On this page
The battle at Janasthana was over, and its heat carried all the way to Lanka. A rakshasa named Akampana fled the field at furious speed, entered Lanka, and came to stand before Ravana. In a shaking voice he said that the countless rakshasas of Janasthana had been slaughtered, that Khara too had fallen in the fighting, and that he alone had somehow saved his life and reached here. At those words the ten-necked king’s eyes went red with rage, and it was as though his own fire would burn Akampana to ash where he stood. He roared out his question: what man, whose life should already be counted finished, had laid waste his fearsome Janasthana. He boasted that no one could wrong him and know peace, not Indra, not Kubera, not Yama, not Vishnu himself; he was death even to Death, could set fire to fire, could bind mortality itself to its own dying. The roar left Akampana cowering, but once he was granted safety he told the whole account without fear.
Akampana’s Warning and the Counsel to Abduct Sita
Akampana told him that Dasharatha had a young son named Rama, built like a lion, broad in the shoulders, his arms long and rounded, dark of complexion, glorious, of a strength and valor beyond compare. It was he who had killed Khara together with Dushana in Janasthana. Ravana asked whether Rama had come backed by Indra and all the gods. Akampana answered no, that no great god had stood with him, and that Ravana should hold no doubt on this point. The gold-feathered arrows Rama loosed had turned into five-mouthed serpents and swallowed the rakshasas whole. In whatever direction the rakshasas fled in their terror, they found Rama already standing before them. So it was that Rama, one man alone, had emptied Janasthana.
Ravana said that he himself would go to Janasthana and kill Rama along with Lakshmana. Akampana stopped him. Rama’s strength and manhood, he said, were of another order entirely. Roused to anger, Rama could not be withstood. He could halt the rushing current of a river swollen with his own arrows; he could bring down the vault of the sky with its stars, planets, and constellations; he could lift the sinking earth; he could break the ocean’s bounds and drown the worlds; he could dissolve the worlds and shape a fresh creation in their place. Akampana said plainly that Rama could not be conquered in war by Ravana or by the whole rakshasa race, the way sinful men never reach heaven. Then he offered the one means of Rama’s undoing, and asked Ravana to listen with an undivided mind.
Akampana said that Rama’s wife, Sita, was the finest woman in all the world; slender at the waist, her limbs shapely, adorned with jewels, in the fullness of her youth. No goddess, no gandharva woman, no apsara, no serpent-maiden could match her, let alone a woman born of men. His counsel was this: lure Rama away deep in the great forest, then carry off his wife by force. Stripped of Sita, Rama would not stay alive. The idea pleased Ravana. He thought a while, then said: very well, at dawn he would go, with none but his charioteer, and gladly bring Vaidehi back to this great city.
A note on Janasthana: Janasthana is the part of the Dandaka forest where fourteen thousand rakshasas lived under the command of Khara and Dushana. Rama destroyed them all single-handed in the cantos just before this one, and it is exactly that news, reaching Lanka, that becomes the seed of everything that follows.
So saying, Ravana mounted a chariot bright as the sun and yoked to mules, and set out, lighting up every quarter as he went. Traveling the road of the sky, that huge car shone like the moon behind a cloud. Reaching a distant hermitage, he came to Maricha, the son of Tataka. Maricha received him with foods and delicacies beyond what mortals can obtain, gave him a seat and water and the guest-offering, and asked in measured words: lord of rakshasas, is all well in your realm. You have come in such haste that I fear all is not well.
The gist: Akampana brought the news of Rama’s slaughter, warned Ravana away from war, and named the abduction of Sita as the only means. Enchanted by the counsel, Ravana went to Maricha for the first time.
Maricha’s First Refusal and Ravana’s Return
When Maricha asked, Ravana told him everything. Then Maricha, skilled in speech, asked by what act, and by whose doing, Ravana had been set on so ruinous a road. Who had struck him on the head, as it were, while he slept at his ease. In a figure he said: this rutting bull-elephant that is Raghava, whose birth in a pure line is his trunk, whose blazing energy is his rut, whose beautiful arms are his tusks, is not one you can meet in battle. That man-lion, whose very limbs and hair are the will to hold the field, the destroyer of the beasts that are the rakshasas, whose arrows are his teeth and whose sword is his sharp fang, must not be roused by you, though he seems to sleep. Rama is a fathomless ocean, his bows its crocodiles, his arm-strength its mire, his arrows its waves, the fury of combat its water; do not leap into that terrible mouth of the deep. With folded hands he begged: be content, return to Lanka, take your ease forever among your wives, and let Rama take his ease in the forest with his own wife. At these words of Maricha the ten-necked Ravana turned back to Lanka and entered his splendid palace.
A sub-tale: Meanwhile Shurpanakha had watched the whole thing: Rama’s killing of the fourteen thousand rakshasas, and of Dushana, Khara, and Trishira. Seeing that near-impossible feat, she set out in great agitation toward Ravana’s Lanka. She was arriving just where Ravana sat, ringed by his ministers, radiant as the sun, on a supreme throne of gold. Ravana had turned back once at Maricha’s persuasion, but Shurpanakha’s coming was about to bend this story onto a new road.
Shurpanakha looked upon that terrible king of rakshasas, unconquerable even by gods, gandharvas, and seers; whose chest bore the scars of the thunderbolt and of Airavata’s tusks from the wars of gods and demons; who had gone to Bhogavati and defeated Vasuki, had seized the beloved wife of Takshaka, had conquered Kubera on Kailasa and carried off the Pushpaka car, and who at Brahma’s sacrifice had offered his ten heads as oblation and won from gods, danavas, gandharvas, pishachas, birds, and serpents the boon of safety from them all, asking it from man alone he had not. Looking on that cruel brother, the terror of every world, the mutilated Shurpanakha, frantic with fear, displaying her disfigurement, made ready to speak the harshest words.
The gist: Maricha, with his figures of speech, had turned Ravana back the first time. But at that very moment the mutilated Shurpanakha reached Lanka, and she would now inflame Ravana again.
Shurpanakha’s Rebuke and a Lesson in Statecraft
The wretched Shurpanakha, in the midst of the ministers, spoke bitter words to Ravana in her anger. She said that he, sunk in pleasures, willful and unchecked, did not see the great terror that had already risen. A king given to coarse indulgence, ruled by lust and greed, gets from his people no more honor than the fire of a cremation ground. A king who does not do his own work at the right time perishes together with his kingdom and his tasks. One who has kept no spies, who is hard for his people to approach and is the creature of others, is cast off from a distance like the mud of a river.
She said plainly that a king endures only when he is watchful, all-knowing, master of his senses, grateful, and settled in dharma; when, though asleep to the eye, he stays awake through the eye of policy; when his anger and his favor are made plain, as punishment and as reward. You, Ravana, she said, are stripped of these virtues, and that is why the news of this great slaughter of rakshasas never reached you through your spies. Again and again she warned him that rulers without spies, treasury, and policy at their command are no better than common men, and that a king who does not truly grasp the divisions of place and time, who cannot settle merit and fault, is soon left without a kingdom and thrown into disaster. Hearing his own faults named, that famed Ravana, rich in wealth and pride and strength, sat pondering a long while.
A note on the idea: here Valmiki has Shurpanakha deliver an entire treatise on statecraft. Her real aim is revenge, yet her words are the words of a king’s dharma, on the web of spies, on mastery of the senses, on gratitude. That is the strange craft of the passage, that the seed of temptation is sown in the language of policy.
The gist: with hard maxims of statecraft Shurpanakha counted off Ravana’s faults and threw him into worry, though the temptation of Sita still lay ahead.
