Reading section 71

Then Lakshmaṇ round his brother threw His mighty arms in honour due, Bent lowly down his reverent head, And onward to the battle sped. Hanúmán from afar beheld How Rávaṇ’s shafts the Vánars quelled: To meet the giant’s car he ran, Raised his right arm and thus began: “If Brahmá’s boon thy life has screened From Yaksha, God, Gandharva, fiend, With these contending fear no ill, But tremble at a Vánar still.” With fury flashing from his eye The lord of Lanká made reply: “Strike, Vánar, strike: the fray begin, And hope eternal fame to win. This arm shall prove thee in the strife And end thy glory and thy life.” “Remember,” cried the Wind-God’s son, “Remember all that I have done, My prowess, King, thou knowest well, Shown in the fight when Aksha(963) fell.”

With heavy hand the giant smote Hanúmán on the chest and throat, Who reeled and staggered to and fro, Stunned for a moment by the blow. Till, mustering strength, his hand he reared And struck the foe whom Indra feared. His huge limbs bent beneath the shock, As mountains, in an earthquake, rock, And from the Gods and sages pealed Shouts of loud triumph as he reeled. But strength returning nerved his frame: His eyeballs flashed with fiercer flame. No living creature might resist That blow of his tremendous fist Which fell upon Hanúmán’s flank: And to the ground the Vánar sank, No sign of life his body showed: And Rávaṇ in his chariot rode At Níla; and his arrowy rain Fell on the captain and his train. Fierce Níla stayed his Vánar band, And, heaving with his single hand A mountain peak, with vigorous swing Hurled the huge missile at the king.

Hanúmán life and strength regained, Burned for the fight and thus complained: “Why, coward giant, didst thou flee And leave the doubtful fight with me?” Seven mighty arrows keen and fleet The giant launched, the hill to meet; And, all its force and fury stayed, The harmless mass on earth was laid. Enraged the Vánar chief beheld The mountain peak by force repelled, And rained upon the foe a shower Of trees uptorn with branch and flower. Still his keen shafts which pierced and rent Each flying tree the giant sent: Still was the Vánar doomed to feel The tempest of the winged steel. Then, smarting from that arrowy storm, The Vánar chief condensed his form,(964) And lightly leaping from the ground On Rávaṇ’s standard footing found; Then springing unimpeded down Stood on his bow and golden crown. The Vánar’s nimble leaps amazed Ikshváku’s son who stood and gazed. The giant, raging in his heart, Laid on his bow a fiery dart; The Vánar on his flagstaff eyed, And thus in tones of fury cried: “Well skilled in magic lore art thou: But will thine art avail thee now? See if thy magic will defend Thy life against the dart I send.”

Thus Rávaṇ spake, the giant king, And loosed the arrow from the string. It pierced, with direst fury sped, The Vánar with its flaming head. His father’s might, his power innate Preserved him from the threatened fate. Upon his knees he fell, distained With streams of blood, but life remained.

Still Rávaṇ for the battle burned: At Lakshmaṇ next his car he turned, And charged amain with furious show, Straining in mighty hands his bow. “Come,” Lakshmaṇ cried, “assay the fight: Leave foes unworthy of thy might.” Thus Lakshmaṇ spoke: and Lanká’s lord Heard the dread thunder of the cord. And mad with burning rage and pride In hasty words like these replied: “Joy, joy is mine, O Raghu’s son: Thy fate to-day thou canst not shun. Slain by mine arrows thou shalt tread The gloomy pathway of the dead.”

