Valmiki Ramayana

Sītā grew angrier and her eyes blazed. ‘Ignoble creature! Heartless wretch!’ she said harshly to honourable Lakṣmaṇa. ‘Disgrace to your family! I can only think that you talk to me like this because you are delighted that Rāma is in trouble. But I am not surprised at this kind of behaviour from a wicked kinsman! You hide your real feelings and act like a hypocrite!

  ‘You followed Rāma, who is vulnerable and without protection, into the forest only so that you could have me! But this plan, whether yours or Bharata’s, will never work! I have been loved by the golden-skinned, lotus-eyed Rāma! How can I ever settle for an ordinary man? I shall kill myself in front of you right now! I cannot bear to live on earth for a single moment without Rāma!’

  Lakṣmaṇa’s hair stood on end when he heard Sītā’s cruel words. But he controlled himself, joined his palms respectfully and said, ‘I cannot argue with you because you are like a goddess to me. But I am not surprised to hear such words from a woman, Sītā! Women are like this everywhere in the world. They are unrighteous and fickle and they breed mischief. May the gods of the forest bear witness to the fact that everything I said was just and true and that your words were harsh and unfair. Shame on you for doubting me, when I am bound by my elder brother’s instructions! But then, you have acted from the essentially corrupt nature that all women have. I am going to find Rāma. May all be well with you and may the deities of the forest protect you, large-eyed lady!’

  ‘Lakṣmaṇa, without Rāma I shall plunge into the Godāvarī or get rid of this body by hurling it upon sharp rocks! Or drink poison! Or walk into fire! But I will not touch any man other than Rāma, not even with my foot!’ wept Sītā. Upset by her tears, Lakṣmaṇa tried to console her, but Sītā would not say a word to her husband’s brother. Lakṣmaṇa joined his palms, made a slight bow and left to search for Rāma, turning back anxiously every now and then to look at Sītā.

  Six

  Lakṣmaṇa was angry at having been spoken to like that, but he was also concerned about Rāma and so he left the settlement hurriedly.

  Rāvaṇa pounced upon the moment that he had been waiting for. He appeared in front of Sītā in the form of a renunciant. He was wearing clean saffron robes, his hair was in a knot on top of his head, and he wore sandals on his feet. He carried an umbrella and a water pot and the traditional staff on his left shoulder.

  Mighty Rāvaṇa approached that woman who was alone in the forest without Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, like the oncoming darkness at twilight when neither the sun nor the moon shines. Cruel Rāvaṇa came closer to the beautiful princess, like a malignant planet moves towards the constellation Rohiṇī in the absence of the moon.

  Even the trees in Janasthāna dared not move when they saw that awful creature, and the wind died down. The fast-flowing Godāvarī slowed in fear when she saw Rāvaṇa watching Sītā with his blood-red eyes. Nearer and nearer came the rākṣasa to that lovely woman whose lips were red, whose face was like the full moon, whose eyes were like lotus petals, as she sat there in her yellow silks, weeping, under the thatch in front of her hut.

  The king of the rākṣasas was struck by the arrows of love. Muttering the Vedas, he spoke to Sītā in that lonely and deserted place. She seemed to him the most exquisite woman in the three worlds, like Śrī herself, without the lotus.

  ‘Who are you, lovely creature, with your golden skin, your yellow silk garments and your garland of lotuses as beautiful as the lotus pond itself? Your teeth are small and pearly white, your large eyes are tinged a delicate pink in the corners and your pupils are a deep black. Your hips are wide and your thighs are as strong as an elephant’s trunk. Your breasts are round and full, tilted upwards and their nipples quiver. They are firm and rest close together like the fruit of the palm tree. They are adorned with jewels and catch the eye.

  ‘You have overwhelmed me with your charming smile, your lovely teeth and your beautiful eyes, as the river in spate floods its banks. Your tiny waist can be circled with a single hand! Your breasts rise high and your hair is gorgeous. You are not a gandharvī or a kinnari or a yakṣī, for I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you on this earth.

  ‘May good fortune protect you! You should not be living here. This is the region in which fierce and cruel rākṣasas abound! You should be living within a city, in a stately home with a perfumed garden! Dark-eyed lady, you should have the best of flowers and foods and clothes, even the very best of husbands! This place is the home of rākṣasas. What are you doing living here? There are monkeys and lions and elephants and tigers and bears and leopards and all kinds of other animals here. Aren’t you afraid of them? How can you be here alone and not be frightened?