Shurpanakha’s Temptation and a Portrait of Rama
Stung by her hard words before his ministers, the angered Ravana asked who Rama was, what his strength and form and valor were like, and why he had entered the near-impassable Dandaka forest. With what weapon had he killed the rakshasas, Khara and Dushana and Trishira. Then Shurpanakha, half-swooning with rage, began a true account of Rama. She said that long-armed, wide-eyed Rama, son of Dasharatha, dressed in bark and black antelope skin, had the beauty of Kandarpa, the god of love. Drawing a bow bright as the rainbow, ringed with gold, he loosed steel arrows that shone like the deadliest of serpents. She said she could not even see when Rama took up his arrows, when he drew, when he released; she saw only that the rakshasa host was perishing under his rain of shafts the way a fine crop perishes under a fall of hail. That single warrior, on foot, had killed fourteen thousand fearsome rakshasas, and Khara and Dushana with them, in one and a half muhurtas.
Shurpanakha went on: it was he who gave the seers their safety, who made Dandaka secure. Knowing his own mind, and shrinking from the killing of a woman, Rama had left her alive; otherwise she too would not have survived. Rama’s brother Lakshmana was his equal in valor, devoted and loving, Rama’s right arm and, as it were, his very life walking about outside his body. Then she described Sita, Rama’s lawful wife, wide-eyed, her face like the full moon, her glow like tested gold, her nails red and high, slender at the waist, the daughter of Janaka. Never, she said, had she seen such a beauty, not among goddesses, gandharva women, yakshis, or kinnaris; nowhere on earth had she seen such a woman before. The man whose wife Sita is, and who is gladly embraced by her, lives happier than Indra himself in all the worlds.
She led Ravana on, saying that Sita would be a fitting wife for him and he a worthy husband for her. She said she had herself set out to bring that broad-hipped, full-breasted Vaidehi to make her Ravana’s wife, but the cruel Lakshmana had disfigured her. If Ravana’s mind inclined to take Sita to wife, then let his right foot rise this instant for the venture. Knowing the weakness of Rama and Lakshmana and his own greater strength, let him take the faultless Sita for his own. Trust my word, she said, and settle your course this very day.
A note on the number: Shurpanakha speaks of the slaughter of fourteen thousand rakshasas in one and a half muhurtas. A muhurta is roughly 48 modern minutes, so one and a half muhurtas is about 72 minutes, a little over an hour. That Rama did this alone, in so short a span, underlines the sheer terror of his prowess.
The gist: even while giving a truthful account of Rama’s matchless prowess, Shurpanakha painted Sita’s unrivaled beauty in such colors that Ravana’s mind turned that way.
Ravana Goes to Maricha a Second Time
Hearing Shurpanakha’s thrilling words, Ravana dismissed his ministers, settled his course, and set out from his palace. Having weighed fault and merit and the balance of strengths, and having fixed on “this is what I will do,” he went with steadied mind to his lovely coach-house. There he quietly ordered his charioteer to yoke the car. In a moment the charioteer had yoked his master’s beloved and splendid chariot. Mounting that car of gold set with jewels, drawn by mules with faces like pishachas and hung with golden ornaments, a car that went wherever its rider willed, Ravana, the younger brother of Kubera, set off toward the sea, and the chariot rolled with a sound like thunder.
Graced with white yak-tail fans and a white parasol, gleaming like smooth lapis, wearing ornaments of tested gold, with ten necks and twenty arms, like a mountain of ten peaks, that enemy of the gods and slayer of the greatest sages shone like a cloud crowned with lightning and a row of cranes. The hero went along gazing at the seashore, dressed with mountains, thick with trees that bore a thousand flowers and fruits, adorned with cool-watered lotus pools and with the wide hermitages of the sacrificial altars. Groves of plantain, coconut, sal, palmyra, tamala, and flowering trees heightened its beauty. Seers, nagas, suparnas, gandharvas, kinnaras, siddhas, charanas, vaikhanasas, valakhilyas, marichipas and other ascetics, apsaras, the wives of the gods, and the nectar-eating hosts of gods and danavas dwelt along that shore. Full of swans, curlews, and cranes, its dark rocks like lapis, the shore was cool with the sea’s touch.
Going on, Ravana passed fragrant woods of sandal, aloe, and takkola, tamala in flower, creepers of pepper, heaps of pearls drying on the sand, coral, peaks of gold and silver, and cities rich with grain and wealth. On the sea’s edge he saw a level place, served by a soft and gentle breeze, lovely as heaven. There, ringed by sages and vast as a cloud, he saw a banyan tree whose branches reached out a hundred yojanas.
A sub-tale: on a branch of that same banyan the mighty Garuda had once alighted, carrying an elephant and a huge tortoise for his meal. Under his weight the leaf-laden branch suddenly broke. On that branch sat the great seers named Vaikhanasa, Masha, Valakhilya, Marichipa, and Dhumra. To save them, Garuda caught the broken bough, a hundred yojanas long, elephant and tortoise and all, in a single talon, ate his meal in the air, and with that very branch destroyed the country of the Nishadas and set the great sages free. His strength doubled in that joy, and resolving to fetch the nectar of immortality, he broke through an iron net, pierced a chamber of jewels, and secretly carried the nectar away from Mahendra’s palace. It was this banyan, named Subhadra, that Ravana now saw.
Passing that banyan, Ravana crossed to the far side of the sea and saw a hermitage in a secluded, holy, lovely stretch of forest. There he saw the rakshasa named Maricha, clad in black antelope skin, his matted locks coiled, keeping to a strict diet. Maricha received Ravana in due form with every kind of food beyond mortal reach, honored him himself with food and water, and asked in measured words: lord of rakshasas, is all well in Lanka. On what errand have you come here again so soon. So asked, the mighty and eloquent Ravana answered as follows.
The gist: a second time Ravana crossed the sea by chariot and reached Maricha’s hermitage. On the way he saw the great banyan bound up with Garuda’s story, and then made ready to speak his purpose before Maricha.
Ravana’s Proposal and the Terror on Maricha’s Face
Ravana said: Maricha, my elder, hear my words; I am in distress, and for one in distress you are the surest refuge. You know Janasthana, where my brother Khara, the strong-armed Dushana, my sister Shurpanakha, the flesh-eating Trishira, and many brave rakshasas lived by my command and harried the pious sages in the great forest. Fourteen thousand brave rakshasas dwelt there under Khara. They all came to grips with Rama in battle, and Rama, without speaking one harsh word, took up his bow and arrows in anger and on the field killed those fourteen thousand rakshasas of fierce energy, alone and on foot. Khara was killed, Dushana fell, Trishira died too, and Dandaka was made safe for the ascetics.
Ravana called Rama a man banished with his wife by an angry father, a stain on the Kshatriya line, ill-bred, harsh, foolish, greedy, and a slave to his senses; this was his wicked slander, which Maricha would soon refute. He said he would carry off by force the goddess-like Sita from Janasthana, since it was for that same man’s wife that Lakshmana had cut off his sister’s ears and nose. Asking Maricha’s help, he said: be my ally; with you at my side I care nothing for all the gods and their brothers. In prowess, in war, and in pride you have no equal; you are a great warrior and a master of the arts of illusion.
Then Ravana laid out his crooked scheme. Maricha should become a golden deer flecked with spots of silver and wander before Sita in Rama’s hermitage. Seeing it, Sita would surely say to Rama and Lakshmana, “Catch it for me.” When both had gone far from the hermitage, Ravana would carry Sita off from the empty place as easily as Rahu takes the light of the moon. Then, with Rama weakened by the loss of his wife, he would strike him at his confident ease.
