दक्षिणदिशि वानरप्रेषणम्

Having sent that great army of monkeys off to the east, Sugrīva now dispatched to the south a band of monkeys he had chosen with care. The word the poet uses, "chosen", means that these were not picked up at random but marked out and selected on purpose. Among them were Nīla, son of the Fire-god; Hanumān; Jāmbavān of great might, son of the Grandsire Brahmā; Suhotra, Śarāri and Śaragulma; Gaja, Gavākṣa, Gavaya, Suṣeṇa and Vṛṣabha; Mainda and Dvivida; a second Suṣeṇa and Gandhamādana; and Ulkāmukha and Anaṅga, the two sons of the Fire-god. Two Suṣeṇas are named because there were two: one was Tārā's father, the other a different leader of monkey troops. These heroes, swift and valiant, with Aṅgada at their head, received their orders from the lord of the monkey hosts, whom the poet calls "discerning" — a king who knew the strength and temper of each monkey and set each to the work that suited him. He put mighty Aṅgada in front of them all and assigned them the southern quarter, and then, one after another, he named to those chiefs every hard-to-reach region that lay in that direction. Here the poet shows how well Sugrīva knew the earth: a bare command was not enough; the road itself had to be described in detail, or the search would lose its way. Aṅgada's place at the head reflects his standing as crown prince; far from being slighted as Vālī's son, he was given the command. Of all the quarters the south matters most, for that is where Rāvaṇa lives and where Hanumān's great deed awaits. The poet gave these two sargas over to geography, yet every name moves the story forward. The monkeys were many, the quarters four, and the time allowed only a month, so what counted in planning was intelligence, not strength. With two sons of Fire and a son of Brahmā among them, this army clearly carried a share of the gods. And Hanumān's name slips by almost unremarked in the list, a quiet hint that he is the one who will achieve everything.

First Sugrīva pointed them to the Vindhya mountain with its thousand peaks, covered in trees and creepers of every kind, and to the lovely river Narmadā, haunted by great serpents; these two are the gateway to the southern road. After that they were to see the lovely Godāvarī, the great river Kṛṣṇaveṇī, the illustrious Varadā, and the lands of the Mekhalas and Utkalas and the cities of Daśārṇa. He told them to search on every side among the peoples of Ābravantī and Avantī, the Vidarbhas, the Ṛṣṭikas, the charming Māhiṣakas, the Vaṅgas, the Kaliṅgas and the Kauśikas. Having searched the Daṇḍaka forest with its mountains, rivers and caves, and looked over the Godāvarī once more, they were to go on to the Āndhras, the Puṇḍras, the Colas, the Pāṇḍyas and the Keralas. The mention of the Daṇḍaka forest is especially pointed, since that is where Sītā was carried off; searching there again was only natural. The poet leads this list in order from north to south: first the Vindhya, then the Narmadā, then the rivers of the south, then the peoples of the middle country, and last the Drāviḍa lands. Twice Sugrīva says "look over all of it", stressing that the search must be complete, with nothing left out. Naming the rivers, the poet keeps their epithets too, so that the listener can picture them; "haunted by great serpents" is used of both the Narmadā and the Varadā and conveys their depth. Eastern and southern peoples are mixed together in the list because the southern road is so vast.

Next they were to search Ayomukha, a great mountain adorned with mineral ores, with wondrous peaks, woods bright with flowers and tracts full of sandal groves; "adorned with ores" points to its red chalk and other minerals. Then they would come to the divine river Kāverī, whose clear waters are auspicious and where troops of apsarases play. On the summit of Mount Malaya they would see Agastya, best of sages, bright as the sun and of great splendour; the brilliance won by his austerities is likened to the sun's, and "best of sages" sets him above all other seers. Given leave by that gracious great soul, they would cross the great river Tāmraparṇī, haunted by crocodiles, which, screened by lovely sandal groves and with islands hidden in her waters, plunges into the sea as a loving young woman goes to her beloved. This is a famous image of the poet's: a river meeting the ocean is pictured as a bride joining her husband, the river as a woman and the sea as her lover, a figure found in many places in the Rāmāyaṇa. Only by crossing the island-studded Tāmraparṇī is the Pāṇḍya country reached; there they would see the golden, divine gate of the Pāṇḍyas, set with pearls and gems, a sign of that kingdom's wealth, for its pearls come from the sea. After that, reaching the ocean, they were to settle their course and go on. The meeting with Agastya is the centre of this passage: the sage who in the Araṇya Kāṇḍa gave Rāma a divine bow and two inexhaustible quivers is here the monkeys' guide in the south. "Given leave" reflects good conduct: it would not be right to go on without the sage's consent, and the monkeys, strong as they are, show humility before an ascetic. In describing the Kāverī and the Tāmraparṇī the poet does more than mark a route; he paints the beauty of the south, and with a single word each he sets the two rivers apart — the Kāverī's clear waters speak of her purity, the Tāmraparṇī's crocodiles of her danger.

