o’erpowered, Jaṭáyus fell Without a word to say farewell, And when to earth I saw him hie I followed headlong from the sky.(776) With sheltering wings I intervened And from the sun his body screened, But lost, for heedless folly doomed, My pinions which the heat consumed. In Janasthán, I hear them say, My hapless brother fell and lay. I, pinionless and faint and weak, Dropped upon Vindhya’s woody peak. Now with my swift wings burnt away, Reft of my brother and my sway, From this tall mountain’s summit I Will cast me headlong down and die.”

Canto LXII. Sampáti’s Story.

“As to the saint I thus complained My bitter tears fell unrestrained. He pondered for a while, then broke The silence, and thus calmly spoke: “Forth from thy sides again shall spring, O royal bird, each withered wing, And all thine ancient power and might Return to thee with strength of sight. A noble deed has been foretold In prophecy pronounced of old: Nor dark to me are future things, Seen by the light which penance brings. A glorious king shall rise and reign, The pride of old Ikshváku’s strain. A good and valiant prince, his heir, Shall the dear name of Ráma bear. With his brave brother Lakshmaṇ he An exile in the woods shall be, Where Rávaṇ, whom no God may slay,(777) Shall steal his darling wife away. In vain the captive will be wooed With proffered love and dainty food, She will not hear, she will not taste: But, lest her beauty wane and waste, Lord Indra’s self will come to her With heavenly food, and minister. Then envoys of the Vánar race By Ráma sent will seek this place. To them, O roamer of the air, The lady’s fate shalt thou declare. Thou must not move—so maimed thou art Thou canst not from this spot depart. Await the day and moment due, And thy burnt wings will sprout anew. I might this day the boon bestow And bid again thy pinions grow, But wait until thy saving deed The nations from their fear have freed. Then for this glorious aid of thine The princes of Ikshváku’s line, And Gods above and saints below Eternal gratitude shall owe. Fain would mine aged eyes behold That pair of whom my lips have told, Yet wearied here I must not stay, But leave my frame and pass away.”

Canto LXIII. Sampáti’s Story.

“With this and many a speech beside My failing heart he fortified, With glorious hope my breast inspired, And to his holy home retired. I scaled the mountain height, to view The region round, and looked for you. In ceaseless watchings night and day A hundred seasons passed away, And by the sage’s words consoled I wait the hour and chance foretold. But since Niśakar sought the skies. And cast away all earthly ties, Full many a care and doubt has pressed With grievous weight upon my breast. But for the saint who turned aside My purpose I had surely died. Those hopeful words the hermit spake, That bid me live for Ráma’s sake, Dispel my anguish as the light Of lamp and torch disperse the night.”

He ceased: and in the Vánars’ view Forth from his side young pinions grew, And boundless rapture filled his breast As thus the chieftains he addressed: “Joy, joy! the pinions, which the Lord Of Day consumed, are now restored Through the dear grace & boundless might Of that illustrious anchorite. The fire of youth within me burns, And all my wonted strength returns. Onward, ye Vánars, toil strive, And you shall find the dame alive. Look on these new-found wings, and hence Be strong in surest confidence.”

Swift from the crag he sprang to try His pinions in his native sky. His words the chieftains’ doubts had stilled, And every heart with courage filled.(778)

Canto LXIV. The Sea.

Shouts of triumphant joy outrang As to their feet the Vánars sprang: And, on the mighty task intent, Swift to the sea their steps they bent. They stood and gazed upon the deep, Whose billows with a roar and leap On the sea banks ware wildly hurled,— The mirror of the mighty world. There on the strand the Vánars stayed And with sad eyes the deep surveyed, Here, as in play, his billows rose, And there he slumbered in repose. Here leapt the boisterous waters, high As mountains, menacing the sky, And wild infernal forms between The ridges of the waves were seen. They saw the billows rave and swell, And their sad spirits sank and fell; For ocean in their deep despair Seemed boundless as the fields of air. Then noble Angad spake to cheer The Vánars and dispel their fear: “Faint not: despair should never find Admittance to a noble mind. Despair, a serpent’s mortal bite, Benumbs the hero’s power and might.”

Then passed the weary night, and all Assembled at their prince’s call, And every lord of high estate Was gathered round him for debate. Bright was the chieftains’ glorious band Round Angad on the ocean strand, As when the mighty Storm-Gods meet Round Indra on his golden seat. Then princely Angad looked on each, And thus began his prudent speech: “What chief of all our host will leap A hundred leagues across the deep? Who, O illustrious Vánars, who Will make Sugríva’s promise true, And from our weight of fear set free The leaders of our band and me? To whom, O warriors, shall we owe A sweet release from pain and woe, And proud success, and happy lives With our dear children and our wives, Again permitted by his grace To look with joy on Ráma’s face, And noble Lakshmaṇ, and our lord The king, to our sweet homes restored?”