Chapter 68

Her eyes the Maithil lady raised And on the monkey speaker gazed. She looked, and trembling at the sight Wept bitter tears in wild affright. She shrank a while with fear distraught, Then, nerved again, the lady thought: “Is this a dream mine eyes have seen, This creature, by our laws unclean? O, may the Gods keep Ráma, still, And Lakshmaṇ, and my sire, from ill! It is no dream: I have not slept, But, trouble-worn, have watched and wept Afar from that dear lord of mine For whom in ceaseless woe I pine, No art may soothe my wild distress Or lull me to forgetfulness. I see but him: my lips can frame No syllable but Ráma’s name. Each sight I see, each sound I hear, Brings Ráma to mine eye or ear, The wish was in my heart, and hence The sweet illusion mocked my sense. ’Twas but a phantom of the mind, And yet the voice was soft and kind. Be glory to the Eternal Sire,(848) Be glory to the Lord of Fire, The mighty Teacher in the skies,(849) And Indra with his thousand eyes, And may they grant the truth to be E’en as the words that startled me.”

Canto XXXIII. The Colloquy.

Down from the tree Hanumán came And humbly stood before the dame. Then joining reverent palm to palm Addressed her thus with words of balm: “Why should the tears of sorrow rise, Sweet lady, to those lovely eyes, As when the wind-swept river floods Two half expanded lotus buds? Who art thou, O most fair of face? Of Asur,(850) or celestial race? Did Nága mother give thee birth? For sure thou art no child of earth. Do Rudras(851) claim that heavenly form? Or the swift Gods(852) who ride the storm? Or art thou Rohiṇí(853) the blest, That star more lovely than the rest,— Reft from the Moon thou lovest well And doomed a while on earth to dwell? Or canst thou, fairest wonder, be The starry queen Arundhatí,(854) Fled in thy wrath or jealous pride From her dear lord Vaśishṭha’s side? Who is the husband, father, son Or brother, O thou loveliest one, Gone from this world in heaven to dwell, For whom those eyes with weeping swell? Yet, by the tears those sweet eyes shed, Yet, by the earth that bears thy tread,(855) By calling on a monarch’s name, No Goddess but a royal dame. Art thou the queen, fair lady, say, Whom Rávaṇ stole and bore away? Yea, by that agony of woe, That form unrivalled here below, That votive garb, thou art, I ween, King Janak’s child and Ráma’s queen.”

Hope at the name of Ráma woke, And thus the gentle lady spoke: “I am that Sítá wooed and won By Daśaratha’s royal son, The noblest of Ikshváku’s line; And every earthly joy was mine. But Ráma left his royal home In Daṇḍak’s tangled wilds to roam. Where with Sumitrá’s son and me, He lived a saintly devotee. The giant Rávaṇ came with guile And bore me thence to Lanká’s isle. Some respite yet the fiend allows, Two months of life, to Ráma’s spouse. Two moons of hopeless woe remain, And then the captive will be slain.”

Canto XXXIV. Hanumán’s Speech.

Thus spoke the dame in mournful mood, And Hanumán his speech renewed: “O lady, by thy lord’s decree I come a messenger to thee. Thy lord is safe with steadfast friends, And greeting to his queen he sends, And Lakshmaṇ, ever faithful bows His reverent head to Ráma’s spouse.”

Through all her frame the rapture ran, As thus again the dame began: “Now verily the truth I know Of the wise saw of long ago: “Once only in a hundred years True joy to living man appears.”

He marked her rapture-beaming hue, And nearer to the lady drew, But at each onward step he took Suspicious fear her spirit shook. “Alas, Alas,” she cried in fear. “False is the tale I joyed to hear. ’Tis Rávaṇ, ’tis the fiend, who tries To mock me with a new disguise. If thou, to wring my woman’s heart, Hast changed thy shape by magic art, And wouldst a helpless dame beguile, The wicked deed is doubly vile. But no: that fiend thou canst not be: Such joy I had from seeing thee. But if my fancy does not err, And thou art Ráma’s messenger, The glories of my lord repeat: For to these ears such words are sweet.”

