novelraw Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 16 - Hanuman's Tail
Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 16 - Hanuman's Tail
Vaiśampāyana said:
O king, after they had advanced but a short distance upon the harsh slopes of Gandhamādana, Draupadī, unaccustomed to the rigours of the road, sank down upon the earth. The storm of hail and the hardships of the journey weighed heavily upon her delicate frame.
Trembling with weariness, she leaned upon her thighs, round and firm as elephant-trunks, her plump arms forming graceful pillars of support. Yet her strength failed, and like a young plantain tree swaying in the wind, she fell to the ground, her dark eyes half-closed, her body quivering like a creeper cut from its vine.
Seeing her thus collapse, Nakula hastened forward and caught her in his arms.
“O king,” he cried, “the black-eyed daughter of Pāñcāla has fallen upon the ground! Tender and unused to such toil, she has borne hardships undeserved, and is now spent with fatigue. O mighty monarch, come quickly and comfort her.”
Hearing his words, Yudhiṣṭhira and his brothers, Bhīma and Sahadeva, were stricken with sorrow. They ran to her side and found her faint, her face pale as the waning moon. The son of Dharma lifted her into his lap, and his heart broke with grief.
“How grievous my fault!” Yudhiṣṭhira lamented.
“She who was reared in comfort,
who deserved soft chambers and silken sheets,
now lies upon the bare earth!
Because of me, her lotus face and tender feet, once graced with anklets, are bruised and darkened. O wretch that I am! By my folly at dice I have driven this blessed one into the wilderness of beasts.
Her father, the king Drupada, gave her into our hands with hope of joy. Yet see! She wanders with us in sorrow, her hopes withered, her beauty tormented by the forest path. Alas! On my account alone she sleeps on the ground, wearied with pain and travel!”
So he lamented, while Dhaumya and the Brāhmaṇas gathered round. They blessed him with gentle words, reciting mantras that dispel the Rākṣasas, and performed rites for her healing. Touched by the soothing palms of the Pāṇḍavas, cooled by breezes moist with spray, the princess of Pāñcāla revived slowly, her breath returning like the soft flame of a lamp sheltered from the wind.
They laid her upon a deer-skin, and the twins, Nakula and Sahadeva, pressed her red-lotus feet, marked with auspicious signs, with their bow-scarred hands. Yudhiṣṭhira too consoled her, then turned to mighty Bhīma and said with a heavy heart:
“Bhīma, before us lie yet many mountains, steep and filled with snow. How shall delicate Kṛṣṇā endure them?”
Bhīma answered with his fearless smile:
“O king, despair not.
I shall bear her upon my shoulders,
and carry you all—the twins, the princess, and yourself.
Or, at your command, I shall summon my son, Ghaṭotkaca, born of Hiḍimbā. Swift as the wind, strong as myself, he ranges the skies and will carry us whithersoever you desire.”
With Yudhiṣṭhira’s assent, Bhīma thought upon his son. And no sooner had the thought arisen than the mighty Rākṣasa appeared, towering in strength. He bowed to the Pāṇḍavas and the Brāhmaṇas with joined palms, his eyes gleaming with devotion.
Saluting his father, he spoke:
“Summoned by thy thought, O sire, I have come swiftly. Command me—what service shall I render? Whatever thou biddest, I shall accomplish without fail.”
Bhīma, overjoyed, embraced his mighty-armed son, drawing him close against his breast.
Yudhiṣṭhira, moved with compassion, spoke gently to Bhīma:
“O Bhīma, let this mighty Rākṣasa chief—thy son, noble, truthful, devoted to us and steadfast in virtue—bear his mother upon his shoulders without delay. Depending on the strength of thine arms, I shall myself proceed, together with Kṛṣṇā, across the Gandhamādana unharmed.”
Hearing the command of his elder, Bhīmasena turned to his son and said:
“O Ghaṭotkaca, invincible one, thy mother is weary and faint. Strong and fearless, swift as the wind, thou art able to bear her with ease. Take her upon thy shoulders and follow close to the earth, so that her comfort be not disturbed. Prosperity be thine, my son!”
