novelraw Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 17 - Hanuman's Tale
Arc 5 - Tirth-Yatra Parva - Chapter 17 - Hanuman's Tale
His face wrinkled, his eyes rolled, his body trembled with exertion, but still the tail lay unmoved, like Indra’s banner rooted to the earth. At last Bhīma, abashed, stepped back, shame covering him like a cloak.
With joined palms, bowing low, he spoke humbly:
“Forgive me, O mighty one. My harsh words were born of pride. Who art thou truly? Art thou a siddha, a deva, a gandharva, or a guhyaka in disguise? Tell me, if I am worthy, thy real form. I ask as a disciple; I seek thy refuge.”
Hanumān, smiling with compassion, replied:
“O Bhīma, restrain thy pride and hear. I too am born of Vāyu, giver of life, upon Añjanā, wife of Kesari. Among monkeys I am famed—Hanumān by name.
Once I dwelt with Sugrīva, son of the Sun, driven from his throne by his brother Vāli. Friendship bound us, as wind and fire are bound.
Then came the avatāra of Nārāyaṇa Himself, Rāma, prince of Ayodhyā, born of Daśaratha. With his wife Sītā and his brother Lakṣmaṇa he entered the forest of Daṇḍaka, bow in hand, to uphold his father’s word.
But from Janasthāna, Ravana, lord of rākṣasas, carried Sītā away by deceit—through the guile of Mārīca, who in deer’s form lured Rāma aside. And then, O son of Pāṇḍu, began the great tale of my deeds.”
Hanumān said:
“When Rāvaṇa, king of rākṣasas, carried away Sītā, the daughter of Janaka, Rāma wandered the forests with his brother Lakṣmaṇa in grief and search. It was then, on the slopes of a mountain, that he met Sugrīva, chief of the monkeys. There they forged a bond of friendship, and soon Rāma slew Vāli, installing Sugrīva upon his throne.
When Sugrīva gained his kingdom, he sent forth monkeys in every direction—hundreds upon hundreds, thousands upon thousands—to seek the lost princess. I too, O mighty-armed Bhīma, set forth with unnumbered companions toward the southern seas.
Upon our path we met with Sampāti, the vulture of great age and wisdom, brother of slain Jaṭāyu. From him we heard the tidings—that Sītā was captive in Laṅkā, in the stronghold of Rāvaṇa.
Then I resolved:
For Rāma’s sake, for dharma’s sake,
Over the ocean a leap I would take.
A hundred yojanas, storm and tide,
I bounded across in a single stride.
Crossing that ocean, abode of sharks and crocodiles, I reached Laṅkā’s golden towers. There in the inner palace I found her—Sītā, dark-eyed, faithful, sorrowful, yet radiant as a goddess. I delivered to her Rāma’s message, gave her hope, and proclaimed my name.
Then, in wrath, I set Laṅkā aflame—its ramparts, gates, and spires blazing like fire at the world’s end. Having thus made Rāvaṇa tremble, I returned across the sea to my lord.
Hearing my words, Rāma, lotus-eyed and steadfast, set his course. By his command a bridge was built upon the ocean, strong and vast, upheld by stones made light by faith. Across it the hosts of monkeys marched, roaring like the sea itself.
Upon the field of battle, Rāma smote down Rāvaṇa’s legions. He slew the ten-headed king himself—Rāvaṇa, tormentor of worlds—together with his sons and kin. And having destroyed the tyrant, he placed righteous Vibhīṣaṇa, faithful and gentle, upon the throne of Laṅkā.
Thus Rāma regained Sītā, even as the lost Veda is recovered by sages through tapas. With her beside him, he returned to Ayodhyā, that city unconquerable by enemies.
There he reigned as king for one thousand and ten hundred years, ruling with justice, strength, and compassion, until he ascended at last to his eternal abode.
When his task was done, I bowed before him and asked but one boon:
‘O Rāma, may I live upon this earth
So long as thy story is sung by men.