At the mere sound of Rama’s story from Ravana’s mouth, Maricha’s mouth went dry and terror seized him. Licking his parched lips, staring without a blink, he looked at Ravana like a man already dead. Then, frightened and sick at heart, hands folded, Maricha, who knew Rama’s prowess, spoke to Ravana those words that were for the good of them both.
The gist: asking for help, Ravana proposed to make Maricha a golden deer and laid out the whole plan for the abduction. At the very name of Rama, Maricha went dry with fear and readied his counsel.
Maricha’s Words of Truth and the Image of Rama as Dharma
Maricha said: my king, men who say pleasant things are always easy to find, but one who says the unpleasant and useful thing, and one who will hear it, are both rare. You have kept no spies and are yourself unsteady, and so you do not know Rama, exalted in great valor and virtue, the equal of Mahendra and Varuna. Then, half in blessing, he voiced his dread: may all the rakshasas be safe; may an angered Rama not empty the worlds of rakshasas; may the daughter of Janaka not have been born to make an end of your life; may no great calamity fall on account of Sita; and may Lanka with its rakshasas not be destroyed for having a master as lust-ridden and unchecked as you.
He refuted Ravana’s false charges. Rama, he said, had not been cast off by his father, had crossed no bound of propriety, was not greedy, not ill-natured, not a stain on the Kshatriya line, not stripped of dharma and virtue. He was the joy of Kausalya, gentle toward living beings, given to the good of all creatures. Seeing his truthful father cheated by Kaikeyi, and resolving “I will prove him a man of his word,” that righteous prince had left kingdom and pleasures and come to the Dandaka forest. Rama, he said, was not harsh, not ignorant, not a slave to his senses; no falsehood had ever been laid to his name, nor should you lay it. Rama is dharma itself given a body, a good man, true in his valor; as Indra is king of the gods, so Rama is king of the whole world.
Maricha asked: how do you mean to carry off by force Vaidehi, guarded by her own splendor, as one might snatch away the light of the sun. Do not rush headlong into the fire that is Rama, whose flames are his arrows and whose fuel is his bow and sword, a fire none can face. Rama, whose mouth is his bow and whose rays are his arrows, unforbearing, a very death that destroys the armies of his foes, is Rama the ender; do not throw away near him your rare joy of life and of kingdom. The daughter of Janaka, he said, is of a glory beyond measure; guarded in the forest by Rama’s bow, that Sita you cannot carry off. The beloved of that lion-chested man among men, dearer to him than life and forever true to him, Sita is as unassailable as the flame of a blazing fire.
He asked what this futile venture would win him. If in battle Rama once set eyes on him, that would be the end of his life. If he wished to enjoy for a long time his life, his happiness, and his hard-won kingdom, he should do nothing to displease Rama. In the end he said: take counsel with righteous ministers such as Vibhishana, weigh fault and merit and the balance of strengths, know truly your own force and Raghava’s, settle on your own good, and only then act for your welfare. Humbly he said that a contest in the field with the son of the king of Kosala did not seem to him fitting; hear one more thing, useful and right and reasoned.
The gist: Maricha refuted Ravana’s false charges and called Rama the living form of dharma, said Sita was guarded by Rama’s own splendor, and urged Ravana to weigh good and harm before he acted.
Maricha’s Own Experience: The Boy Rama’s Prowess
Maricha told his own experience. Once, drunk on the pride of his strength, huge as a mountain, with the might of a thousand elephants, dark as a rain cloud, wearing earrings and a diadem of tested gold and carrying an iron club, he had roamed the Dandaka forest, eating the flesh of seers and spreading terror among men. Then the righteous great sage Vishvamitra, who was afraid of him, went himself to King Dasharatha and said that Rama should guard him, staying watchful at the time of sacrifice, for a great terror had risen for him from Maricha. Dasharatha answered that this Raghava was not yet twelve years old and had not even learned the science of arms; with his own fourfold army he would go himself and kill the rakshasa. But the sage said that no strength but Rama’s would be enough for that rakshasa; though Dasharatha had been the protector even of the gods, still he would take Rama and no other. Boy though he was, Rama was of great energy and able to subdue him. So saying, Vishvamitra, greatly pleased, took Rama back to his hermitage.
A note on the ages that differ: here Maricha gives Rama’s age as “less than twelve years,” while in the Balakanda Dasharatha called him “less than fifteen.” In the original text this gap is a sign that Maricha lowers the age on purpose, to stamp the terror of Rama’s power more deeply on Ravana. It is a cross-reference internal to the Valmiki text itself, not an addition from any later tradition.
Maricha went on: consecrated for a sacrifice in the Dandaka forest, Vishvamitra had Rama standing near him, twanging a wonderful bow, no mustache or beard yet on him, dark, with lovely eyes, a single garment on him, his hair knotted, a golden chain about him, lighting up the Dandaka forest with his own splendor like the risen crescent moon. Then Maricha, vast as a cloud, holding a boon of Brahma, burst into the hermitage in his pride. The moment Rama saw him he snatched up his weapon and calmly strung his bow. In his delusion Maricha thought “this is only a boy,” treated him with scorn, and rushed toward Vishvamitra’s altar. At that Rama loosed one keen enemy-destroying arrow, and struck by it, Maricha was flung a hundred yojanas away into the sea. Brave Rama had not wished to kill him, and so he lived; but the force of the arrow took his senses and dropped him into the deep water of the sea, and only after a long time did he come to himself and return to Lanka. That boy Rama, untrained in the science of arms, had killed his rakshasa companions, and Maricha alone had escaped.
Maricha said: if, even after my warning, you make war on Rama, you will soon meet dire calamity and be destroyed; you will bring grief and ruin even on the rakshasas who now revel in their games and feasts. He drew a picture of what was to come: Lanka destroyed for the sake of Maithili; the rakshasas seen fallen on the ground with their heavenly sandal-paste and ornaments; the survivors fleeing in all ten directions with their women; and Lanka, ringed by nets of arrows, veiled in flames, its mansions burning to ash. He reminded Ravana that no great sin outweighs going in to another man’s wife; that there were thousands of young women in Ravana’s own harem, and so he should keep to his own wives and guard his line, his rakshasas, his honor, his prosperity, his kingdom, and his life. If he wished to enjoy them long, let him do nothing to displease Rama; but if, though his friend restrained him again and again, he carried off Sita by force, then with his kinsmen and his army he would lose his life to Rama’s arrows and go to the realm of Yama.
The gist: Maricha told the story of his terrible encounter with the boy Rama, when the force of an arrow flung him a hundred yojanas into the sea, and by picturing the ruin of Lanka he tried to keep Ravana from carrying off another man’s wife.
Maricha’s Second Experience and His Last Plea
Maricha said: hear now what happened afterward, though I somehow slipped away from that fight, for it too is out of the common. Even after such treatment from Rama, undismayed, he entered the Dandaka forest again with two rakshasas in the shape of deer. In the form of a great flesh-eating deer, mighty, his tongue blazing, his teeth large and his horns sharp, he roamed the forest, tormenting ascetics at their fire-sacrifices, their sacred fords, and their sacred trees, killing pious ascetics and drinking their blood and eating their flesh. Drunk on blood, he wandered the Dandaka forest. One day, roaming in the guise of a defiler of dharma, he came upon Rama, who had taken up the ascetic’s life, and with him were the blessed Vaidehi and the great warrior Lakshmana, sparing in his food and devoted to the good of all beings.
Maricha said: taking the forest-dwelling Rama for a mere ascetic, remembering the old enmity, he put on the form of a sharp-horned deer and, in a fury, recalling that earlier blow, ran to kill him. Rama drew his great bow and loosed three keen enemy-destroying arrows, swift as Garuda and the wind. Bright as the thunderbolt, blood-drinking, their joints bent low, all three of those fearful arrows flew at him together. That cunning creature, who knew Rama’s prowess and had once tasted his terror, leaped up and slipped away, but his two companions were killed, for Rama’s arrow does not fly at one who flees.