Then the Rākṣasa bowed and answered with joy:
“Even alone, O sire, I could carry thee, the just Yudhiṣṭhira, Kṛṣṇā, the twins, and Dhaumya besides. How much more today, when others aid me? Know, O king, that hundreds of heroic Rākṣasas of my kind, capable of flying through the skies and taking any form, shall bear you, the Brāhmaṇas, and all your company.”
So saying, the mighty son of Hiḍimbā lifted Draupadī upon his shoulders, carrying her in the midst of the Pāṇḍavas. At his word, other Rākṣasas of dreadful might appeared, and bore the sons of Pāṇḍu, the ṛṣis, and the Brāhmaṇas. Bright as a second sun, the sage Lomāśa walked ahead in the path of the Siddhas, his radiance illumining the way.
Thus borne aloft, the heroes sped swiftly over wide tracts of land, which seemed shortened by the power of the Rākṣasas’ flight. They passed many wondrous regions—lands of the Mlecchas, mines rich with gems, hillocks teeming with shining minerals. They beheld Vidyādharas, and forests alive with monkeys, Kinnaras and Kimpuruṣas, Gandharvas and flocks of peacocks, apes, bears, buffaloes, elephants, and many strange beasts. Rivers and rivulets spread like silver nets upon the land; groves resounded with the cries of birds, and the air was alive with the fragrance of blossoms.
Journeying thus, they reached the sacred mountain Kailāsa, abode of marvels, by whose side shone the hermitage of Nara and Nārāyaṇa. There grew the great jujube tree, vast and glorious, its round trunk encircled with foliage thick, soft, and lustrous. Its shade was deep, its branches wide-spreading, its fruits sweet with honey, dropping of themselves like gifts from heaven. Birds of every hue flocked among its boughs, and sages of mighty ascetic power dwelt in its shade. Around it was peace: no gadfly or mosquito stirred, no hunger or thirst troubled the place; grass was green, waters clear, and the air cool and healthful.
Alighting from the shoulders of the Rākṣasas, the sons of Pāṇḍu entered that sacred ground with the Brāhmaṇas. There they beheld the hermitage of Nara and Nārāyaṇa—bright, stainless, untouched by gloom, free from hunger, thirst, heat or cold, filled with Vedic chants and sacrifices, echoing with the voices of ṛṣis. The air was heavy with the fragrance of celestial blossoms; altars shone with sacred fires; jars, ladles, and offerings filled the holy place.
Hosts of sages lived there, clad in deer-skins, radiant as fire, intent upon emancipation, their senses subdued, their lives consecrated to the Supreme Soul. Seeing Yudhiṣṭhira arrive, they came forth with joy, their voices like hymns of blessing. They offered him water, flowers, fruits, and roots, and he received them with reverence.
There, with Kṛṣṇā and his brothers, Yudhiṣṭhira entered that hermitage shining like heaven itself. It was beautified by the presence of the Bhāgīrathī, worshipped by gods and celestial ṛṣis. The Pāṇḍavas, beholding that abode filled with peace, with fruits dripping honey, with sages intent upon tapas, were filled with delight.
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They wandered through the groves—woods heavy with flowers of every season, bending under the weight of fruit, alive with kokilas singing in joy. They saw lakes bright with lotuses and lilies, waters limpid as crystal. A balmy breeze, laden with fragrance, blew upon them, gladdening their hearts.
Near the mighty jujube they saw the descent of Bhāgīrathī, cool, adorned with lotuses, its steps glittering with rubies and corals, shaded by celestial trees. There the sons of Pāṇḍu, together with Draupadī, purified themselves, offering oblations to the pitṛs, to the gods, and to the seers in the sacred stream.
Thus dwelling in that hermitage of Nara and Nārāyaṇa, the sons of Pāṇḍu lived in joy with the Brāhmaṇas—performing rites, practicing meditation, and delighting in the manifold beauties of nature. There too they found solace in Draupadī’s restored joy, as she walked with them among the groves, her heart lifted in play and wonder.
Vaiśampāyana said:
At the hermitage of Nara and Nārāyaṇa, the Pāṇḍavas dwelt in purity for six nights, awaiting with yearning the return of Dhanañjaya.
Then, O king, from the northeast there blew a sudden wind. Upon its breath was borne a lotus of a thousand petals, radiant as the sun, fragrant beyond measure, a blossom of heaven itself. That unearthly flower drifted down and lay upon the ground before Draupadī.