The Vánar knew the lady’s thought,(856) And gave the answer fondly sought: “Bright as the sun that lights the sky Dear as the Moon to every eye. He scatters blessings o’er the land Like bounties from Vaiśravaṇ’s(857) hand. Like Vishṇu strong and unsubdued, Unmatched in might and fortitude. Wise, truthful as the Lord of Speech, With gentle words he welcomes each. Of noblest mould and form is he, Like love’s incarnate deity. He quells the fury of the foe, And strikes when justice prompts the blow. Safe in the shadow of his arm The world is kept from scathe and harm. Now soon shall Rávaṇ rue his theft, And fall, of realm and life bereft. For Ráma’s wrathful hand shall wing His shafts against the giant king. The day, O Maithil Queen, is near When he and Lakshmaṇ will be here, And by their side Sugríva lead His countless hosts of Vánar breed. Sugríva’s servant, I, by name Hanumán, by his order came. With desperate leap I crossed the sea To Lanká’s isle in search of thee, No traitor, gentle dame, am I: Upon my word and faith rely.”

Canto XXXV. Hanumán’s Speech.

With joyous heart she heard him tell Of the great lord she loved so well, And in sweet accents, soft and low, Spoke, half forgetful of her woe: “How didst thou stand by Ráma’s side? How came my lord and thou allied? How met the people of the wood With men on terms of brotherhood? Declare each grace and regal sign That decks the lords of Raghu’s line. Each circumstance and look relate: Tell Ráma’s form and speech, and gait.”

“Thy fear and doubt,” he cried, “dispelled, Hear, lady, what mine eyes beheld. Hear the imperial signs that grace The glory of Ikshváku’s race. With moon-bright face and lotus eyes, Most beautiful and good and wise, With sun-like glory round his head, Long-suffering as the earth we tread, He from all foes his realm defends. Yea, o’er the world his care extends. He follows right in all his ways, And ne’er from royal duty strays. He knows the lore that strengthens kings; His heart to truth and honour clings. Each grace and gift of form and mind Adorns that prince of human kind; And virtues like his own endue His brother ever firm and true. O’er all the land they roamed distraught, And thee with vain endeavour sought, Until at length their wandering feet Trod wearily our wild retreat. Our banished king Sugríva spied The princes from the mountain side. By his command I sought the pair And led them to our monarch there. Thus Ráma and Sugríva met, And joined the bonds that knit them yet, When each besought the other’s aid, And friendship and alliance made. An arrow launched from Ráma’s bow Laid Báli dead, Sugríva’s foe. Then by commandment of our lord The Vánar hosts each land explored. We reached the coast: I crossed the sea And found my way at length to thee.”(858)

Canto XXXVI. Ráma’s Ring.

“Receive,” he cried, “this precious ring,(859) Sure token from thy lord the king: The golden ring he wont to wear: See, Ráma’s name engraven there.” Then, as she took the ring he showed, The tears that spring of rapture flowed. She seemed to touch the hand that sent The dearly valued ornament, And with her heart again at ease, Replied in gentle words like these: “O thou, whose soul no fears deter, Wise, brave, and faithful messenger! And hast thou dared, o’er wave and foam, To seek me in the giants’ home? In thee, true messenger, I find The noblest of thy woodland kind. Who couldst, unmoved by terror, brook On Rávaṇ, king of fiends, to look. Now may we commune here as friends, For he whom royal Ráma sends Must needs be one in danger tried, A valiant, wise, and faithful guide. Say, is it well with Ráma still? Lives Lakshmaṇ yet untouched by ill? Then why should Ráma’s hand be slow To free his consort from her woe? Why spare to burn, in search of me, The land encircled by the sea? Can Bharat send no army out With banners, cars and battle shout? Cannot thy king Sugríva lend His legions to assist his friend?”

His hands upon his head he laid And thus again his answer made: “Not yet has Ráma learnt where lies His lady of the lotus eyes, Or he like Indra from the sky To Śachí’s(860) aid, to thee would fly. Soon will he hear the tale, and then, Roused to revenge, the lord of men Will to the giants’ island lead Fierce myriads of the woodland breed, Bridging his conquering way, and make The town a ruin for thy sake. Believe my words, sweet dame; I swear By roots and fruit, my woodland fare, By Meru’s peak and Vindhva’s chain, And Mandar of the Milky Main, Soon shalt thou see thy lord, though now He waits upon Praśravaṇ’s(861) brow, Come glorious as the breaking morn, Like Indra on Airávat(862) borne. For thee he looks with longing eyes; The wood his scanty food supplies. For thee his brow is pale and worn, For thee are meat and wine forsworn. Thine image in his heart he keeps, For thee by night he wakes and weeps. Or if perchance his eyes he close And win brief respite from his woes, E’en then the name of Sítá slips In anguish from his murmuring lips. If lovely flowers or fruit he sees, Which women love, upon the trees, To thee, to thee his fancy flies. And ‘Sítá! O my love!’ he cries.”