He told the state of his heart: having somehow found his life spared from Rama’s arrow, he had come here, turned ascetic, gathered himself, and taken up the ascetic’s way. Now in every tree he sees Rama, clad in bark and black antelope skin, holding a bow, a noose in hand, a very Death. In his fear he sees a thousand Ramas; this whole forest looks to him made of Rama. Even in solitude only Rama appears; seeing Rama in his dreams, he starts up out of his senses. Even names that begin with the letter R, jewel and chariot among them, fill him, terrified of Rama, with dread. He said he knew Rama’s power; Rama could kill even Bali and Namuchi. So let Ravana make war on Rama or make peace with him, but if he wished to see Maricha alive, let him not so much as speak of Rama in his presence.
Maricha said at the end that in this world many pious and good men have perished with their families for the offense of another; in the same way he too would be destroyed for the offense of another, meaning Ravana. He said plainly: do what you think right, but I will not follow you. Rama is of great energy, great courage, and great strength; he may well prove the end of the whole rakshasa race. If Khara, who crossed the bounds of right for Shurpanakha’s sake, was already killed by Rama’s hand, then tell me truly, what was Rama’s offense in that. He warned that if Ravana would not heed this word spoken in a kinsman’s love, then this very day he would give up his life in battle, with his kinsmen, to Rama’s straight-flying arrows.
The gist: Maricha told of his second escape from Rama, which had left him so terrified that even the letter R frightens him. He told Ravana flatly that he would not follow him, and warned that carrying off Sita would bring the end of the rakshasa race.
Ravana’s Rebuke and His Command by Force
Ravana took Maricha’s right and reasoned words no more kindly than a man who wants to die takes his medicine. Driven by fate, he spoke to that healing, well-meaning Maricha words that were harsh and out of place. He said: Maricha, born of a low line, this useless counsel is offered to me like seed sown in barren ground. Your words cannot turn me from war with Rama, a foolish and sinful and, above all, mere mortal man, for the sake of carrying off Sita. That Rama who, on the empty word of a woman, left friends, kingdom, mother, and father and came to the forest and killed Khara, that same Rama’s wife, dearer to him than life, I will surely carry off before your eyes. This is my resolve, and even the gods and demons with Indra at their head cannot change it.
Ravana went on: a minister should offer counsel with folded hands only when he is asked to settle fault and merit, the means and the obstacles, and the course of action; and to a king he should speak only agreeable, gentle, auspicious, and useful words, and speak them with tact. A king who values his honor does not welcome even useful words when they come loaded with insult and disrespect. Kings take on five forms, of Fire, of Indra, of the moon, of Yama, and of Varuna; heat, valor, mildness, punishment, and favor, all of these dwell in great kings, and so they are worthy in every way of honor and reverence. He charged Maricha with knowing no dharma, sunk in mere delusion, speaking such harsh words in his wickedness to a king who had come to him as a guest. I do not ask you for merit or fault or my own good; what I have said is what must be done. In this work you have no choice but to help me.
Then he repeated the same device. Maricha should become a golden deer flecked with spots of silver and wander before Sita in Rama’s hermitage, tempt Vaidehi, and then go off wherever he pleased. Seeing the golden deer born of illusion, the wonder-struck Maithili would quickly say to Rama, “Fetch it for me.” When Kakutstha had gone far, Maricha was to cry out in a voice like Rama’s, “Ah Sita! Ah Lakshmana!” Hearing that voice, Lakshmana, sent by Sita, would in his affection run after Rama. With both gone far, Ravana would carry off Sita as easily as thousand-eyed Indra carries off Shachi. He promised that once this was done, Maricha could go where he wished; he would give him half his kingdom. He said: for the furthering of this work, go by the auspicious road, and I will follow you to the Dandaka forest in my chariot; winning Sita without a fight, cheating Raghava, my errand done, I will return with you to Lanka. And he threatened: if you will not do this, I will kill you this very day, for one who opposes a king never finds happiness. Going near Rama, your life is in doubt; opposing me, your death today is certain; weigh this in your mind and do what is good for you.
The gist: driven by fate, Ravana threw back Maricha’s useful words with a harsh rebuke, and commanding him to become the golden deer, threatened to kill him on the spot if he refused.
Maricha’s Chance-Fallen Dread and His Helplessness
Getting so contrary a command from his king, the fearless Maricha spoke harsh words to the lord of rakshasas. He asked: what sinner gave you this counsel of ruin, with your son, your kingdom, and your ministers thrown in for good measure. Who, in his wickedness, wishes you ill while you live in ease. Your weak enemies plainly want you hemmed in by someone stronger and destroyed. He said that those ministers deserve death who, seeing you climb onto a wrong road, do not stop you by every means. When a lust-ridden king climbs onto a wrong path, good ministers must restrain him by every means, but you were not restrained. He said it is by the master’s grace that ministers gain dharma, wealth, pleasure, and fame, and by the master’s fault that the people meet disaster; the king is the root of dharma and of fame, and so in every state a king must be protected. But from a king who is sharp, wholly contrary, and unschooled, a kingdom cannot be governed.
Maricha said that ministers who give a hard king hard counsel suffer along with him, the way chariots racing over rough ground under a clumsy driver break to pieces. A people guarded by a contrary and harsh master does not thrive, any more than sheep guarded by a jackal. All those rakshasas whose king is a man like you, cruel, ill-witted, a slave to his senses, will surely be destroyed. He said this terrible danger, fallen on me by pure chance, has indeed come upon me, but the one to be pitied is you, who will perish with your army. He said: Rama will kill me, and quickly after me kill you too; yet by this I will have gained my end, since it is better to die at the enemy’s hand than at yours. Count me dead from the moment I set eyes on Rama, and count yourself dead, with your kinsmen, from the moment you carry off Sita. If you bring Sita from her hermitage along with me, neither you nor I will survive, nor Lanka, nor the rakshasas. Though I, your well-wisher, restrain you, you will not bear these words, for those whose life is spent and who stand near death do not take the useful words of their friends.
The gist: one last time Maricha tried to stop Ravana with both statecraft and affection, knowing well that he was ringed by death on either side, and he watched Ravana marching, army and all, toward destruction.
The Golden Deer Takes Shape, and Sita Sees It
Even after speaking such harsh words, the wretched Maricha, in his terror of the rakshasa king, said: very well, let us both go. He said: if that bow-and-arrow-and-sword-bearing Rama sees me again, my life is over; no one who tries his strength against Rama returns alive; you are as good as a man already struck by the rod of Yama. He mocked: since you are so wicked a soul, what can I do to stop you; I am going, may it be well with you. At these words the rakshasa rejoiced greatly, embraced Maricha tightly, and said: this word is full of courage; now you are under the sway of my wish; now you are the Maricha of old, and until now some other rakshasa had been standing in your place. He said: this jewel-decked car like a flying chariot, yoked to mules with faces like pishachas, mount it quickly with me; tempt Vaidehi and then go off as you please, and when the place is empty I will carry off Maithili Sita by force.
The son of Tataka said, “So be it.” Then Ravana and Maricha mounted that chariot like a flying car and set off swiftly from the circle of hermitages. Along the way, seeing cities, forests, mountains, all the rivers, and the realms and towns, they reached the Dandaka forest, and then saw Raghava’s hermitage. Stepping down from the gold-decked car and taking Maricha by the hand, Ravana said: this is the place of Rama’s hermitage, ringed by groves of plantain, that we see there; the work we have come for, do it quickly now, my friend.
