The Ramayana · 294 of 493

Kiṣkindhā Kānda (The Book of Kishkindha): Canto 24 — Sugríva’s Lament

But when Sugríva saw her weep O’erwhelmed in sorrow’s rushing deep, Swift through his bosom pierced the sting Of anguish for the fallen king. At the sad sight his eyes beheld A flood of bitter tears outwelled, And, with his bosom racked and rent, To Ráma with his train he went. He came with faltering steps and slow Where Ráma held his mighty bow And arrow like a venomed snake, And to the son of Raghu spake: “Well hast thou kept, O King, thy vow: The promised fruit is gathered now. But life is marred, my soul to-day Turns sickening from all joy away. For, while this queen laments and sighs Amid a mourning people’s cries, And Angad weeps his father slain, How can my heart delight to reign? For outrage, fury, senseless pride, My brother, doomed of yore, has died. Yet, Raghu’s son, in bitter woe I mourn his fated overthrow. Ah, better far in pain and ill To dwell on Rishyamúka still Than gain the heaven of Gods and all Its pleasures by my brother’s fall. Did not he cry,—great-hearted foe,— “Go, for I will not slay thee, Go”? With his brave soul those words agree: My speech, my deeds, are worthy me. How can a brother counterweigh His grievous loss with joys of sway, And see with dull unpitying eye So brave and good a brother die? His lofty soul was nobly blind: My death alas, he ne’er designed; But I, urged blindly on by hate, Sought with his life my rage to sate. He smote me with a splintered tree: I groaned aloud and turned to flee, From stern reproaches he forbore, And gently bade me sin no more. Serene and dutiful and good He kept the laws of brotherhood: I, fierce and greedy, vengeful, base, Showed all the vices of our race. Ah me, dear friend, my brother’s fate Lays on my soul a crushing weight: A sin no heart should e’er conceive, But at the thought each soul should grieve: Sin such as Indra’s when his blow Laid heavenly Viśvarúpa(610) low. Yet earth, the waters of the seas, The race of women and the trees Were fain upon themselves to take The weight of sin for Indra’s sake. But who a Vánar’s soul will free, Or ease the load that crushes me? Wretch that I am, I may not claim The reverence due to royal name. How shall I reign supreme, or dare Affect the power I should not share? Ah me, I sorrow for my sin, The ruin of my race and kin, Polluted by a hideous crime World-hated till the end of time. Alas, the floods of sorrow roll With whelming force upon my soul: So gathers the descending rain In the deep hollow of the plain.”

Insight

Sugrīva, who has just won, mourns. He says he would rather have stayed in exile on Ṛiṣyamūka than gained a heaven by his brother's death. He calls himself wretched, baseborn, vengeful, the worst of his line. Vālī died of righteous wrath, he says; I killed him out of greed. This is one of the most honest moments in the Kāṇḍa. The victor is not allowed by the poet to enjoy his victory cleanly. Vālmīki keeps doubling back to register the moral cost of the kill on every party who profited from it. The Iliad does this with Achilles after Hector; the David narrative does it with David after Uriah. The story that lets the winner forget what was paid for the win is the story we cannot quite trust.Iliad 24 (Achilles' reckoning); 2 Samuel 12 (Nathan's parable). On Sugrīva's grief as Vālmīki's moral correction: Goldman ed., Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa, intro p. 42.