She beheld it with delight, her eyes widening in wonder. Taking up the lotus, she turned to Bhīmasena and spoke with a smile:
“O Bhīma, behold this peerless bloom,
Its fragrance born beyond the gloom.
My heart is gladdened by its grace,
A gift that brightens this holy place.
Take more of these for me, my lord,
So I may bear them back, adored.
To Kamyaka’s hermitage they’ll go,
And Yudhiṣṭhira’s joy shall grow.”
With that she approached Yudhiṣṭhira, bearing the blossom, her face alight. Understanding her desire, Bhīma, ever eager to please Kṛṣṇā, resolved to fetch more of the heavenly flowers.
That tiger among men, taking up his bow adorned with gold and quivers filled with serpent-like arrows, set out swiftly, facing the wind from which the lotus had come. His stride was the stride of a lion enraged, his strength like an elephant in rut, his coppery eyes glowing with fervour. All creatures beheld him—armed, resolute, and terrible in might.
No fatigue could touch him, no fear or confusion cloud his mind. Only Draupadī’s wish was his provision, her words his sustenance. Like a storm he pressed forward, climbing the slopes of Gandhamādana.
That wondrous peak shone with minerals of many hues, its base black rock, its sides bright with blossoms, creepers, and trees in bloom. Kinnaras sang in its glades, birds of every colour wheeled in the sky. Springs ran down its sides, their waters glistening like necklaces of pearls; clouds rested on its shoulders, spreading like wings; caverns echoed with peacocks dancing to the anklet-bells of unseen Apsarases.
Bhīma pressed through the woods, his frame brushed red, white, and black by minerals clinging to the leaves of saptacchada trees, so that he seemed painted with sacred unguents. Fresh breezes, cool as a father’s hand, fanned him, carrying perfumes of every flower. His weariness fell away, and the hair on his body stood erect with delight.
Yet as he strode, his mighty tread shook the earth. Lions and tigers fled from their dens; deer and elephants scattered in herds; birds rose shrieking from the trees. Some beasts, maddened by pride, rushed upon him—lions roaring, elephants trumpeting. But Bhīma, son of the Wind, seized them as playthings:
With one elephant he struck another down,
With one lion he smote another to the ground.
Tigers and leopards, with slaps he stilled,
Until the forest with his strength was filled.
Roaring like thunder, he moved on, his voice resounding through every gorge. Beasts discharged urine and dung in fear, the air filled with cries and confusion. Still he strode onward, fearless, golden-bodied, strong as ten thousand lions, crushing trees, tearing creepers, hurling aside whatever opposed his way.
Thus ranging the slopes of Gandhamādana, Bhīmasena, son of the wind-god, at last beheld upon its side a vast and radiant plantain tree, spreading its leaves over many a yojana, shining like a banner raised by Earth herself.
Vaiśampāyana said:
Like a mad lion in his fury, Bhīma, strong-armed and unyielding, pressed forward toward the mighty plantain grove. His path he cleared by force, uprooting trunks as tall as palm-trees piled one upon another, hurling them aside with the strength of ten thousand men. His voice roared through the wood, proud and terrible, scattering beasts in fear.
Deer and lions fled, buffaloes bellowed, monkeys shrieked, and aquatic creatures splashed in panic. Birds rose in vast flocks, their wings wet with spray as they circled the sky. Following their cries, Bhīma beheld a vast and romantic lake, its surface fanned by golden plantain groves swaying in the cool breeze.
Descending into its waters, filled with lilies and lotuses, he sported like a mighty elephant in rut, plunging and rising, scattering the blossoms in play. Then, refreshed, he ascended once more, his arms striking together, his conch resounding like thunder.
The mountains echoed as if roaring; caves bellowed like lions. Hearing that sound, the very lions within their dens awoke in dread, and elephants trumpeted in alarm. Their roars mingled with Bhīma’s, filling all the quarters of heaven with tumult.
At that moment, O king, Hanumān, the son of the wind, mighty chief of monkeys, heard the din. Desiring to protect Bhīma from harm and to prevent him from entering by a perilous path, he lay across the narrow way—his colossal frame stretched amidst the golden plantain trees, his massive tail lashing like Indra’s banner, shaking the mountain with thunderous sound.