Hearing Ravana’s words, Maricha became a deer and began to wander at the door of the hermitage. He took on a great form of wonderful appearance: the tips of his horns like gems, his muzzle white and dark, its upper part like a red lotus and its lower like a blue one, ears like sapphire, his neck a little lifted, his belly like sapphire, his flanks like madhuka flowers, a glow like the filaments of a lotus, hooves like lapis, a well-knit body on slender shanks, and a tail raised up like a rainbow. In a moment that rakshasa had become a deer of surpassing beauty, and taking on a lovely form flecked with hundreds of spots of silver, he wandered about cropping the tender shoots of the trees. Among the plantain thickets and the karnikara trees, moving slowly, that great deer with a back like lotus-filaments moved gracefully near the hermitage, meaning to be seen by Sita, and roamed there at his ease.
That jewel-like deer would go far off and come back, would go for a moment and quickly return, would sit as if playing on the ground, would come to the hermitage door and mingle with the herds of deer, and, seeking a sight of Sita, would return again with the deer. Coming near her, he circled about in strange and varied rings. Seeing him, drawing close, and smelling him, the other forest deer fled in all ten directions. Bent though he was on killing deer, that rakshasa, to hide his nature, would touch those wild deer but not eat them. At that moment, fair-eyed, lovely-faced Vaidehi, busy gathering flowers, came this way, picking blossoms among the karnikara, ashoka, and mango trees. That fine woman, unfit for forest life, saw that jewel-like deer with its limbs flecked as if with pearls and gems. With her eyes wide in wonder, she looked with tenderness at the deer with its silvery, metal-bright coat and its lovely teeth and lips. Seeing his beloved, Rama’s own love, that deer of illusion too moved about as if lighting up the forest. Seeing a deer of many jewel-like hues such as she had never seen before, the daughter of Janaka, Sita, was filled with the greatest wonder.
A note on maya: this golden deer of Maricha is no natural animal; it is maya, a form of illusion shaped at will. Again and again Valmiki calls it “the deer of illusion” and “the illusion of a master of illusion.” This is the central deception of the story, the trick by which Rama is drawn far from the hermitage and Sita is left unguarded.
The gist: frightened but helpless, Maricha reached Dandaka with Ravana and, taking the shape of the wonderful golden deer, wandered near the hermitage, and Sita, gathering flowers, was struck with wonder at the sight of him.
Sita’s Plea and Rama’s Departure
Delighted at the sight of that deer with its sides of gold and silver, faultless of limb, golden of glow, Sita called out to her armed husband Rama and to Lakshmana. Calling them again and again, she kept her eyes on the deer and kept saying: my lord, come quickly, and bring your brother. Called so, those two best of men, Rama and Lakshmana, looked that way and saw the deer. At the sight of it the wary Lakshmana said: this looks to me like that very rakshasa Maricha, in the shape of a deer. He said: this wicked shape-shifter has by trickery killed many kings out hunting; this is his illusion, like a city of the gandharvas in the sky. There is no such jewel-flecked deer anywhere on earth, he said; beyond a doubt this is illusion.
But bright-smiling Sita cut short Kakutstha Lakshmana’s words and, delighted, her wits stolen away by the trick, said with a smile: my lord, this beautiful deer steals my heart; fetch it for me, it will be a plaything for us. She said: many deer of holy aspect wander about this hermitage, and chamaras, srimaras, bears, herds of spotted deer, monkeys, and kinnaras, but never before have I seen a deer of such brilliance, such gentleness, such glow. She said: dappled with many colors, jewel-like, it shines like the moon, lighting up the forest; a marvel is its beauty, wonderful its luster and its cry. If it can be caught alive, she said, it would be a wonderful thing; when the forest years are over and the kingdom won, it would be an ornament of the inner apartments and would astonish Bharata, my lord, my mothers-in-law, and myself. And if it cannot be caught alive, then its skin alone would be lovely; on that golden skin, spread over soft grass, she wished to sit with Rama. This was a willful longing, she said, unbecoming a woman, but the deer’s beauty had filled her with wonder.
Seeing that deer of golden hair, its horns like gems, its color like the rising sun, its glow like the path of the stars, Rama’s mind too fell into wonder. Hearing Sita’s words and seeing the wonderful deer, drawn by its beauty and urged on by her, Rama gladly said to his brother Lakshmana: look, Lakshmana, at Vaidehi’s bright longing; by its very excellence of form this deer will not live out the day. In the gardens of Nandana or Chaitraratha there is no deer like it, still less on the earth. Rama described its coat of hair, its belly bright as conch and pearl, and its tongue like lightning breaking from a cloud when it yawned.
Rama said: kings kill deer in the great forest for meat and skin and for sport, and gather in the forest, by their effort, many minerals of gem and jewel and gold, which are the substance of men’s wealth. Slender-waisted Vaidehi will sit with me on the finest golden skin of this jewel of a deer; no skin of kadali, priyaki, praveni, or ram is so soft to the touch. The star-deer that moves in the sky and this deer of the earth, he said, are both divine. Then, steadying himself, he said: if it is as you say, the illusion of a rakshasa, then I must kill it; for it was this same cruel and wicked Maricha who once, appearing suddenly in the forest, killed many of the finest sages and great archer-kings, and so this deer deserves to die.
A sub-tale: Rama gave the example of Vatapi. In an earlier age the rakshasa Vatapi used to deceive ascetics and, entering their bellies, would kill the Brahmanas the way a she-mule’s fetus destroys the she-mule that carries it. Once, out of greed, he came to the mighty great sage Agastya as his food. When the funeral rite was over and Vatapi made ready to take on his rakshasa form again, the venerable Agastya said with a smile: Vatapi, on the strength of your power you scorned many of the finest twice-born and digested them, and so, as the fruit of that sin, you have been digested by me. Rama said: this rakshasa too, who insults me, ever fixed in dharma and master of my senses, will come to an end like Vatapi.
Rama said to Lakshmana: put on your armor, stay here watchful, and guard Maithili, for all that is to come depends on this. I will kill this deer or catch it alive. See Vaidehi’s longing for the deerskin; I go quickly to fetch the deer. By its excellent skin this deer will not live out the day; stay alert in the hermitage with Sita until I kill this spotted creature with a single arrow, take its skin, and quickly return. And at the last he said: staying beside the mighty and wise bird Jatayu, Lakshmana, guard Maithili every moment, wary on every side.
The gist: though Lakshmana warned her, Sita insisted, and Rama, citing the example of Vatapi and Agastya, declared the deer fit to be killed; entrusting Sita’s safety to Lakshmana, he set off after the deer.
The Killing of Maricha and the Deceiving Cry
Having so warned his brother Lakshmana, the great Rama fastened at his waist a sword with a hilt of gold, took up his bow with its three rings, his own ornament, strapped on two quivers, and set out with fierce resolve. Seeing the lord of kings come on, that finest of deer, Maricha, in his fear now vanished, now showed himself again. Sword bound on and bow in hand, Rama ran toward the place where the deer stood, spreading its own beauty before it like light. In the great forest the deer ran, looking back again and again, now leaping away, now coming very close to tempt Rama to catch it. Now, frantic with dread of being pierced by Rama’s arrow, it seemed to spring into the air; now it hid in the depths of the forest like the autumn moon behind broken clouds; now it showed itself near, and the next moment shone far off. Now seen and now vanishing, that infamous Maricha drew Rama far, far from the hermitage.