Let my breath endure as thy glory endures,
Till thy name no longer is spoken by tongues.’
Smiling, the slayer of foes granted my wish, saying, ‘So be it, Hanumān. Thy life shall last while my deeds are remembered.’ Through the grace of Sītā, I am ever sustained. Here the Gandharvas and Apsarases gather, singing ceaselessly of Rāma’s valor, delighting me with the nectar of his glory.
O Bhīma, this path before us is not for mortals. It is one of the ways of the celestials. To guard you from curse or ruin, I stretched across it, barring your steps. But fear not—your journey is not hindered. The lake you seek lies even in this direction. Go then, O son of Kuru, but turn from the road that leads to heaven.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Thus addressed, the powerful Bhīmasena, mighty-armed and humble-hearted, bowed low before his elder brother, Hanumān, the monkey-chief, and said with cheerfulness:
“Truly, none is more fortunate than I, for today my eyes have beheld my elder brother. What greater favour could be shown to me? My heart rejoices, O mighty one. Yet one desire remains: show me, if thou wilt, that incomparable form of thine in which thou didst bound over the ocean, the abode of crocodiles and sharks. By seeing it, my faith in thy words shall be complete, and my soul satisfied.”
Hanumān, smiling gently, replied:
“That form, O Bhīma, no mortal now may behold. In former ages the order of things was other than now. In the Kṛta yuga one kind of strength prevailed, in the Tretā another, in the Dvāpara still another. In this Kali age all is diminished. Time governs all—rivers and mountains, gods and sages, plants and creatures, each conforming to its age. The power of past yugas is veiled, for Time is irresistible. Therefore, O son of Kuru, desire not to see my former shape.”
Bhīmasena bowed again and said:
“Then tell me of the yugas, their measure and their ways—of virtue, pleasure, profit, of life and death, of the changing laws of men in each age.”
Thereupon Hanumān, lotus-eyed and wise, began to speak of Time:
“In the Kṛta yuga, the age of perfection, one eternal dharma prevailed. Men were whole in virtue, their nature unstained, their knowledge directed only to Brahman. There was no commerce, no deceit, no pride, no envy, no fear, no disease. The Vedas were one, the mantra was Om alone, the soul of all beings was Nārāyaṇa in his white splendour. Each order of men performed its dharma by nature, and all strove for Brahman. Renunciation was their highest act, and emancipation was near at hand.
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In the Tretā yuga, virtue waned by one quarter. Nārāyaṇa wore a red hue. Sacrifices appeared, and men, desiring objects, sought them through rites and gifts. Truth was honoured, asceticism and charity flourished, and the four orders kept their duties. Thus men attained heaven by works and offerings.
In the Dvāpara yuga, virtue was halved. Nārāyaṇa shone yellow. The single Veda was divided into four, but few could master them. Some knew three Vedas, some one, some none. Knowledge declined, passions grew, diseases afflicted men, and natural calamities arose. Truth weakened, rites multiplied, desires increased. Men performed sacrifices for wealth or heaven, but many fell into confusion.
In the Kali yuga, the age of iron, only a quarter of virtue remains. Nārāyaṇa is dark in hue. The Vedas, dharma, sacrifices, and observances decay. Anger, greed, envy, sloth, disease, famine, and fear prevail. Men are weak, short-lived, contentious. The acts of sacrifice, when performed, yield contrary fruit. Even those who live long must conform to the corruption of the age.
Thus, O son of Vāyu, as yugas wane, dharma dwindles; as dharma dwindles, creatures degenerate; as they degenerate, their hearts turn dark. Such is the law of Time, invincible and supreme.”