Thus as he spoke his bow he drew, And seven keen shafts at Lakshmaṇ flew, But Raghu’s son with surest aim Cleft every arrow as it came. Thus with fleet shafts each warrior shot Against his foe, and rested not. Then one choice weapon from his store, By Brahmá’s self bestowed of yore, Fierce as the flames that end the world, The giant king at Lakshmaṇ hurled. The hero fell, and racked with pain, Scarce could his hand his bow retain. But sense and strength resumed their seat And, lightly springing to his feet, He struck with one tremendous stroke And Rávaṇ’s bow in splinters broke. From Lakshmaṇ’s cord three arrows flew And pierced the giant monarch through. Sore wounded Rávaṇ closed, and round Ikshváku’s son his strong arms wound. With strength unrivalled, Brahmá’s gift, He strove from earth his foe to lift. “Shall I,” he cried, “who overthrow Mount Meru and the Lord of Snow, And heaven and all who dwell therein, Be foiled by one of Ráma’s kin?” But though he heaved, and toiled, and strained, Unmoved Ikshváku’s son remained. His frame by those huge arms compressed The giant’s God-given force confessed, But conscious that himself was part Of Vishṇu, he was firm in heart.

The Wind-God’s son the fight beheld, And rushed at Rávaṇ, rage-impelled. Down crashed his mighty hand; the foe Full in the chest received the blow. His eyes grew dim, his knees gave way, And senseless on the earth he lay.

The Wind-God’s son to Ráma bore Deep-wounded Lakshmaṇ stained with gore. He whom no foe might lift or bend Was light as air to such a friend. The dart that Lakshmaṇ’s side had cleft, Untouched, the hero’s body left, And flashing through the air afar Resumed its place in Rávaṇ’s car; And, waxing well though wounded sore, He felt the deadly pain no more. And Rávaṇ, though with deep wounds pained, Slowly his sense and strength regained, And furious still and undismayed On bow and shaft his hand he laid.

Then Hanumán to Ráma cried: “Ascend my back, great chief, and ride Like Vishṇu borne on Garuḍ’s wing, To battle with the giant king.” So, burning for the dire attack, Rode Ráma on the Vánar’s back, And with fierce accents loud and slow Thus gave defiance to the foe, While his strained bowstring made a sound Like thunder when it shakes the ground: “Stay, Monarch of the giants, stay, The penalty of sin to pay. Stay! whither wilt thou fly, and how Escape the death that waits thee now?”

No word the giant king returned: His eyes with flames of fury burned. His arm was stretched, his bow was bent, And swift his fiery shafts were sent. Red torrents from the Vánar flowed: Then Ráma near to Rávaṇ strode, And with keen darts that never failed, The chariot of the king assailed. With surest aim his arrows flew: The driver and the steeds he slew. And shattered with the pointed steel Car, flag, and pole and yoke and wheel. As Indra hurls his bolt to smite Mount Meru’s heaven-ascending height, So Ráma with a flaming dart Struck Lanká’s monarch near the heart, Who reeled and fell beneath the blow And from loose fingers dropped his bow. Bright as the sun, with crescent head, From Ráma’s bow an arrow sped, And from his forehead, proud no more, Cleft the bright coronet he wore. Then Ráma stood by Rávaṇ’s side And to the conquered giant cried: “Well hast thou fought: thine arm has slain Strong heroes of the Vánar train. I will not strike or slay thee now, For weary, faint with fight art thou. To Lanká’s town thy footsteps bend, And there the night securely spend. To-morrow come with car and bow, And then my prowess shalt thou know.”

He ceased: the king in humbled pride Rose from the earth and naught replied. With wounded limbs and shattered crown He sought again his royal town.

Canto LX. Kumbhakarna Roused.

With humbled heart and broken pride Through Lanká’s gate the giant hied, Crushed, like an elephant beneath A lion’s spring and murderous teeth, Or like a serpent ’neath the wing And talons of the Feathered King. Such was the giant’s wild alarm At arrows shot by Ráma’s arm; Shafts with red lightning round them curled, Like Brahmá’s bolts that end the world.