Tricked by it, thwarted and beguiled, Rama grew angry, and worn out, he stood in the shade of a tree on the green grass. That rakshasa in deer’s form went on maddening him, and, ringed by other deer, would show himself close by. Seeing Rama ready to seize him, he ran again and vanished in terror. Then he came out from a distant clump of trees, and now the great Rama made up his mind to kill him. In his anger Raghava drew out a blazing arrow, bright as a ray of the sun, the crusher of foes, set it to his firm bow, took aim at that very deer, drew the bow with force, and loosed that blazing, brilliant weapon made by Brahma, hissing like a snake. The fine arrow, flashing like lightning, pierced the body of the deer-shape and sank into Maricha’s heart. Springing up as high as a palmyra tree, terribly wounded, the deer fell to the earth and let out a dreadful cry; and as he died, Maricha let go of that false form.
Remembering Ravana’s words, the rakshasa thought: by what means can I make Sita send Lakshmana here, so that when the place is empty Ravana may carry her off. Knowing his time had come, he cried out in a voice like Raghava’s: “Ah Sita! Ah Lakshmana!” Pierced to the vitals by that matchless arrow, Maricha gave up the deer’s form, took on his own huge rakshasa shape, and began to lose his life. Seeing that rakshasa fallen on the ground, terrible to look at, his limbs smeared with blood, writhing, Rama remembered Lakshmana’s words and turned in his mind toward Sita. He thought: this was the very illusion of Maricha that Lakshmana spoke of before; today it has proved true, and I have killed Maricha. This rakshasa has died crying out in a great voice, “Ah Sita! Ah Lakshmana!”; hearing it, what will become of Sita, and in what state will strong-armed Lakshmana be. Thinking so, the hair of righteous Rama stood on end at the dread of what might befall Sita. Having killed the rakshasa in the deer’s shape and heard that cry, a sharp fear born of sorrow closed round Rama. Then, killing another spotted deer and taking food fit for ascetics, Rama hurried back toward his hermitage in the direction of Janasthana.
The gist: with a single arrow Rama killed Maricha, who gave up the deer’s form; dying, he cried out in Rama’s voice, “Ah Sita! Ah Lakshmana!” and so carried out his last deception, filling Rama’s mind with dread.
Sita’s Insistence and Lakshmana’s Departure
Taking that anguished cry heard in the forest for her own husband’s, Sita said to Lakshmana: go, find out about Raghava; my life and my heart will not stay in their places, for I have heard the cry of someone in the deepest distress weeping in a very loud voice. Go and save your brother, she said, who is weeping in the forest in a voice of pain; run quickly to him, fallen into the power of rakshasas and seeking refuge like a bull among lions. But remembering his brother’s command not to leave Sita alone, Lakshmana did not go, though she spoke so.
Then, upset, the daughter of Janaka said to him: Saumitri, in the guise of a friend you are your brother’s enemy, that even in such a state you will not go to his help; for my sake you wish to see Rama destroyed. She said: it is out of greed for me that you do not follow Raghava; I understand that your brother’s ruin is dear to you, and that there is no love for him in your heart. Though you do not see the greatly glorious Rama, she said, you stand here unconcerned; when the very man under whose lead I came is in danger, what is left for me by staying here.
To Vaidehi, brimming with tears and grief, trembling like a doe, the self-controlled Lakshmana said: Vaidehi, your husband cannot be conquered by nagas, asuras, gandharvas, gods, daityas, or rakshasas; among gods, men, gandharvas, birds, rakshasas, pishachas, kinnaras, beasts, and dread danavas there is none who could stand against Rama, the equal of Indra, in battle; Rama cannot be killed in war, and you should not speak so. Without Rama, he said, I dare not leave you in the forest; his strength cannot be met by the armies of the strong, nor even by the three worlds with Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva; let your heart be calm, put away your grief. Your husband will soon return, he said, having killed the fine deer; clearly it was not Rama’s voice, nor any god’s. It was the illusion of that rakshasa, false as a city of illusion seen in the sky. Vaidehi, he said, you have been left in my keeping by the great Rama as a trust, and I dare not leave you alone. Since the killing of Khara and the destruction of Janasthana, these rakshasas have made us their enemies; rakshasas who take violence for sport cry out in many voices in the great forest, and so you should not worry.
When Lakshmana spoke so, Sita, angry, her eyes red, said harsh words to the truthful Lakshmana. She said: ignoble, pitiless, cruel man, disgrace of your line, I understand that your brother’s great ruin is dear to you; it is because you see Rama’s danger that you speak such words. In cruel men like you, she said, always moving in disguise among enemies, such wicked ways are no wonder. She flung the bitter charge that he was a great villain, who had come alone into the forest after Rama, for her sake, with a hidden purpose, or sent by Bharata. Your purpose, she said, or Bharata’s, will not be fulfilled; having won as my husband Rama, dark as a blue lotus, lotus-eyed, how would I ever desire a common man like you; before your very eyes I will surely give up my life; without Rama I will not live on the face of the earth even a moment.
Hearing those thrilling, harsh words, the self-controlled Lakshmana folded his hands and said: you are as a goddess to me, and I dare not answer back. He said: Maithili, it is no wonder that women speak such improper words; this is the nature of women, seen in all the worlds; women are wanting in dharma, fickle, sharp, and sowers of discord. Daughter of Janaka, he said, these words of yours, sinking between my two ears like heated arrows, I cannot bear; let all the forest creatures be my witnesses, that though I spoke justly you have spoken harshly to me. By the nature and the wicked bent of women, he said, you so suspect me, who stand by my elder’s command, and you are ready to ruin yourself this day; shame on you for it. Then he said: I go to where Kakutstha is; may it be well with you, fair-faced one; may all the forest deities protect you. From the dreadful evil omens that show themselves before me, I doubt whether I will find you here when I return with Rama.
When Lakshmana spoke so, the daughter of Janaka, weeping, sunk in a flood of tears, said: Lakshmana, without Rama I will drown myself in the Godavari, or hang myself, or throw myself from some high place and give up my body; or I will drink sharp poison, or enter the fire, but never will I touch any man but Raghava. Saying this, Sita, full of grief, weeping in her sorrow, began to beat her belly with both hands. Seeing that wide-eyed woman weeping in her distress, the grieved Lakshmana tried to comfort her, but Sita said nothing at all to her husband’s brother. Then, folding his hands, bowing a little in salutation to Sita, and looking back at Maithili again and again, the resolute Lakshmana went off toward Rama.
The gist: hearing the deceiving cry, the distraught Sita lashed Lakshmana with harsh words; at last, between her threat to end her life and the evil omens, Lakshmana went off toward Rama against his will, leaving Sita alone.
Ravana Comes in the Guise of a Wandering Mendicant
Stung by Sita’s harsh words, Raghava’s brother Lakshmana, eager to reach Rama, went off as if in great haste. Then, seizing his chance, the ten-necked Ravana, in the guise of a wandering mendicant, moved toward Vaidehi. Dressed in clean ochre robes, wearing a tuft, carrying a parasol and sandals, a fine staff and a water-pot slung on his left shoulder, he came in that mendicant’s form to Vaidehi. In the forest emptied of both brothers, the mighty Ravana came to Sita the way thick darkness closes round the twilight when it is emptied of sun and moon. At the sight of that fierce evildoer the trees of Janasthana stopped their trembling, the wind ceased to blow; and the swift-flowing Godavari, watching him with his red eyes, slowed her current in fear. Seizing the moment of Rama’s absence, in the form of a mendicant Ravana came to Vaidehi. In his fair guise that foul Ravana went to Vaidehi, grieving for her husband, the way Saturn approaches the star Chitra, or the way a well hidden by grass suddenly shows itself in a pleasant shape.