Canto XXXVII. Sítá’s Speech.

“Thou bringest me,” she cried again, “A mingled draught of bliss and pain: Bliss, that he wears me in his heart, Pain, that he wakes and weeps apart, O, see how Fate is king of all, Now lifts us high, now bids us fall, And leads a captive bound with cord The meanest slave, the proudest lord, Thus even now Fate’s stern decree Has struck with grief my lord and me. Say, how shall Ráma reach the shore Of sorrow’s waves that rise and roar, A shipwrecked sailor, well nigh drowned In the wild sea that foams around? When will he smite the demon down, Lay low in dust the giants’ town, And, glorious from his foes’ defeat, His wife, his long-lost Sítá, meet? Go, bid him speed to smite his foes Before the year shall reach its close. Ten months are fled but two remain, Then Rávaṇ’s captive must be slain. Oft has Vibhishaṇ,(863) just and wise, Besought him to restore his prize. But deaf is Rávaṇ’s senseless ear: His brother’s rede he will not hear. Vibhishaṇ’s daughter(864) loves me well: From her I learnt the tale I tell. Avindhva(865) prudent, just, and old, The giant’s fall has oft foretold; But Fate impels him to despise His word on whom he most relies. In Ráma’s love I rest secure, For my fond heart is true and pure, And him, my noblest lord, I deem In valour, power, and might supreme.”

As from her eyes the waters ran, The Vánar chief again began: “Yea, Ráma, when he hears my tale, Will with our hosts these walls assail. Or I myself, O Queen, this day Will bear thee from the fiend away, Will lift thee up, and take thee hence To him thy refuge and defence; Will take thee in my arms, and flee To Ráma far beyond the sea; Will place thee on Praśravaṇ hill Where Raghu’s son is waiting still.” “How canst thou bear me hence?” she cried, “The way is long, the sea is wide. To bear my very weight would be A task too hard for one like thee.”(866)

Swift rose before her startled eyes The Vánar in his native size, Like Mandar’s hill or Meru’s height, Encircled with a blaze of light. “O come,” he cried, “thy fears dispel, Nor doubt that I will bear thee well. Come, in my strength and care confide, And sit in joy by Ráma’s side.”

Again she spake: “I know thee now, Brave, resolute, and strong art thou; In glory like the Lord of Fire With storm-swift feet which naught may tire But yet with thee I may not fly: For, borne so swiftly through the sky, Mine eyes would soon grow faint and dim, My dizzy brain would reel and swim, My yielding arms relax their hold, And I in terror uncontrolled Should fall into the raging sea Where hungry sharks would feed on me. Nor can I touch, of free accord, The limbs of any save my lord. If, by the giant forced away, In his enfolding arms I lay, Not mine, O Vánar, was the blame; What could I do, a helpless dame? Go, to my lord my message bear, And bid him end my long despair.”

Canto XXXVIII. Sítá’s Gem.

Again the Vánar chief replied, With her wise answer satisfied: “Well hast thou said: thou canst not brave The rushing wind, the roaring wave. Thy woman’s heart would sink with fear Before the ocean shore were near. And for thy dread lest limb of thine Should for a while be touched by mine, The modest fear is worthy one Whose cherished lord is Raghu’s son. Yet when I sought to bear thee hence I spoke the words of innocence, Impelled to set the captive free By friendship for thy lord and thee. But if with me thou wilt not try The passage of the windy sky, Give me a gem that I may show, Some token which thy lord may know.”

Again the Maithil lady spoke, While tears and sobs her utterance broke: “The surest of all signs is this, To tell the tale of vanished bliss. Thus in my name to Ráma speak: “Remember Chitrakúṭa’s peak And the green margin of the rill(867) That flows beside that pleasant hill, Where thou and I together strayed Delighting in the tangled shade. There on the grass I sat with thee And laid my head upon thy knee. There came a greedy crow and pecked The meat I waited to protect And, heedless of the clods I threw, About my head in circles flew, Until by darling hunger pressed He boldly pecked me on the breast. I ran to thee in rage and grief And prayed for vengeance on the thief. Then Ráma(868) from his slumber rose And smiled with pity at my woes. Upon my bleeding breast he saw The scratches made by beak and claw. He laid an arrow on his bow, And launched it at the shameless crow. That shaft, with magic power endued, The bird, where’er he flew, pursued, Till back to Raghu’s son he fled And bent at Ráma’s feet his head.(869) Couldst thou for me with anger stirred Launch that dire shaft upon a bird, And yet canst pardon him who stole The darling of thy heart and soul? Rise up, O bravest of the brave, And come in all thy might to save. Come with the thunders of thy bow, And smite to earth the Rákshas foe.”