Supported on his golden throne, With failing eye and humbled tone, “Giants,” he cried, “the toil is vain, Fruitless the penance and the pain, If I whom Indra owned his peer, Secure from Gods, a mortal fear. My soul remembers, now too late, Lord Brahmá’s words who spoke my fate: “Tremble, proud Giant,” thus they ran, “And dread thy death from slighted man. Secure from Gods and demons live, And serpents, by the boon I give. Against their power thy life is charmed, But against man is still unarmed.” This Ráma is the man foretold By Anaraṇya’s(965) lips of old:

“Fear, Rávaṇ, basest of the base: For of mine own imperial race A prince in after time shall spring And thee and thine to ruin bring. And Vedavatí,(966) ere she died Slain by my ruthless insult, cried: “A scion of my royal line Shall slay, vile wretch, both thee and thine.” She in a later birth became King Janak’s child, now Ráma’s dame. Nandíśvara(967) foretold this fate, And Umá(968) when I moved her hate, And Rambhá,(969) and the lovely child Of Varuṇ(970) by my touch defiled. I know the fated hour is nigh: Hence, captains, to your stations fly. Let warders on the rampart stand: Place at each gate a watchful band; And, terror of immortal eyes, Let mightiest Kumbhakarṇa rise. He, slumbering, free from care and pain, By Brahmá’s curse, for months has lain. But when Prahasta’s death he hears, Mine own defeat and doubts and fears, The chief will rise to smite the foe And his unrivalled valour show. Then Raghu’s royal sons and all The Vánars neath his might will fall.”

The giant lords his hest obeyed, They left him, trembling and afraid, And from the royal palace strode To Kumbhakarṇa’s vast abode. They carried garlands sweet and fresh, And reeking loads of blood and flesh. They reached the dwelling where he lay, A cave that reached a league each way, Sweet with fair blooms of lovely scent And bright with golden ornament. His breathings came so fierce and fast, Scarce could the giants brook the blast. They found him on a golden bed With his huge limbs at length outspread. They piled their heaps of venison near, Fat buffaloes and boars and deer. With wreaths of flowers they fanned his face, And incense sweetened all the place. Each raised his mighty voice as loud As thunders of an angry cloud, And conchs their stirring summons gave That echoed through the giant’s cave. Then on his breast they rained their blows, And high the wild commotion rose When cymbal vied with drum and horn. And war cries on the gale upborne. Through all the air loud discord spread, And, struck with fear, the birds fell dead. But still he slept and took his rest. Then dashed they on his shaggy chest Clubs, maces, fragments of the rock: He moved not once, nor felt the shock. The giants made one effort more With shell and drum and shout and roar. Club, mallet, mace, in fury plied, Rained blows upon his breast and side. And elephants were urged to aid, And camels groaned and horses neighed. They drenched him with a hundred pails, They tore his ears with teeth and nails. They bound together many a mace And beat him on the head and face; And elephants with ponderous tread Stamped on his limbs and chest and head. The unusual weight his slumber broke: He started, shook his sides, and woke; And, heedless of the wounds and blows, Yawning with thirst and hunger rose, His jaws like hell gaped fierce and wide, Dire as the flame neath ocean’s tide. Red as the sun on Meru’s crest The giant’s face his wrath expressed, And every burning breath he drew Was like the blast that rushes through The mountain cedars. Up he raised His awful head with eyes that blazed Like comets, dire as Death in form Who threats the worlds with fire and storm. The giants pointed to their stores Of buffaloes and deer and boars, And straight he gorged him with a flood Of wine, with marrow, flesh, and blood. He ceased: the giants ventured near And bent their lowly heads in fear. Then Kumbhakar[n.]a glared with eyes Still heavy in their first surprise, Still drowsy from his troubled rest, And thus the giant band addressed. “How have ye dared my sleep to break? No trifling cause should bid me wake. Say, is all well? or tell the need That drives you with unruly speed To wake me. Mark the words I say, The king shall tremble in dismay, The fire be quenched and Indra slain Ere ye shall break my rest in vain.”

Yúpáksha answered: “Chieftain, hear; No God or fiend excites our fear. But men in arms our walls assail: We tremble lest their might prevail. For vengeful Ráma vows to slay The foe who stole his queen away, And, matchless for his warlike deeds, A host of mighty Vánars leads. Ere now a monstrous Vánar came, Laid Lanká waste with ruthless flame, And Aksha, Rávaṇ’s offspring, slew With all his warrior retinue. Our king who never trembled yet For heavenly hosts in battle met, At length the general dread has shared, O’erthrown by Ráma’s arm and spared.”