Ravana, glad at heart, came to Rama’s wife, that lotus-eyed Vaidehi, with lovely teeth and lips, her face like the full moon, dressed in yellow silk, sitting in her leaf-hut, worn with tears and grief. At the sight of her, pierced by the arrow of love, uttering the chant of a Brahmana, in that lonely place Ravana began to speak humble words. He praised the woman, finest in the three worlds, radiant as Lakshmi without her lotus. With your glow of silver and gold, he said, dressed in yellow silk, wearing a lovely garland of lotuses like a lotus-pool, fair-faced one, are you Hri, are you Shri, are you Kirti, are you blessed Lakshmi, or an apsara, or Bhuti, or willful Rati. He praised, and out of place, her teeth, her wide eyes, her hips and thighs and limbs, all of it his deceit, and said: sweet-smiling, sweet-toothed, sweet-eyed one, playful woman, you steal my heart the way a river’s current steals its own bank. No goddess, he said, no gandharva woman, no yakshi, no kinnari, no such woman of men have I ever seen on the face of the earth; your beauty, your delicacy, your youth, and this dwelling in the forest churn my mind, and so you should go away from here; may it be well with you; it is not right for you to live here.
He said: this is the haunt of dread rakshasas who take what shape they will; what suits you are the lovely tops of palaces and the pleasure-groves of cities. He asked: monkeys, lions, leopards, tigers, wolves, bears, hyenas, and kanka birds live here; are you not afraid of them; how is it that, alone in this great forest thick with maddened, terrible elephants, you feel no fear. Who are you, whose are you, from where have you come, and for what reason do you wander alone in Dandaka, the haunt of dread rakshasas. Praised so by Ravana in that guise, and seeing him come in the dress of a Brahmana, Maithili gave him all the hospitality due a guest. First she gave him a seat, welcomed him with water for his feet, and then said to the gentle-seeming man that food was ready. Seeing a man come in the dress of a Brahmana, carrying a bowl and wearing the ochre robe, marked as a Brahmana, she did not think it right to slight him and invited him to eat as a Brahmana. She said: Brahmana, here is a seat of grass, sit as you please, take this water for your feet; and take here at your ease this fine forest-grown food made ready for you.
While Maithili, that king’s wife, spoke the full words of invitation, Ravana, watching her so bid him, set his mind firmly on carrying her off by force, and so gave the invitation to his own death. Then Sita, waiting for her husband to come back in his fine hunting-dress with Lakshmana, cast her eyes all around, but in that vast green forest she did not see Rama or Lakshmana.
The gist: no sooner had Lakshmana gone than Ravana came to Sita in the guise of a mendicant; even nature stopped still in fear. Amid his false praises Sita received him as a guest, but finding neither husband nor brother anywhere, she grew uneasy.
Sita’s Account of Herself and Ravana’s Proposal
Asked by the one in mendicant’s guise, whose real wish was to carry her off, Vaidehi gave her own account of herself. Thinking that, since he was a Brahmana and a guest, he might curse her if she did not tell him, Sita thought a moment and said: I am the daughter of the great-souled Janaka, lord of Mithila, Sita by name, Rama’s beloved chief queen; may it be well with you. For twelve years, she said, I lived in the palace of the Ikshvakus, enjoying human pleasures, amid the fullness of every desire. In the thirteenth year the king, with his ministers, resolved on the consecration of Rama. But just as the preparations for the consecration were being made, my mother-in-law Kaikeyi asked her husband for a boon.
Sita said: binding her father-in-law by the plea of his own good deeds, Kaikeyi asked two boons of that best of kings, true to his word: the banishment of my husband and the consecration of Bharata; and she said that if Rama were consecrated that day, she would neither eat, nor sleep, nor drink, and that this would be the end of her life. Her father-in-law coaxed her with tempting things, but she did not give up her demand. My greatly glorious husband, she said, was over twenty-five years old at the time of his banishment, and my own age was reckoned eighteen years from my birth. Rama is truthful, of good character, pure, wide-eyed, strong-armed, and devoted to the good of all beings; yet, to please Kaikeyi, Dasharatha, himself half-mad with love, did not consecrate Rama. To Rama, come to his father for the consecration, Kaikeyi said at once: hear this command of your father, that Bharata is to be given an unthreatened kingdom and you are to live fourteen years in the forest; so go to the forest and save your father from untruth. Rama, without fear, said “So be it,” and, firm in his vow, did just that; he always gives and never takes, speaks the truth and never a lie.
Sita said: this is Rama’s matchless vow. His valiant half-brother Lakshmana, best of men, slayer of foes in battle, is Rama’s helper. That brother, firm in his vow, a celibate, took up his bow and came into exile with Rama and me. Wearing matted locks, in the guise of an ascetic, ever fixed in dharma, firm in his vow, Rama came with his brother and me to the Dandaka forest. Cast from the kingdom because of Kaikeyi, we three wander here in this deep forest by our own strength. Best of the twice-born, she said, rest a while, if it is possible to stay here; my husband will soon come, having killed many rurus, iguanas, and boars, bringing plentiful forest food. Then she asked: now tell me truly your name, your gotra, and your family, and this too, twice-born one, why you wander alone in the Dandaka forest.
When Rama’s wife Sita spoke so, the mighty lord of rakshasas, Ravana, gave a sharp answer: I am that very Ravana, lord of the hosts of rakshasas, of whom the whole world with its gods, asuras, and men goes in fear, Sita. Seeing you, he said, with your glow of gold, dressed in silk, I have no more delight in my own wives; among the many fine women brought from here and there, become my chief queen, and may it be well with you. In the midst of the sea, he said, set on a mountain peak, ringed by the ocean, is my great city named Lanka; there you will wander with me in the woods and will feel no longing for this forest life. Five thousand serving-maids, decked in every ornament, will wait on you, if you become my wife.
A note on the ages: Sita herself says that at the time of the exile Rama was over twenty-five years old and her own age was eighteen. This is the same reckoning of the Valmiki text that grounds the chronology of the story that follows.
The gist: Sita told her story and the reason for the exile simply and openly; then Ravana revealed his true name and offered to make her the chief queen of Lanka.
Sita’s Reproach and Ravana’s Boast of Strength
At these words the angered daughter of Janaka, faultless Sita, scorned that rakshasa and answered: I am the faithful wife of my husband Rama, unshakable as a great mountain, like Mahendra, unstirred as the great ocean. I am the faithful wife of Rama, marked with every auspicious sign, broad as a banyan, true to his word, greatly blessed, strong-armed, with the gait of a lion, the chest of a lion, the face of the full moon, of far-reaching fame. She rebuked him: a jackal, you desire me, a lioness beyond your reach; you cannot so much as touch me, any more than the sun’s light. Ill-fated one, she said, you who desire the beloved wife of Raghava, surely you are seeing many golden trees, an omen that your death is near. You want to draw the teeth from the mouth of a hungry, ravening lion, foe of the deer; you want to draw the fangs from the mouth of a venom-fanged serpent; you want to lift Mount Mandara with your hand; you want to drink the kalakuta poison and go your way unharmed; you want to wipe your eye with a needle and lick a razor with your tongue, you who want the beloved wife of Rama.
She went on: you want to cross the ocean with a stone tied round your neck; you want to snatch the sun and moon with both hands; you want to carry off blazing fire in your garment; you want to walk on the points of iron spikes, you who want a wife like Rama’s. The difference between a lion and a jackal, she said, a mountain stream and the sea, nectar and sour gruel, gold and base lead, sandal-paste and mud, an elephant and a cat, Garuda and a crow, a peacock and a diver-bird, a swan and a vulture, that same difference lies between Rama, son of Dasharatha, and you. And at the last she said: while Rama lives, with bow and arrows in hand, whose power equals thousand-eyed Indra’s, you may carry me off, but you will not keep me, any more than a fly that swallows ghee, which becomes the fly’s own death.