  ‘Who are you? Who do you belong to? Where did you come from? What are you doing alone in these terrible Daṇḍaka forests which are filled with rākṣasas?’

  Thus did the black-hearted Rāvaṇa praise Sītā and she honoured him with all the respect due to a guest, for he had come to her in the form of a brahmin. ‘Seat yourself comfortably,’ she said, handing him a grass mat. ‘Here is water to wash your feet and forest produce for you to eat. I hope you enjoy it!’ Rāvaṇa gazed at the princess who treated him so respectfully, and the moment he decided that he had to carry her off, he sealed his fate.

  Meanwhile, Sītā waited anxiously for her husband who had gone off after the deer and for his brother. But though she scanned the forest, all she could see was the green of the trees and no sign of Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa.

  Sītā told Rāvaṇa all about herself in response to his questions and related the circumstances that had brought her to the forest with her husband. ‘But who are you?’ she asked. ‘What is your name and what is your clan? Tell me, brahmin, why do you wander alone in the Daṇḍaka forest?’

  ‘I am Rāvaṇa, the king of the rākṣasas!’ he said quickly to Rāma’s beautiful wife. ‘I am the one that all the worlds, the gods, the asuras and the pannagas dread! I am Rāvaṇa, Sītā, the king of the rākṣasa hordes! When I set eyes on you with your golden skin and your yellow garments, I lost all interest in my own women, even though they are the finest in all the worlds. Become my chief queen!

  ‘My capital city, Lankā, is on a mountain top in the middle of the ocean. Give up this awful life! We can wander in the lovely groves there! If you become my wife, five thousand women adorned with every kind of jewel will be your slaves!’

  Sītā was outraged. ‘I am devoted to Rāma who is as steadfast as Mount Mahendra and as deep as the ocean,’ she retorted scornfully. ‘He has mighty arms and a broad chest and the gait and valour of a lion. I follow that lion among men like a shadow. How can a jackal like you covet a lioness like me? I am as far from you as the shining, golden sun! Trying to abduct me would be like carrying off Mount Mahendra with your bare hands, or drinking the deadly kālakūṭa poison and hoping to stay alive and well! If you think you can carry off Rāma’s beloved wife, you might as well pluck out your eyes with a needle, or lick the edge of a knife with your tongue!

  ‘The difference between you and Rāma is like that between a lion and a jackal, between a tiny stream and the mighty ocean, between the drink of the gods and coarse rice gruel, like that between gold and iron, sandal paste and mud, a house cat and a magnificent tusker!’ But even though the chaste woman spoke so fearlessly to the wicked rākṣasa, she was trembling like a slender banana plant in a high wind.

  ‘I am the brother of Kubera, the god of wealth!’ said Rāvaṇa, frowning. ‘Lovely lady, I am Rāvaṇa, the mighty ten-headed rākṣasa. The gods and gandharvas, the piśācas, the birds and the serpents run in fear of me! All creatures see me as death!

  ‘For a number of reasons, I developed an enmity with my brother Kubera and I challenged him to combat. I defeated him with my superior strength. Terrified, he surrendered his realm and now lives on Mount Kailāsa. I took his flying chariot, the magical Puṣpaka, from him. It can go anywhere. Even the gods led by Indra flee when they see my wrathful face. The wind does not blow where I go and
the sun becomes as cool as the moon for fear of me. Leaves do not dance on their trees and rivers stop flowing in the places I visit.

  ‘Lankā, my exquisite city, lies on the far side of the ocean. It is filled with rākṣasas but it rivals Indra’s Amarāvatī. Surrounded by sparkling white walls, it has gates of lapis, inside which are mansions decorated with gold. It is filled with the noise of elephants and horses and the sweet music of pipes. It abounds in beautiful gardens which have trees that bear flowers and fruit all through the year.

  ‘Princess Sītā, when you live there with me, you shall have so much fun that you will forget all about mortals. You shall enjoy human and celestial pleasures and soon forget about that mortal Rāma who is as good as dead! King Daśaratha placed his favourite son on the throne and exiled the eldest, Rāma, because he was weak! You should not reject me, I am the king of the rākṣasas! Struck by the arrows of love and driven by passion, I came to you because I wanted to!’

  ‘If you so much as touch me,’ blazed Sītā, her eyes red with anger, ‘you might as well have drunk poison!’

  Rāvaṇa rubbed his hands together and reverted to his natural form. ‘Crazy woman!’ he said harshly. ‘You were obviously not listening when I told you about my power and strength. I can stand in the sky and lift the earth in my hands! I can kill Death in battle!’