He ceased: and Kumbhakarṇa spake: “I will go forth and vengeance take; Will tread their hosts beneath my feet, Then triumph-flushed our king will meet. Our giant bands shall eat their fill Of Vánars whom this arm shall kill. The princes’ blood shall be my draught, The chieftains’ shall by you be quaffed.” He spake, and, with an eager stride That shook the earth, to Rávaṇ hied.

Canto LXI. The Vánars’ Alarm.

The son of Raghu near the wall Saw, proudly towering over all, The mighty giant stride along Attended by the warrior throng; Heard Kumbhakarṇa’s heavy feet Awake the echoes of the street; And, with the lust of battle fired, Turned to Vibhishaṇ and inquired: “Vibhishaṇ, tell that chieftain’s name Who rears so high his mountain frame; With glittering helm and lion eyes, Preëminent in might and size Above the rest of giant birth, He towers the standard of the earth; And all the Vánars when they see The mighty warrior turn and flee.”

“In him,” Vibhishaṇ answered, “know Viśravas’ son, the Immortals’ foe, Fierce Kumbhakarṇa, mightier far Than Gods and fiends and giants are. He conquered Yáma in the fight, And Indra trembling owned his might. His arm the Gods and fiends subdued, Gandharvas and the serpent brood. The rest of his gigantic race Are wondrous strong by God-giving grace; But nature at his birth to him Gave matchless power and strength of limb. Scarce was he born, fierce monster, when He killed and ate a thousand men. The trembling race of men, appalled, On Indra for protection called; And he, to save the suffering world, His bolt at Kumbhakarṇa hurled. So awful was the monster’s yell That fear on all the nations fell, He, rushing on with furious roar, A tusk from huge Airávat tore, And dealt the God so dire a blow That Indra reeling left his foe, And with the Gods and mortals fled To Brahmá’s throne dispirited. “O Brahmá,” thus the suppliants cried, “Some refuge for this woe provide. If thus his maw the giant sate Soon will the world be desolate.” The Self-existent calmed their woe, And spake in anger to their foe: “As thou wast born, Pulastya’s son, That worlds might weep by thee undone, Thou like the dead henceforth shalt be: Such is the curse I lay on thee.” Senseless he lay, nor spoke nor stirred; Such was the power of Brahmá’s word. But Rávaṇ, troubled for his sake, Thus to the Self-existent spake: “Who lops the tree his care has reared When golden fruit has first appeared? Not thus, O Brahmá, deal with one Descended from thine own dear son.(971) Still thou, O Lord, thy word must keep, He may not die, but let him sleep. Yet fix a time for him to break The chains of slumber and awake.” He ceased: and Brahmá made reply; “Six months in slumber shall he lie And then arising for a day Shall cast the numbing bonds away.” Now Rávaṇ in his doubt and dread Has roused the monster from his bed, Who comes in this the hour of need On slaughtered Vánars flesh to feed. Each Vánar, when his awe-struck eyes Behold the monstrous chieftain, flies. With hopeful words their minds deceive, And let our trembling hosts believe They see no giant, but, displayed, A lifeless engine deftly made.”

Then Ráma called to Níla: “Haste, Let troops near every gate be placed, And, armed with fragments of the rock And trees, each lane and alley block.” Thus Ráma spoke: the chief obeyed, And swift the Vánars stood arrayed, As when the black clouds their battle form, The summit of a hill to storm.

Canto LXII. Rávan’s Request.

Along bright Lanká’s royal road The giant, roused from slumber, strode, While from the houses on his head A rain of fragrant flowers was shed. He reached the monarch’s gate whereon Rich gems and golden fretwork shone. Through court and corridor that shook Beneath his tread his way he took, And stood within the chamber where His brother sat in dark despair. But sudden, at the grateful sight The monarch’s eye again grew bright. He started up, forgot his fear, And drew his giant brother near. The younger pressed the elder’s feet And paid the King observance meet, Then cried: “O Monarch, speak thy will, And let my care thy word fulfil. What sudden terror and dismay Have burst the bonds in which I lay?”