She ceased; and from her glorious hair She took a gem that sparkled there A token which her husband’s eyes With eager love would recognize. His head the Vánar envoy bent In low obeisance reverent. And on his finger bound the gem She loosened from her diadem.

[I omit two Cantos of dialogue. Sítá tells Hanumán again to convey her message to Ráma and bid him hasten to rescue her. Hanumán replies as before that there is no one on earth equal to Ráma, who will soon come and destroy Rávaṇ. There is not a new idea in the two Cantos: all is reiteration.]

Canto XLI. The Ruin Of The Grove.

Dismissed with every honour due The Vánar from the spot withdrew. Then joyous thought the Wind-God’s son: “The mighty task is wellnigh done. The three expedients I must leave; The fourth alone can I achieve.(870) These dwellers in the giants’ isle No arts of mine can reconcile. I cannot bribe: I cannot sow Dissension mid the Rákshas foe. Arts, gifts, address, these fiends despise; But force shall yet their king chastise. Perchance he may relent when all The bravest of his chieftains fall. This lovely grove will I destroy, The cruel Rávaṇ’s pride and joy. The garden where he takes his ease Mid climbing plants and flowery trees That lift their proud tops to the skies, Dear to the tyrant as his eyes. Then will he rouse in wrath, and lead His legions with the car and steed And elephants in long array, And seek me thirsty for the fray. The Rákshas legions will I meet, And all his bravest host defeat; Then, glorious from the bloody plain, Turn to my lord the king again.”

Then every lovely tree that bore Fair blossoms, from the soil he tore, Till each green bough that lent its shade To singing birds on earth was laid. The wilderness he left a waste, The fountains shattered and defaced: O’erthrew and levelled with the ground Each shady seat and pleasure-mound. Each arbour clad with climbing bloom, Each grotto, cell, and picture room, Each lawn by beast and bird enjoyed, Each walk and terrace was destroyed. And all the place that was so fair Was left a ruin wild and bare, As if the fury of the blast Or raging fire had o’er it passed.

Canto XLII. The Giants Roused.

The cries of startled birds, the sound Of tall trees crashing to the ground, Struck with amaze each giant’s ear, And filled the isle with sudden fear. Then, wakened by the crash and cries, The fierce shefiends unclosed their eyes, And saw the Vánar where he stood Amid the devastated wood. The more to scare them with the view To size immense the Vánar grew; And straight the Rákshas warders cried Janak’s daughter terrified “Whose envoy, whence, and who is he, Why has he come to talk with thee? Speak, lady of the lovely eyes, And let not fear thy joy disguise.”

Then thus replied the Maithil dame Of noble soul and perfect frame. “Can I discern, with scanty skill, These fiends who change their forms at will? ’Tis yours to say: your kin you meet; A serpent knows a serpent’s feet.

I weet not who he is: the sight Has filled my spirit with affright.” Some pressed round Sítá in a ring; Some bore the story to their king: “A mighty creature of our race, In monkey form, has reached the place. He came within the grove,” they cried, “He stood and talked by Sítá’s side, He comes from Indra’s court to her, Or is Kuvera’s messenger; Or Ráma sent the spy to seek His consort, and her wrongs to wreak. His crushing arm, his trampling feet Have marred and spoiled that dear retreat, And all the pleasant place which thou So lovest is a ruin now. The tree where Sítá sat alone Is spared where all are overthrown. Perchance he saved the dame from harm: Perchance the toil had numbed his arm.”