The echoes rolled from cave to cave, as if the earth herself lowed like a cow. Rocks quivered, summits trembled, trees shivered and cascades swayed. The down upon Bhīma’s arms stood erect, and he pressed on toward the sound.
And then he saw him—Hanumān the mighty—lying upon a rocky height.
Coppery as the lightning-flash, radiant as fire, his body vast as a mountain. His neck thick and short, his shoulders broad, his waist slender, his tail long, hairy, and raised like a banner slightly bent at its crest. His face glowed with coppery hue, lips and tongue red, eyes quick and fiery, ears crimson, teeth white as crystal, sharp as chisels. His mane spread about him like a heap of aśoka blossoms.
Amid the plantain grove, Hanumān’s form blazed like the rising sun. His eyes, reddened with the intoxication of majesty, glanced at Bhīma as if from flame itself.
Bhīma, fearless, strode toward him with lion-like gait, his shout echoing through the woods, alarming beasts and birds alike. Hanumān, roused from slumber, opened his eyes half-way, gazed upon him with mild disdain, and spoke smilingly in a voice deep as thunder:
“Disturb me not, O warrior. I lay resting, weakened by age and weariness. Why hast thou awakened me?
Men, blessed with reason, should show kindness to all creatures. But thou, though born of wisdom’s race, dost slay beasts without pity. Such deeds stain body, speech, and mind; they are the work of ignorance, not of dharma.
Tell me, who art thou, mighty one, that stridest here through this desolate forest? Why hast thou come, and whither wouldst thou go?
Beyond this point lies no path for mortals. These hills are barred, this way is for celestials alone. Only by tapas can such a road be won. Out of compassion I warn thee: proceed no further.
Rest here, O hero, upon fruits and roots sweet as ambrosia. Take ease in this grove, for thou art welcome. But go no farther lest destruction meet thee.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Hearing the grave words of the monkey-chief, Bhīmasena, son of Vāyu, answered with pride:
“Who art thou, O mighty one, that takest this form of a monkey? Know that a kṣatriya speaks to thee—of the Kuru race, sprung from the lunar line, son of Kuntī, begotten by the wind-god, known throughout the worlds as Bhīmasena.”
At these words, Hanumān, also born of Vāyu, smiled softly and replied:
“I am but a monkey, dwelling here in these woods. I shall not allow thee to pass; better desist, lest destruction fall upon thee.”
Bhīma laughed in wrath:
“Destruction I fear not, O monkey!
Arise, grant me passage, or be crushed.
Grieve not later for thy fate—
for my arms can send thee to Yama’s gate.”
Hanumān spoke again:
“Weak with age, my limbs are heavy. If thou wouldst go, then leap over me.”
Bhīma’s eyes flashed, yet his words came with reverence:
“The Supreme Soul pervades all forms,
In every creature dwells His norm.
Knowing Him as the One within,
I dare not leap above thy skin.
For had I not known the Lord who births all things,
I would have leapt above thy back and even mountains’ wings,
As once did Hanumān bound across the sea
For Rāma’s sake, in mighty leap and loyalty.”
Hanumān’s eyes gleamed with play:
“Who is this Hanumān thou namest,
Who leapt the sea? Speak, if thou canst.”
Bhīma answered proudly:
“He is my brother, O mighty one—
Born, like me, of the wind-god’s breath.
Chief among monkeys, famed in the Rāmāyaṇa,
Perfect in body, in mind, in strength.
For Rāma’s queen he leapt the tide,
A hundred yojanas in a stride.
That hero is my kin divine;
And equal to him is this strength of mine.
Therefore, rise! Allow me way—
Or know my power in fight today.”
Thus challenged, Hanumān, wise and compassionate, knew Bhīma’s pride to be swollen with strength. Smiling, he said:
“O child of Vāyu, do not boast so vainly. I am weak, stricken by years. From pity, move aside my tail and pass.”
Bhīma, scorning the words, thought within:
“This aged monkey is powerless, lacking energy or might. With a stroke I shall drag him by the tail and cast him to Yama’s realm.”
So thinking, he seized Hanumān’s tail with one hand. But though he strained, he could not move it. Frowning, his brows knit, his veins swelled, sweat poured from his limbs. With both arms he grasped the tail, straining with all his strength—yet it did not stir.