Fierce flashed the flame from Rávaṇ’s eye, As thus in wrath he made reply: “Fair time, I ween, for sleep is this, To lull thy soul in tranquil bliss, Unheeding, in oblivion drowned, The dangers that our lives surround. Brave Ráma, Daśaratha’s son, A passage o’er the sea has won, And, with the Vánar monarch’s aid, Round Lanká’s walls his hosts arrayed. Though never in the deadly field My Rákshas troops were known to yield, The bravest of the giant train Have fallen by the Vánars slain. Hence comes my fear. O fierce and brave, Go forth, our threatened Lanká save. Go forth, a dreadful vengeance take: For this, O chief, I bade thee wake. The Gods and trembling fiends have felt The furious blows thine arm has dealt. Earth has no warrior, heaven has none To match thy might, Paulastya’s son.”

Canto LXIII. Kumbhakarna’s Boast.

Then Kumbhakarṇa laughed aloud And cried; “O Monarch, once so proud, We warned thee, but thou wouldst not hear; And now the fruits of sin appear. We warned thee, I, thy nobles, all Who loved thee, in thy council hall. Those sovereigns who with blinded eyes Neglect the foe their hearts despise, Soon, falling from their high estate Bring on themselves the stroke of fate. Accept at length, thy life to save, The counsel sage Vibhishaṇ gave, The prudent counsel spurned before, And Sítá to her lord restore.”(972)

The monarch frowned, by passion moved And thus in angry words reproved: “Wilt thou thine elder brother school, Forgetful of the ancient rule That bids thee treat him as the sage Who guides thee with the lore of age? Think on the dangers of the day, Nor idly throw thy words away: If, led astray, by passion stirred, I in the pride of power have erred; If deeds of old were done amiss, No time for vain reproach is this. Up, brother; let thy loving care The errors of thy king repair.”

To calm his wrath, his soul to ease, The younger spake in words like these: “Yea, from our bosoms let us cast All idle sorrow for the past. Let grief and anger be repressed: Again be firm and self-possessed. This day, O Monarch, shalt thou see The Vánar legions turn and flee, And Ráma and his brother slain With their hearts’ blood shall dye the plain. Yea, if the God who rules the dead, And Varuṇ their battalions led; If Indra with the Storm-Gods came Against me, and the Lord of Flame, Still would I fight with all and slay Thy banded foes, my King, to-day. If Raghu’s son this day withstand The blow of mine uplifted hand, Deep in his breast my darts shall sink, And torrents of his life-blood drink. O fear not, in my promise trust: This arm shall lay him in the dust, Shall leave the fierce Sugríva dyed With gore, and Lakshmaṇ by his side, And strike the great Hanúmán down, The spoiler of our glorious town.”(973)

Canto LXIV. Mahodar’s Speech.

He ceased: and when his lips were closed Mahodar thus his rede opposed: “Why wilt thou shame thy noble birth And speak like one of little worth? Why boast thee thus in youthful pride Rejecting wisdom for thy guide? How will thy single arm oppose The victor of a thousand foes, Who proved in Janasthán his might And slew the rovers of the night? The remnant of those legions, they Who saw his power that fatal day, Now in this leaguered city dread The mighty chief from whom they fled. And wouldst thou meet the lord of men, Beard the great lion in his den, And, when thine eyes are open, break The slumber of a deadly snake? Who may an equal battle wage With him, so awful in his rage, Fierce as the God of Death whom none May vanquish, Daśaratha’s son? But, Rávaṇ, shall the lady still Refuse compliance with thy will? No, listen, King, to this design Which soon shall make the captive thine. This day through Lanká’s streets proclaim That four of us(974) of highest fame With Kumbhakarṇa at our head Will strike the son of Raghu dead. Forth to the battle will we go And prove our prowess on the foe. Then, if our bold attempt succeed, No further plans thy hopes will need. But if in vain our warriors strive, And Raghu’s son be left alive, We will return, and, wounded sore, Our armour stained with gouts of gore, Will show the shafts that rent each frame, Keen arrows marked with Ráma’s name, And say we giants have devoured The princes whom our might o’erpowered. Then let the joyful tidings spread That Raghu’s royal sons are dead. To all around thy pleasure show, Gold, pearls, and precious robes, bestow. Gay garlands round the portals twine, Enjoy the banquet and the wine. Then go, the scornful lady seek, And woo her when her heart is weak. Rich robes and gold and gems display, And gently wile her grief away. Then will she feel her hopeless state, Widowed, forlorn, and desolate; Know that on thee her bliss depends, Far from her country and her friends; Then, her proud spirit overthrown, The lady will be all thine own.”

