Sugrīva’s Doubts Cleared

Hanumān came to the two strangers in his mendicant’s disguise, and he spoke to them, and from the first words a kind of recognition passed between them, for Hanumān was wise, and Rāma was Rāma, and each perceived at once that here was no ordinary being. Hanumān’s speech was so eloquent, so graceful, so perfectly courteous and well-ordered, that Rāma marvelled at it, and remarked to Lakshmaṇa that one who could speak so must be a being of the highest cultivation, that such command of language betokened a mind of rare quality.

And Hanumān, for his part, drawing the strangers out, learned their story: that this was Rāma, prince of Ayodhyā, whose wife had been carried off by a demon, who sought allies for her recovery, and who had been directed to Sugrīva by the dying Kabandha.

And when Hanumān understood who these were and what they sought, his disguise and his caution fell away, for he saw at once that here was no threat to Sugrīva but the very salvation of him, an ally sent as if by destiny, one whose need matched Sugrīva’s own and whose power could restore everything Sugrīva had lost.

He revealed himself, and told them of Sugrīva, of his exile and his wrongs, of how his brother Vāli had driven him out and taken his kingdom and his wife, and of how Sugrīva too longed for an ally who could help him regain what he had lost. Here, Hanumān saw, was a friendship made in heaven: two wronged and exiled princes, each having lost a wife and a home, each needing exactly what the other could provide. And Hanumān, overjoyed, took the brothers up the mountain to meet Sugrīva, and so the alliance began.

Sugrīva and Rāma met, and their meeting was warm, for each recognized in the other a fellow-sufferer and a natural ally, and they resolved to make a pact of friendship, and they made it in the most solemn way, before fire. They kindled a sacred flame, and around it they swore friendship and alliance, each pledging to help the other recover what he had lost: Rāma would help Sugrīva defeat Vāli and regain his kingdom and his wife; Sugrīva would place his vast host of vānaras at Rāma’s service to search for Sītā and to help recover her.

It was a pact sealed by fire, the most binding of oaths, and it bound the two of them and their causes together from that moment on.

And Sugrīva, his hope kindled, showed Rāma something he had kept: for he had been among those on the mountaintop when Rāvaṇa flew over carrying Sītā, and he had seen the bundle of jewels she had dropped, and had gathered it up and kept it. Now he brought it out and showed it to Rāma, the ornaments Sītā had cast down as a sign.

And Rāma, seeing them, knew them for Sītā’s, and was overcome again with grief and love, holding the jewels of his lost wife, the first tangible trace of her he had found, the proof that she had passed this way, that she lived, that she had been carried south exactly as Jaṭāyu had said. He pressed the jewels to him and wept over them, and the sight of his grief moved Sugrīva and Hanumān and bound them the more firmly to his cause.

But there was a difficulty, and Sugrīva, though he had made the pact, was troubled by a doubt, and his doubt was reasonable, and the clearing of it is the heart of this chapter. For Sugrīva had pledged to help Rāma, but Rāma had pledged to help Sugrīva against Vāli, and Vāli was terrible. Vāli was the mightiest of all the vānaras, of a strength that was legendary, and Sugrīva had fled from him in helpless terror and lived as a hunted exile precisely because he could not stand against his brother’s power.

And now here was Rāma, promising to defeat this same Vāli; but Rāma was a stranger, a man, and Sugrīva did not yet know whether even Rāma’s strength was equal to Vāli’s. He had staked everything on this alliance, but a whisper of doubt remained: was this ally, for all his noble bearing, actually strong enough to do what he promised? Or would Sugrīva, trusting him, find himself once more facing his terrible brother with a champion who could not match him?

Rāma understood the doubt, and did not resent it, for it was fair, and he resolved to answer it not with words but with proof. And so he performed two feats that swept away every trace of Sugrīva’s hesitation, and they are famous.

Sugrīva showed Rāma the enormous skeleton of a demon named Dundubhi, a monstrous buffalo-demon whom Vāli had slain long ago and whose vast dry bones still lay where they had fallen. It was a measure of Vāli’s strength that he had killed so mighty a creature; and Sugrīva, showing the huge skeleton, meant to convey what Rāma was up against.

And Rāma, for answer, simply walked to the enormous skeleton, and with a single kick of his foot, sent the whole vast mass of bones flying through the air, hurling it an immense distance, tossing that monstrous skeleton as a child might toss a ball. It was a display of casual, overwhelming strength, and Sugrīva’s eyes widened at it, but a shadow of doubt remained, for he noted, shrewdly, that Vāli had killed Dundubhi when the demon was alive and in his full power, whereas Rāma had only flung the dry dead bones; the feats were not quite equal.

So Rāma gave him a second proof, and this one left no room for any doubt at all. Nearby stood a row of seven great sāl trees, mighty trunks in a line. And Rāma took up his bow, and fitted a single arrow, and drew, and loosed, and the one arrow passed clean through all seven of the enormous trees, one after another, piercing every one, and passed on through the earth beyond, and, the tellers say, returned to Rāma’s quiver.

Seven great trees pierced by a single shaft: it was a feat beyond anything Vāli could do, beyond anything Sugrīva had ever seen or imagined, a display of power so far past the ordinary that it could only belong to a being more than mortal.

And with that, Sugrīva’s every doubt was swept away, and his hesitation turned to a joyful, overwhelming faith. He understood now that his ally was no ordinary warrior, however noble, but a power against which even the terrible Vāli was as nothing, and that in binding himself to Rāma he had bound himself to certain victory.

He fell at Rāma’s feet, filled with awe and gratitude and hope, ready now to go against his brother without fear, certain that with such a champion beside him his long exile was ending and his stolen kingdom and wife would be restored.

The pact was sealed, the doubt was cleared, the alliance was firm, and the two wronged princes, each strengthened by the other, turned now toward the first task their friendship required: the challenging of Vāli, and the terrible, morally troubling combat that would end in the death of the mightiest of the vānaras and the restoration of Sugrīva to his throne.