  Rāvaṇa’s eyes blazed red like the setting sun and were as bright as fire. He had thrown off the disguise of the gentle ascetic and appeared in his true form which was as terrifying as Death, and stood there with his ten heads and his bright jewels. ‘Lovely lady, if you want a husband who is known in the three worlds, then come to me! I am worthy of you! Give yourself to me and I shall be worthy of your love. I will never do anything that makes you unhappy. Give up your attachment to this wretched mortal and turn your affections to me. You think of yourself as wise, but you are very foolish. How can you remain attached to a man who has given up his kingdom, who cannot accomplish his goals and whose days are numbered?’

  Speaking brutally to gentle Sītā who deserved only kindness, Rāvaṇa grabbed her roughly. With his right hand, he caught her by the hair and he placed his left arm under her knees. The forest deities fled in terror when they saw Rāvaṇa with his great arms and huge teeth. Rāvaṇa’s golden chariot appeared, drawn by braying donkeys. Rāvaṇa lifted Sītā by the waist and ranted on as he placed her in the chariot.

  Virtuous Sītā cried out to Rāma who was far away in the forest. She screamed like a mad woman in her anguish, as Rāvaṇa flew into the sky with her. ‘Oh mighty Lakṣmaṇa! You who live to please your older brother! You have no idea that I am being carried off by this rākṣasa who can change his shape at will!

  ‘Oh Rāma! You would sacrifice life and happiness for dharma, but you cannot see that I am being abducted by

  this unrighteous creature! You are the chastiser of the wicked and the destroyer of your enemies! Why can’t you punish wicked Rāvaṇa?

  ‘Flowering trees of Janasthāna! I beg you, tell Rāma as soon as you can that Sītā was carried off by Rāvaṇa! Mighty mountain Prasravaṇa, covered with flowers, I beg you, tell Rāma that Sītā has been carried away by Rāvaṇa! Creatures of the forest, tell my husband, who loves me more than his own life, that Sītā was beside herself with grief as Rāvaṇa carried her off! When mighty Rāma hears what has happened, he will come to reclaim me, no matter where I am!’

  The enormous bird Jaṭāyu was dozing gently nearby, but he woke when he heard the screams and saw Rāvaṇa and Sītā. Best of all birds, Jaṭāyu was the size of a mountain and had a sharp beak. He spoke sweetly to Rāvaṇa from his perch on the tree.

  ‘Ten-headed Rāvaṇa, I am Jaṭāyu, the king of the vultures. I am strong and mighty and honourable and I cleave to the eternal dharma. Rāma, the son of Daśaratha, is the lord of all the worlds. Equal to Varuṇa and Indra, he is devoted to the welfare of all beings. This woman you are abducting is his wife, she is the best of all women.

  ‘How can a righteous king carry off another man’s wife? The wives of kings should be especially protected, mighty one! Rid yourself of this base desire! Rāma has not harmed you, or your city or your kingdom. Why do you want to harm him? If Rāma killed Khara in battle in Janasthāna, it was because the rākṣasa transgressed the bounds of his duty for Śūrpanakhā’s sake. Rāma never does anything wrong. What was Rāma’s crime, that you feel compelled to abduct Sītā? Release this large-eyed woman at once, or Rāma will consume you with the fire of his eyes.

  ‘I am sixty thousand years old now, Rāvaṇa. You are young. You are mounted on a chariot, clad in a coat of mail and armed with a bow and arrows. Despite that, you cannot carry Sītā off so easily! If you are truly brave, step out for a moment! You, too, shall lie dead on the ground like Khara! You shall not succeed in abducting this lotus-eyed lady, Rāma’s beloved wife, as long as I am alive! Wait and watch Rāvaṇa! I shall pluck you from your chariot like a fruit from a tree!’

  Rāvaṇa’s golden earrings glittered and his twenty eyes turned red with rage. The king of the rākṣasas pounced on the great bird and a huge battle ensued in the sky between the two mighty beings, like the clash of winged clouds.

  Rāvaṇa rained iron-tipped arrows upon Jaṭāyu, but the king of the birds caught them all. He wounded the rākṣasa several times with his talons and sharp beak. He shattered Rāvaṇa’s bow and destroyed his chariot, biting off the head of his charioteer and also the heads of the donkeys that were yoked to it. Rāvaṇa fell to the ground, still holding Sītā on his lap.