Then Hanumān, filled with compassion, concluded:
“Why, O Bhīma, should a wise man seek what is superfluous? Enough have I spoken to thee of the changing ages. May good betide thee! Now turn back, and continue on thy way.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Pressed by Bhīmasena’s request, Hanumān, the mighty son of Vāyu, smiled and revealed a form vast and terrible. In an instant he expanded his frame until he towered like a golden mountain, his coppery eyes blazing like suns, his face darkened by frown, his white teeth shining like weapons of flame. His long tail lashed the earth, shaking the plantain grove like Indra’s thunder shaking the skies. His body spread wide, covering all quarters, rising to the height of the Vindhyas, resplendent as the burning firmament.
Bhīma beheld him and trembled; his hairs stood on end, and awe overcame him. Closing his eyes against the dazzling blaze, he spoke with folded hands:
“O lord, thy splendour is unbearable. I see in thee the radiance of the sun, the greatness of Maināka, the strength that no foe can match. Yet I marvel—when thou wert by the side of Rāma, how came it that Rāma himself bore the battle against Rāvaṇa? Surely, O mighty brother, thou alone couldst have uprooted Laṅkā, slain the rākṣasas, and restored Sītā in an instant. No power in the worlds is equal to thee.”
Hanumān, tender and solemn, replied:
“It is even as thou sayest, O Bhīma. Rāvaṇa, tormentor of worlds, was no match for me. Yet had I destroyed him, the glory of Rāma would have been dimmed. The avatāra was his, the burden his to bear, and the triumph his to win. By slaying Rāvaṇa, by restoring Sītā, by crossing the ocean and leading the hosts, Rāma’s fame was established among men, shining like the eternal sun. Therefore, I withheld my arm.
Now hear me, son of Kuntī: this path leads to the Saugandhika grove, sacred to Kubera and guarded by yakṣas and rākṣasas. Seek not to take the flowers by force, for the gods are to be revered by mortals through offerings, homas, salutations, and mantras—not through violence. Hold fast to the dharma of thy order, O Bhārata. Kings must walk with caution, for the duties of rulers are hard to discern.”
Then Hanumān, the elder brother, taught him with words deep as thunder:
“Religion is rooted in right conduct; from dharma comes merit; in merit are established the Vedas; from the Vedas arise sacrifice; by sacrifice the gods are sustained; and by the gods, the worlds endure. Men too are sustained by their ordained professions—ploughing and tending cattle, commerce and craft, rule and service. When each follows his calling with righteousness, the world stands firm; when men deviate, disorder prevails, and society falls into ruin.
The Brahmana’s dharma is knowledge, sacrifice, and gift. The Kṣatriya’s is to rule, to protect, to punish with justice. The Vaiśya lives by tending cattle, farming, and trade. The Śūdra by serving the twice-born orders. Each order sustains the other, and all sustain the earth.
But if rulers turn from their duty, the world collapses. A king must protect his people, punish the lawless, honour the righteous, consult the wise, and guard his kingdom with vigilance. He must employ honest and learned ministers, shun the counsel of the greedy, the intemperate, the foolish, and the faithless. Through spies he must learn the strength and weakness of friend and foe, the secrets of fortresses, the nature of allies.
Conciliation, gifts, dissension, chastisement—these are the tools of policy. In separation or in union they bring success. Without diplomacy, no realm endures; with diplomacy well guided, success is sure.
In religion, let him heed the pious; in wealth, the prudent; in family, the loyal; in crooked dealings, the crooked; in secrecy, the faithful. He must punish with justice, bestow favours with discrimination, and thus uphold the dignity of law. For Brahmanas, heaven lies in tapas and sacrifice; for Vaiśyas, in generosity and service; but for Kṣatriyas, it is attained by protecting subjects and chastising the wicked, without lust, malice, greed, or anger. Such is the law, eternal and stern.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
Then, contracting that vast form at will, Hanumān drew his arms about Bhīma in a brotherly embrace. As the great monkey’s embrace closed, the weariness that had weighed upon Bhīma fell away like night before the sun; his strength returned in fullness, and he felt himself, as before, unmatched in bodily might. Tears stood in Hanumān’s eyes as, moved with affection, he spoke to Bhīma in a voice choked with feeling:
“O hero, return now to thy home. Remember me, if thou wilt, in kindly words; but tell none that I dwell here. Within this grove the wives of gods and Gandharvas shall soon come to court their play—keep this place secret. My eyes are blessed that they have seen thee, a human like unto Rama in his glory. Ask of me, as a brother asks, and I will grant thee boon upon boon. Shouldst thou bid me, I will lay waste the unworthy sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra; I will grind their city with stones; I will bind Duryodhana and bring him before thee this very day.”