Then flashed the giant’s eye with fire Like that which lights the funeral pyre. He bade his bravest Kinkars(871) speed And to his feet the spoiler lead. Forth from the palace, at his hest, Twice forty thousand warriors pressed. Burning for battle, strong and fierce, With clubs to crush and swords to pierce, They saw Hanúmán near a porch, And, thick as moths around a torch, Rushed on the foe with wild attacks Of mace and club and battle-axe. As round him pressed the Rákshas crowd, The wondrous monkey roared aloud, That birds fell headlong from the sky: Then spake he with a mighty cry: “Long life to Daśaratha’s heir, And Lakshmaṇ, ever-glorious pair! Long life to him who rules our race, Preserved by noblest Ráma’s grace! I am the slave of Kośal’s king,(872) Whose wondrous deeds the minstrels sing. Hanúmán I, the Wind-God’s seed: Beneath this arm the foemen bleed. I fear not, unapproached in might, A thousand Rávaṇ’s ranged for fight, Although in furious hands they rear The hill and tree for sword and spear, I will, before the giants’ eyes, Their city and their king chastise; And, having communed with the dame, Depart in triumph as I came.”

At that terrific roar and yell The heart of every giant fell. But still their king’s command they feared And pressed around with arms upreared. Beside the porch a club was laid: The Vánar caught it up, and swayed The weapon round his head, and slew The foremost of the Rákshas crew. Thus Indra vanquished, thousand-eyed, The Daityas who the Gods defied. Then on the porch Hanúmán sprang, And loud his shout of triumph rang. The giants looked upon the dead, And turning to their monarch fled. And Rávaṇ with his spirit wrought To frenzy by the tale they brought, Urged to the fight Prahasta’s son, Of all his chiefs the mightiest one.

Canto XLIII. The Ruin Of The Temple.

The Wind-God’s son a temple(873) scaled Which, by his fury unassailed, High as the hill of Meru, stood Amid the ruins of the wood; And in his fury thundered out Again his haughty battle-shout: “I am the slave of Kośal’s King Whose wondrous deeds the minstrels sing.” Forth hurried, by that shout alarmed, The warders of the temple armed With every weapon haste supplied, And closed him in on every side, With bands that strove to pierce and strike With shaft and axe and club and pike. Then from its base the Vánar tore A pillar with the weight it bore. Against the wall the mass he dashed, And forth the flames in answer flashed, That wildly ran o’er roofs and wall In hungry rage consuming all. He whirled the pillar round his head And struck a hundred giants dead. Then high upheld on air he rose And called in thunder to his foes: “A thousand Vánar chiefs like me Roam at their will o’er land and sea, Terrific might we all possess: Our stormy speed is limitless. And all, unconquered in the fray, Our king Sugríva’s word obey. Backed by his bravest myriads, he Our warrior lord will cross the sea. Then Lanká’s lofty towers, and all Your hosts and Rávaṇ’s self shall fall. None shall be left unslaughtered; none Who braves the wrath of Raghu’s son.”

Canto XLIV. Jambumáli’s Death.

Then Jambumáli, pride and boast For valour of the Rákshas host, Prahasta’s son supremely brave, Obeyed the hest that Rávaṇ gave: Fierce warrior with terrific teeth, With saguine robes and brilliant wreath. A bow like Indra’s own(874), and store Of glittering shafts the chieftain bore. And ever as the string he tried The weapon with a roar replied, Loud as the crashing thunder sent By him who rules the firmament. Soon as the foeman came in view Borne on a car which asses drew, The Vánar chieftain mighty-voiced Shouted in triumph and rejoiced. Prahasta’s son his bow-string drew, And swift the winged arrows flew, One in the face the Vánar smote, Another quivered in his throat. Ten from the deadly weapon sent His brawny arms and shoulders rent. Then as he felt each galling shot The Vánar’s rage waxed fiercely hot. He looked, and saw a mass of stone That lay before his feet o’erthrown. The mighty block he raised and threw, And crashing through the air it flew. But Jambumáli shunned the blow, And rained fresh arrows from his bow. The Vánar’s limbs were red with gore: A Sál tree from the earth he tore, And, ere he hurled it undismayed, Above his head the missile swayed. But shafts from Jambumáli’s bow Cut through it ere his hand could throw. And thigh and arm and chest and side With streams of rushing blood were dyed. Still unsubdued though wounded oft The shattered trunk he raised aloft, And down with well-directed aim On Jambumáli’s chest it came. There crushed upon the trampled grass He lay an undistinguished mass, The foeman’s eye no more could see His head or chest or arm or knee. And bow and car and steeds(875) and store Of glittering shafts were seen no more.

When Jambumáli’s death he heard, King Rávaṇ’s heart with rage was stirred And forth his general’s sons he sent, For power and might preeminent.

Canto XLV. The Seven Defeated.