A story · Ramayana · Hanuman in Lanka

The Search Through Ravana's Palace

Valmiki Ramayana 5.6 · read aloud in the app

The story · English

The gates of Ravana's city were well guarded. rakshasa sentinels stood at every entrance, and far inside, out of sight, were the women of the court, famous for their beauty. As they laughed and moved, their armlets struck together, and the sound carried like the sea heard from far off. Past the gate lay the great hall, full of every sign of royal power, with rows of noble courtiers standing as still and as dangerous as lions in a wood. Drums, tabors and conch shells rose and fell through rooms kept holy by worship at each sacred hour. Through all of this the vanaras moved without fear, from grove to garden, from house to house, his eyes always lifting to the terraces, the domes and the high walls.

He went quickly and lightly. He passed through the house of Prahasta, and through the courtyard of Kumbhakarna, where a building rose into the air like a heap of cloud. He crossed the hill and searched the garden of every rakshasa lord, every court and every grove, until at last he came near the palace of Ravana himself. She-demons with ugly faces watched over it, each carrying a sword, a spear or a mace, and with them stood warrior fiends of every colour. Rows of elephants waited there, the terror of any enemy, and the great Airavata, trained for war, stood chained and ready. Litters set with gems and golden netting rested on the ground. Flowering creepers covered the walls, banners flew from every height, and from the high roof came the sharp cry of peacocks.

He slipped inside the walls, and gold and jewels blazed all around him. Windows of latticework shone with turquoise and lapis. He went through porch after porch and room after room, each one richer than the last, and through wide halls where lances, bows and conches lay neatly arranged. It was a house that matched heaven itself. Fresh flowers, red and white, were scattered over the polished floors, and the women flashed among them like lightning in a cloud. Beside the palace lay lovely lakes full of lilies and lotus buds. And there, outshining every other building, stood the marvellous car named for a flower. Turquoise birds were worked into it, golden serpents coiled along it, horses and elephants were carved beside a silver stream, and Lakshmi herself stood there in sculpture, holding a lotus.

Hanuman could not take his eyes off that car. It was heavy with gems and burnished gold, and Vishvakarma, the builder of the gods, had called it the finest thing his hands had ever made. It hung in the air, shining like the sun's own path across the sky. A person could look over every inch of it and find nothing to fault. Not even the gods ride in cars so richly jewelled. Ravana had won it as the prize of his long and painful austerities, and it went wherever its master wished, over forests and mountains, rising or sinking, faster than the wind. Inside were wide, lovely chambers, pure as moonlight in a clear sky. Countless night-roving goblins drew it through the clouds, their earrings clashing as they flew.

Among all the grand houses there was one finer still, and its height and splendour told Hanuman that this was where the king himself lived. Soldiers with bows and swords guarded it. Inside, the women of the rakshasas and many princesses, carried off by Ravana from kings he had defeated, lay asleep. Arches set with rubies, pearls and every kind of gem threw shifting light onto the golden pillars below. The air was soft and warm as summer, drifting through trees heavy with fruit. No guard stopped him, no door was locked. Only that sweet air came to meet him, the way a host welcomes a weary relative. Hanuman stood in a vast hall with a carved roof and painted walls, crystal floors and jewelled stairs. "This is Indra's heaven," he said, looking all around. "This is the home of the gods."

Soft carpets covered the floor, and on them lay many beautiful women, worn out by their games and fallen asleep. The wine had stopped flowing, the music had died, no anklet jingled. They lay as quiet as lilies on a lake when the birds have gone to their nests. The room glowed with them like a winter sky full of stars. "These must be the stars that fall to earth on autumn nights," Hanuman said, "come back brighter to shine here." He looked at them one by one. One lay with her head thrown back. One had another's garland around her waist. One slept with her cheek on a mirror, one held a lute against her breast, one had wrapped her arms around a silver jar. Tired of dancing and singing, they lay tangled together like blossoms tossed in a heap.

Set apart from the rest was a raised platform of crystal, with couches fit for heaven and a canopy pale as moonlight. On the finest couch, on soft skins of deer and sheep, lay the king of the giants, dark as a storm cloud, perfumed with sandalwood and hung with gold. Hanuman crept nearer to look. Ravana lay on his back, exhausted and drunk, and his breath hissed out of him like snakes, shaking his whole huge body. His arms, heavy with bracelets, were as thick as the poles that carry Indra's banner. The red scars of Airavata's tusks marked his chest, and the dents of the thunderbolt marked his shoulders. Around him slept his wives, and beside him lay Mandodari, his favourite queen, more beautiful than all the rest. Hanuman thought, "She is so lovely. This must be the queen of Mithila, Sita herself."

But almost at once he threw the thought away, and his hope came back. "No. Rama's wife is none of these. She is not someone who lives easy and careless. Her heart is in mourning. She has stopped caring for fine clothes and sleep and good food. She would never lie beside another man, not even if Indra came down from the sky to court her. Her one husband, matched by no one in heaven, is the son of Raghu." So he went on, determined to search everything, and entered the banquet hall. Women lay asleep on the floor there too, worn out with song and dance and wine. The tables were loaded with roast boar, buffalo and deer, peacock and hen on gold plates, untouched, meats of every kind, and golden cups of wine. He searched from end to end. Sita was not there.

He began again, chamber by chamber, hall by hall, and still found nothing. A bitter thought came to him. "She must be dead. She refused him, and he killed her. Or the sight of those monstrous women frightened her to death. All this searching is useless. And I cannot go back to the king having failed. He is quick to punish. How will I face the others waiting on the shore? How will I look Angada in the eye? What will Jambavan say?" Then he steadied himself. "A brave heart does not give up. I will push this grief down and search this palace through and through, every place I have not yet been." Silently he went through every corridor, arbour, lodge and painted room. Sita was nowhere. At last he left Ravana's halls, quick as lightning, his hope cold.

"Perhaps she slipped from his grip as he flew, and the sea closed over her," he thought. "Perhaps fear killed her, or his hand crushed her. If I go back with this, it will kill Rama. Lakshmana will die with him, then Bharata, then Shatrughna. Sugriva will die with the friend he could not save, and Ruma and Tara after him, and Angada too. Our whole people will throw themselves from the mountains in despair. No. Unless I find her, I will never go back. I will live here as a hermit, or burn on a pyre, or starve until the birds tear at Hanuman's body." Then he looked up and saw one grove still unsearched, bright with Ashoka trees. "I will search there. Glory to the Sun and Moon, the Vasus, the Maruts, the Adityas and the Asvins. May I find her, and bring her back in triumph."

कथा · हिन्दी

In this book

• Before: The Guardian of Lanka · Valmiki Ramayana 5.2
• Next: Sita in the Ashoka Grove · Valmiki Ramayana 5.14
• All of Ramayana · Ask Krishna about it

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