Canto LXV. Kumbhakarna’s Speech.

But haughty Kumbhakarṇa spurned His counsel, and to Rávaṇ turned: “Thy life from peril will I free And slay the foe who threatens thee. A hero never vaunts in vain, Like bellowing clouds devoid of rain, Nor, Monarch, be thine ear inclined To counsellors of slavish kind, Who with mean arts their king mislead And mar each gallant plan and deed. O, let not words like his beguile The glorious king of Lanká’s isle.”

Thus scornful Kumbhakarṇa cried, And Rávaṇ with a laugh replied: “Mahodar fears and fain would shun The battle with Ikshváku’s son. Of all my giant warriors, who Is strong as thou, and brave and true? Ride, conqueror, to the battle ride, And tame the foeman’s senseless pride. Go forth like Yáma to the field, And let thine arm thy trident wield. Scared by the lightning of thine eye The Vánar hosts will turn and fly; And Ráma, when he sees thee near, With trembling heart will own his fear.”

The champion heard, and, well content, Forth from the hall his footsteps bent. He grasped his spear, the foeman’s dread, Black iron all, both shaft and head, Which, dyed in many a battle, bore Great spots of slaughtered victims’ gore. The king upon his neck had thrown The jewelled chain which graced his own. And garlands of delicious scent About his limbs for ornament. Around his arms gay bracelets clung, And pendants in his ears were hung. Adorned with gold, about his waist His coat of mail was firmly braced, And like Náráyaṇ(975) or the God Who rules the sky he proudly trod. Behind him went a mighty throng Of giant warriors tall and strong, On elephants of noblest breeds. With cars, with camels, and with steeds: And, armed with spear and axe and sword Were fain to battle for their lord.(976)

Canto LXVI. Kumbhakarna’s Sally.

In pomp and pride of warlike state The giant passed the city gate. He raised his voice: the hills, the shore Of Lanká’s sea returned the roar. The Vánars saw the chief draw nigh Whom not the ruler of the sky, Nor Yáma, monarch of the dead, Might vanquish, and affrighted fled. When royal Angad, Báli’s son, Saw the scared Vánars turn and run, Undaunted still he kept his ground, And shouted as he gazed around: “O Nala, Níla, stay nor let Your souls your generous worth forget, O Kumud and Gaváksha, why Like base-born Vánars will ye fly? Turn, turn, nor shame your order thus: This giant is no match for us”

They heard his voice: the flight was stayed; Again for war they stood arrayed, And hurled upon the foe a shower Of mountain peaks and trees in flower. Still on his limbs their missiles rained: Unmoved, their blows he still sustained, And seemed unconscious of the stroke When rocks against his body broke. Fierce as the flame when woods are dry He charged with fury in his eye. Like trees consumed with fervent heat They fell beneath the giant’s feet. Some o’er the ground, dyed red with gore, Fled wild with terror to the shore, And, deeming that all hope was lost, Ran to the bridge they erst had crossed. Some clomb the trees their lives to save, Some sought the mountain and the cave; Some hid them in the bosky dell, And there in deathlike slumber fell.