Then they would see Mahendra, best of mountains, glorious, with wondrous ridges and trees, which Agastya had set down there in the sea. Made of gold, it stands plunged into the great ocean, adorned with many flowering trees and creepers, graced by the foremost of gods, sages and yakṣas and by apsarases, thronged with siddhas and cāraṇas and utterly delightful. The thousand-eyed Indra visits it at every change of the moon, a sign of its sacred standing, and its being "set there by Agastya" tells of its divine origin, just as Agastya is well known to have held the Vindhya in check. Beyond its farther shore lies a blazing island a hundred leagues broad that men cannot reach. They were to search it on every side and, above all, to seek Sītā there with their whole soul, for that land is the home of Rāvaṇa, the wicked lord of the rākṣasas, whose splendour rivals Indra's and who is doomed to die. Here, for the first time, Laṅkā is clearly pointed to, though not yet named; the poet uncovers the secret step by step. Calling Rāvaṇa "doomed" speaks as if his fate were already settled: Sugrīva does not know exactly where he lives, but he knows for certain how he will end. The island is out of reach for men, and yet the monkeys are sent there, for they are not men. In the middle of the southern ocean, Sugrīva warned, lives a rākṣasī named Aṅgāraka who seizes a creature's shadow, drags it into her power and eats it — the first danger of the sea-road, one that will return in the Sundara Kāṇḍa in the form of Siṃhikā. So, resolving every doubt and putting doubt aside, they were to seek out the wife of that king of measureless power; the words "putting doubt aside" describe the searcher's state of mind, for no one who is full of doubt sees anything clearly. Mahendra is described at length because it is from this very mountain that Hanumān will leap across the ocean; here the poet sows the seed of the Sundara Kāṇḍa to come.

Past that island, a hundred leagues out in the sea, stands the glorious mountain Puṣpitaka, frequented by siddhas and cāraṇas. Bright as the rays of sun and moon, resting on the ocean's waters, it shines with broad peaks that seem to score the sky. The sun attends one of its peaks, which is of gold, and the moon the other, white and silver; with this the poet contrasts the beauty of day and of night. The ungrateful, the cruel and the unbelieving never see that mountain — the one moral lesson in the sarga, that what is divine is visible only to the pure in mind. The monkeys were to bow their heads to it and then search it. Beyond it, fourteen leagues away by a hard road, lies the unassailable mountain Sūryavān — the number measures the hardship of the journey — and past that the mountain Vaidyuta, whose trees bear every fruit one could want and are delightful in every season, so that rest there would be easy. There they were to eat choice roots and fruits and drink fine honey before going on; the king has thought even about their weariness on the road, which shows his care for them, and the honey suits the monkeys' nature, a theme that will return at the Honey Grove. Then comes the mountain Kuñjara, pleasing to eye and heart. All three names, Sūryavān, Vaidyuta and Kuñjara, speak of radiance, and with each the road grows more divine.

On Kuñjara stands the house of Agastya built by Viśvakarman, a divine golden dwelling a league broad and ten leagues high, adorned with every kind of jewel; the poet even gives its measurements, and its builder proves it divine. There too is Bhogavatī, the city of the serpents, with broad streets, unassailable, guarded on every side by dreadful serpents with sharp fangs and deadly venom, where the terrible serpent king Vāsuki lives. The description is meant to frighten: wide streets, impregnable guard, venomous snakes and Vāsuki himself. Yet the order is that even there they must go in and search, which shows that the weight of the task outweighs the fear. Every enclosed and hidden tract there must also be examined, for such secret places are just where an abductor would take refuge. Beyond that land stands the great mountain Ṛṣabha, glorious and made of every kind of jewel, where divine sandal grows in three kinds, gośīrṣaka, padmaka and hariśyāma, glowing like fire. But that sandal, even when they saw it, they must never touch. The poet sets guarding and forbidding side by side with care: what is divine may be looked at but not taken, and the sandal everyone loves is here a test of greed. So Sugrīva does not only show the way; he tells them in advance of the obstacles and prohibitions on it, so that they will not stumble into disaster out of ignorance.

That sandal grove is guarded by dreadful gandharvas called the Rohitas. Five gandharva lords live there, bright as the sun — Śailūṣa, Grāmaṇī, Śikṣa, Śuka and Babhru, each named separately so that each stands as an individual — and it is the home of holy beings whose bodies shine like sun, moon and fire. At the end of the earth stand these unassailable ones who have won heaven, as "winners of heaven" tells us, by their austerities. Beyond that the monkeys must not go, for there lies the dreadful world of the fathers, not a place for monkeys, and Yama's capital wrapped in painful darkness. That far, and no farther, could the heroic monkeys search or travel; beyond it there is no road even for those who can go where they please. Here Sugrīva draws a clear boundary: where the world of the living ends, the search ends too. The limit is set not only by fear but by dharma, for the living may not enter the world of the dead.

When they had surveyed all this and whatever else came into view, and had learnt where Vaidehī was, they were to come back. Whoever returned within the month and said "Sītā has been seen" would live happily in luxury, with wealth equal to Sugrīva's own. No one would be dearer to him, dearer even than his own life; however often such a monkey had offended, he would be his kinsman — so Sugrīva promised forgiveness as well. Last, in a closing verse of a different metre, he told them that they were of measureless strength and valour, born in families rich in virtue, and that they must undertake a deed of manly worth great enough to win back the daughter of the king of men. Here reward takes the place of fear: the king drives them not with punishment but with affection. Reminding them of their families and their virtues follows the policy of kings, so that the monkeys, remembering their own honour, would be fired with zeal. "Undertake a deed of manly worth" sums up the sarga: the outcome rests with fate, but the undertaking rests with oneself. And the month's deadline will later build the story's tension, for it is this southern band that will let the time run out.