Chapter 32 — The Leap

The southern shore gave the searchers a direction and then stopped them.

Beyond the rocks, the sea ran to the horizon in a hard blue expanse. Sampati had named Lanka, the island stronghold to which Ravana had taken Sita. Naming it did not make it near. The vanaras stood looking across water no one had yet crossed, while the wind moved salt into their fur and clothes.

They began to speak of their powers. One could go so far and no farther; another could make the outward journey but could not promise a return. Angada said he could reach the island, but he did not know whether he could come back. The silence after that admission was not cowardice. Each understood that failure on the far shore would leave Sita without news and Rama without an answer.

Jambavan, the old bear-hero, turned at last to Hanuman. He did not promise that the sea would become easy, nor did he speak as if courage were a possession that could be handed from one body to another. He recalled what Hanuman had already shown: judgment in the search, patience under failure, and strength he had not used for his own renown.

“Why are you quiet?” he asked. “You have the strength, judgment, and speed this task requires. You are here for Rama. Remember yourself.”

Hanuman had not put himself forward. Now the names around him—Rama, Sita, the pledge that had brought them south—gathered into a single demand. He looked across the water again. It was not a feat to display before companions. It was the road to a woman held beyond reach. He told them he could make the crossing, and that he would return with news if the work allowed it.

“I will go,” he said.

He climbed Mahendra, the mountain that rose above the coast. There he gathered his body and will. His form grew immense; trees shook under his feet, and animals fled along the slopes. Vines tore loose from rock. The mountain trembled beneath the pressure of his launch, its ridges answering with a sound like thunder. Hanuman did not mistake the disturbance for glory. He bowed in mind to those who waited, fixed his attention on Lanka, and sprang.

For a time he moved above the sea like a storm cloud driven by purpose. Below him, waves opened and closed in long dark ridges. Creatures of the deep rose and vanished; wind tore at him; the shore behind him became a line, then disappeared. He had not been sent to conquer the ocean. He crossed it because Sita was on the other side. The mountain fell away behind him. Ahead, sky and water met without offering a road.

From the water a mountain rose. Its slopes shone wetly in the sun, and its crest broke the surface with trees and flowering growth. This was Mainaka, a mountain of the sea, lifted up to offer him a resting place.

“Rest on me,” Mainaka said. “The ocean knows the cause you serve and would help you. Accept the welcome, then go on strengthened.”

Hanuman touched the mountain's summit with affection and respect. “Your welcome honors me,” he answered. “But I cannot pause while Sita waits.” Then he went on.

Not long after, the sky itself seemed to close before him. Surasa, a great serpent-being, rose in his path and said that the gods had given Hanuman to her as food. She opened her mouth wide and commanded him to enter.

Hanuman enlarged himself. Surasa opened wider. He grew again; she matched him. The contest could have become an exchange of force without end. Instead Hanuman suddenly made himself small as a thumb, darted into her mouth, and out again before her jaws could close.

“I have entered,” he said. “Let me continue.”

Surasa smiled. The demand had been answered; the test was complete. She told him that the gods had set her in his path to learn whether force would govern him when discernment could do more. Then she blessed his mission and let him pass.

The next danger did not test him. It hunted him. Hanuman felt his speed falter though the wind was still behind him. Looking down, he saw Simhika in the sea below, a devouring being who had caught his shadow and was drawing him toward her open mouth.

This time there was no riddle to satisfy. Hanuman allowed himself to be pulled close, entered her vast body, and struck from within. When he emerged, Simhika fell back into the water, and the sea closed over her. He did not pause to look behind him.

At last an island rose ahead of him. Lanka stood above its shore, walled and bright beneath the falling evening. Hanuman descended onto a wooded height outside the city and looked at its gates, its towers, and the guarded roads that entered it.

To leap there had required size. To find Sita would require the opposite.

He reduced himself to a small, watchful form and waited for night.