Hearing this, Bhīma rejoiced and answered with simple, soldierly faith:
“Brother, thy words are as deeds to me; be pleased with thy vow. With thee for our guardian the Pāṇḍavas have aid enough. By thy prowess shall our foes be broken.”
Then Hanumān, the elder and the sage in monkey-form, made ready a fraternal gift and a counsel. In measured tones he promised:
“From brotherly love I shall go into thy foe’s array,
And there, where arrows rain, add strength to thy sway.
When thou givest a leonine roar upon the field,
My shout upon Arjuna’s flag shall make their courage yield.”
Vaiśampāyana here interposed, addressing Janamejaya as was his wont: the utterance of Hanumān carried both a vow and a tactical maxim.
“When Bhīma bellows like a lion, Hanumān said, his voice shall be met and multiplied by the elder monkey’s own shout.”
Vaiśampāyana explained that the doubling of battle-cry would be both a terror and a rally: the enemy’s hearts would falter, while the warriors of the righteous would be heartened.
“I will take my seat upon Arjuna’s flagstaff and there utter a fierce cry that shall damp the valour of foes.”
Vaiśampāyana explained that Hanumān’s presence on the standard would make the banner itself a talisman: his shout, borne high, would fall on the enemy like a flood, lessening their will to fight and turning the tide.
Having thus given counsel and benediction, Hanumān vanished from sight, leaving Bhīma filled with renewed vigour and the Pāṇḍavas comforted by the secret strength of that mighty brother.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When that foremost of monkeys had departed, Bhīma, strongest of men, pressed on along the vast ridges of Gandhamādana. His thoughts lingered on Hanumān’s unearthly body and splendour, unequalled on earth, and upon the greatness of Daśaratha’s son, whose deeds shone like a sun among kings.
Pacing swiftly through the mountains, he came upon groves and rivers, lakes edged with blossoming trees, woodlands thick with flowers of many hues. Herds of elephants, mad with rut and caked in mud, loomed like thunderclouds wandering the slopes. Deer of swift glance paused by the path, grass trembling in their mouths, yet fled not from him, fearless as he was.
Drawn onward by breezes that shook copper-hued twigs and carried the fragrance of untold flowers, Bhīma pressed into the highland forests, home to buffaloes, bears, and leopards. He passed lotus-filled lakes where black bees hummed in intoxication, descending steps lined the banks, and the budding lotuses seemed like hands joined in reverence before him.
Bearing as his sustenance the words of Draupadī—her wish for the rare blossoms—he strode on, his mind and sight fixed upon the mountain’s flowering slopes.
When the sun had crossed the meridian, Bhīma came to a mighty river flowing through a deer-scattered forest. Its waters shone with golden lotuses fresh as dawn, its banks alive with swans, kāraṇḍavas, and chakravākas, so that it seemed a living garland cast upon the breast of the mountain.
There, in the heart of those waters, he beheld at last the sacred cluster of Saugandhika lotuses—radiant as the rising sun, their fragrance divine, their beauty unearthly.
And seeing them, the son of Pāṇḍu rejoiced:
“My quest is fulfilled.
For her, the fire-born princess,
worn by exile and hardship,
I bring this token of delight.”
Thus with his heart set on Draupadī, Bhīma beheld his purpose accomplished.