Having spoken these very sharp words to the night-wanderer, in whose mind there was no good intent, the slender Sita trembled and was distressed, like a plantain shaken by the wind. Seeing her tremble, Ravana, whose power was like death itself, told her his line, his strength, his name, and his deeds, to frighten her.
Knitting his brows over his forehead, he said: fair-hued one, may it be well with you; I am Ravana, the mighty ten-necked half-brother of Kubera, son of Vishrava, from whom gods, gandharvas, pishachas, birds, and serpents flee forever as from death; who once, for some cause, defeated in single combat, by his own prowess, his half-brother Kubera. In fear of me, he said, Kubera left his rich home and lives on Kailasa; his auspicious car named Pushpaka, which goes where its rider wills, I took by force, and in it I range the sky. Seeing me angry, he said, Indra and the other gods flee in terror; where I dwell, the wind blows softly for fear, the sun cools like the moon in dread, the leaves of the trees hang still, and the waters of the rivers grow motionless.
He described his Lanka, beyond the sea, fair as Amaravati, thronged with dread rakshasas, ringed by white ramparts, with inner chambers of gold and gateways of lapis, crowded with elephants, horses, and chariots, loud with the sound of trumpets, dressed with trees that grant every wish and with gardens. Sita, princess, he said, live there with me, and you will no longer remember the women of men; enjoying human and divine pleasures, you will not remember Rama, a man whose days are done. What will you do, wide-eyed one, he asked, with Rama, a feeble ascetic robbed of his kingdom, of little valor, his senses gone, sent to the forest by his father Dasharatha, who set his own dear son Bharata on the throne and removed the god Kubera, honored by the gods, from his. Take me, the lord of rakshasas, come to you of my own will; it is not right for you to spurn me, pierced as I am by the arrows of love; if you spurn me, you will repent as Urvashi repented spurning Pururavas with her foot.
At these words the angered Vaidehi, her eyes red, said harsh words to the lord of rakshasas in that lonely place. She said: making a pretext of your brother, the god Kubera, honored by all the gods, how do you mean to do this shameful thing. All those rakshasas whose king is a man like you, she said, cruel, ill-witted, a slave to his senses, will surely be destroyed. One might carry off Shachi, Indra’s wife, she said, and still live, but having carried off me, Rama’s wife, you will not stay unharmed; one might, even after drinking nectar, outrage the peerless Shachi, Indra’s wife, and live long, but having outraged one like me there is no escape for you.
The gist: on the strength of her faithfulness Sita shamed Ravana with many likenesses, of lion and jackal and the rest; Ravana boasted of his line, his power, and his Lanka to frighten her, but Sita did not waver.
The Abduction of Sita and the Sight of Jatayu
Hearing Sita’s words, the mighty ten-necked Ravana clapped hand upon hand and began to take on his huge form. Skilled in speech, he said again to Maithili: it seems, in your madness, you have not heard of my valor and my prowess; standing in the sky, I can lift the earth with my arms, I can drink up the sea, I can kill even Death in battle; with my keen arrows I can wound the sun and split the ground; behold me, a shape-shifter at will, you who are drunk on the pride of your beauty. As Ravana spoke so, his angry eyes, glowing like fire, red at their dark corners, began to blaze like fire.
At once the son of Vishrava threw off his gentle form and took on his own shape, terrible as Time. Red-eyed, wearing ornaments of tested gold, filled with great fury, that lordly Ravana now looked like a dark cloud. Casting off the disguise of a mendicant, the huge night-wanderer became ten-faced and twenty-armed. The lord of rakshasas, having taken on his own form, stood there dressed in red, looking at the jewel of women, Maithili. To Maithili, the ends of her hair dark, decked in garments and ornaments, shining like the light of the sun, Ravana said: if you want a husband famed through the three worlds, take refuge in me, fair-hipped one; I am a husband worthy of you. Serve me long; I am a husband to be praised; I will never do you a wrong. Give up your human feeling, set your heart on me; what virtues do you see in Rama, that you cling to him, foolish woman who thinks herself wise, a man robbed of his kingdom, his purpose failed, his life measured out, who at a woman’s word left kingdom and friends to live in this forest full of snakes.
Having said this to Maithili, who spoke kindly to all and deserved kind words from all, and coming near her, the lust-maddened, wicked Ravana seized Sita as Budha seizes Rohini in the sky. With his left hand he seized lotus-eyed Sita by the hair, and with his right hand by the thighs. Seeing that Ravana, like a mountain peak, with sharp teeth and mighty arms, like death itself, the terrified forest deities fled. Just then his famous car of illusion, yoked to mules, harsh-voiced, its body of gold, came up and stood near. Then, threatening Sita with harsh words, roaring loudly, Ravana lifted her into his lap and set her on the chariot.
Seized by Ravana, the glorious Sita, anguished with grief, began to call out loudly, “Rama!”, to Rama, gone far away in the forest. Unwilling to go, writhing like the wife of the serpent-king, Sita was carried up into the sky by the lust-maddened Ravana. Carried off by the path of the air, Sita cried out loudly, like one gone mad, her mind reeling, in her helpless terror. She called: strong-armed Lakshmana, you who please the heart of your elder, you do not know that I am being carried off by a rakshasa who takes what shape he will. She said to Rama: Raghava, you who would give up ease and wealth and even life for the sake of dharma, you do not see me carried off against all dharma. She said to Ravana: the fruit of an unruly man’s deed does not show at once, but as a crop ripens, so does time take its part in it; your wits destroyed by fate, you have done this deed, and so from Rama you will meet a dire calamity that will end your life.
She said: now Kaikeyi, with her kinsmen, has her wish, that I, the lawful wife of one who loves dharma and is full of fame, am being carried off. Then, addressing the flowering karnikara trees of Janasthana, she said: tell Rama quickly that Ravana is carrying off Sita. Bowing to the river Godavari, loud with swans and cranes, she said: tell Rama quickly that Ravana is carrying off Sita. Saluting the deities who dwell in the many trees of this forest, she begged them to tell her husband of her abduction. Then, taking refuge with all the tribes of deer and birds of the forest, she said: tell my husband that his Sita, dearer to him than life, has been carried off by force by Ravana. Strong-armed, mighty Rama, she said, learning of this, will bring me back by his valor, even from the world beyond, even from the grip of Yama.
Lamenting so in piteous words, in the depths of grief, wide-eyed Sita saw the vulture Jatayu perched on a tree. Fallen into Ravana’s power, fair-hipped Sita, looking up at him, frantic with fear, in a voice choked with grief, cried out: noble Jatayu, see me carried off, helpless and pitiless, by this evildoing king of rakshasas. This cruel night-wanderer, she said, is not one for you to stop, for he is full of strength and the pride of victory, armed and ill-witted. Still, Jatayu, tell all of it truly to Rama and Lakshmana, my abduction and whatever else should be told.
Just then Jatayu, who had been sleeping, woke at that sound. He looked at once at Ravana, and looked too at Vaidehi. That best of birds, the glorious Jatayu, with the glow of a mountain peak and a sharp beak, sitting on his tree, made ready to speak fair words to Ravana.
The gist: taking on his terrible form, Ravana seized Sita by force, set her on his chariot, and rose into the sky; lamenting, Sita called on the trees, the river, the deities, and the living creatures to carry word to Rama, and just then her eyes fell on the vulture-king Jatayu perched on his tree, who now made ready to stop Ravana.
Source: Srimad Valmiki Ramayana, Aranyakanda, Cantos 31-49 (Gita Press, Gorakhpur).
Basis: Valmiki Ramayana (Gita Press, Gorakhpur)