  Rāvaṇa noticed that the aged bird was tiring and gleefully he rose into the air again, taking Sītā with him. But Jaṭāyu pursued him and threw himself on Rāvaṇa’s back. He dug his talons into the rākṣasa and mauled him all over, riding him as if he were a rogue elephant. He bit off Rāvaṇa’s ten right arms with his beak. Rāvaṇa attacked the bird with his fists and feet. But even though Jaṭāyu fought harder and harder for Rāma’s sake, Rāvaṇa cut off his wings and his feet with his sword. The wingless bird fell to the earth, scarcely a breath left in his body. Sītā ran to him and wept as she would for a member of her own family.

  Rāvaṇa, king of the rākṣasas, pounced on Sītā as she wept, her clothes crumpled and her ornaments in disarray. ‘Let go! Let go!’ he shouted as she clung to the trees like a climbing vine and rolled on the ground. ‘Rāma! Rāma!’ she wailed in that empty forest as the rākṣasa who looked like Death pulled her by the hair and called his own death upon his head.

  Rāvaṇa dragged her into the sky as she cried out to Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. With her glowing, golden skin and her clothes of yellow silk, the princess looked like a bolt of lightning from Mount Sudāma. As her yellow garments fluttered in the wind and the red lotuses from her garland scattered over him, Rāvaṇa’s face blazed like a mountain on fire. Golden Sītā held tight against Rāvaṇa’s black body was like a golden belt around an enormous black elephant.

  Sītā’s flowers fell from her body as she was being dragged away and they showered upon the earth like rain. They seemed to follow Rāvaṇa like a train, pulled along by the speed of his flight. The flowers followed him like the garland of stars which follows Mount Meru. As Rāvaṇa carried her further into the sky, Sītā shone with her own splendour like a comet. Her necklace of sparkling pearls slipped between her breasts and fell to the earth, like Gangā descending from the sky.

  The speed of their flight disturbed the treetops. The birds nesting there seemed to call out to Sītā not to be afraid. The lotus pools, filled with drooping flowers and agitated fish, seemed to mourn as if for a lost friend. Lions and tigers and other forest animals gathered from all over and ran behind Sītā, following her shadow on the ground. Even the mountains seemed to weep, their waterfalls like tears, their peaks like outstretched arms. The sun turned pale and dimmed his lustre as Sītā was being carried off.

  Sītā looked around desperately for someone to help her but she could see no one. As they f
lew over a mountain, she noticed five gigantic monkeys sitting on its peak. Sītā tossed her yellow shawl and her jewels among them, hoping that they would tell Rāma. In his excitement, Rāvaṇa did not notice this. But the huge monkeys, with their yellow unblinking eyes, watched as the weeping Sītā was carried off.

  Rāvaṇa crossed Pampā and went towards Lankā. His heart full of joy, he held on to the woman who was to be his death as one might carry a sharp-fanged poisonous snake. He sped like an arrow over forests and rivers, mountains and lakes, until he reached the ocean, the home of Varuṇa, the refuge of all rivers and the abode of fish and crocodiles. The ocean was frightened when it saw Sītā and it stilled its waves, freezing the fish and the other water creatures into immobility. In the sky, the siddhas and cāraṇas whispered to each other, ‘This will be the death

  of Rāvaṇa!’

  Meanwhile, Rāvaṇa reached the beautiful city of Lankā with Sītā in his arms and entered his own apartments. ‘Let no man or woman see Sītā without my permission!’ he ordered the piśacīs. ‘And whatever she wants—pearls, gold, jewels, clothes—let her have them at once, as if I myself were asking for them! Anyone who says anything to upset her, consciously or accidentally, can consider themselves as good as dead!’

  Rāvaṇa, king of the rākṣasas, left his apartments and wondered what he should do next. As he was thinking about this, he happened to notice eight valiant rākṣasas who lived on human flesh. Arrogant because of the boons that he had been given, Rāvaṇa began to praise them. ‘Arm yourselves and go to Janasthāna, where Khara lived before it was destroyed. That area has now been cleansed of rākṣasas. You can stay there without fear, relying on your strength. My army which was stationed there was slain in battle by Rāma’s arrows and so were Khara and Dūṣaṇa.

  ‘I am angrier than I have ever been and my wrath is greater, even, than my courage! The massacre has also led to the bitter enmity with Rāma. I have to kill my enemy. I shall not sleep a wink until I have slain him in battle! Go and stay in Janasthāna. Keep an eye on Rāma and tell me all that he does!’