The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

  Ravana said, “Uncle, master of maya, turn yourself into a golden deer. If Sita sees you at Panchavati, she will ask Rama and Lakshmana to capture the creature for her. With all your guile, Maricha, lead the two princes far from the asrama and from Sita. And as Rahu does the light of the moon, I will seize her, and fly with her to Lanka.

  “Rama’s heart will break and he will become easy prey for me. I will avenge my cousins, my sister, and my dead fourteen thousand.”

  Not a word that, just hearing about her, he wanted Sita for his bed. But Maricha guessed as surely as if Ravana had confessed his lust. Maricha’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips and stood goggling at Ravana as if his eyelids had lost their power to blink. At last he said slowly, “Ravana, nephew, you said you needed comfort because your heart was troubled. You have come to the right person. Now listen to me.” He folded his hands to Ravana. “You are an emperor, and fawning courtiers surround you. They are not sincere. They will say anything to please you, even if their counsel leads you to your death. Of old it has been said that it is rare indeed to find an honest and blunt counselor, who truly cares for his sovereign. It is rarer still to find a king who listens to such an adviser.

  “Ravana, your spies have been asleep, basking in your glory, believing you are invincible. Or surely you would have heard of Rama much earlier, and you might have prevented the slaughter of Khara and the fourteen thousand. Rama is more powerful than Indra or Varuna. He came to rid the jungle of our people. His work is done, and if you leave him alone, he will return peacefully to Ayodhya.

  “This prince is no adharmi. No evil sits upon his heart; no sin stains his spirit that he will be easy to kill. He came to the jungle to keep his father’s honor; he came forsaking a throne that was his for the taking. Rama is an embodiment of dharma. If you kidnap his wife, you might as well leap into a fire and save him the trouble of killing you: which, Ravana, he surely will.

  “Go home to Lanka. Ask Vibheeshana’s advice and you will find he says exactly as I do. I want to save you from death, Ravana. Listen to me. Don’t be swayed by the moment’s passion; take heed for your future.”

  Ravana said nothing, but stared calmly at Maricha, so that rakshasa said, “Once I lived in the northern forests at the feet of the Himalaya. What days those were. I was as strong as a thousand elephants, and we ate hermits’ flesh, and ruined every sacrifice in the forest. For years, Viswamitra tried to perform a yagna in that vana. But each time it neared completion, Subahu and I would desecrate it.

  “One day, we attacked the yagnashala where Viswamitra sat chanting the Vedas. With filth we went: blood, excrement, and rotten meat to cast at the holy fire. Suddenly I saw a young man, handsome as the moon, who stood guard over Viswamitra’s yagna. He was no more than sixteen summers old, tender, and innocence was upon his face. For a moment I was arrested by his sheer beauty. Then, roaring, I hurled my filth at the agni.

  “I scarcely saw that youth fit his arrow to his bow, and, Ravana, I was lifted from the ground and carried into the sky. My body and soul on fire, I was borne a thousand leagues by the astra with which he shot me, and flung into the sea. That was Rama. He was only a boy then, a stripling.”

  Maricha paused, his chest heaving. He prayed fervently that Ravana would be convinced. How could he explain Rama’s prowess to his king? “You know your sister as well as I do,” he continued. “I am sure she provoked the brothers, that they cut off her nose and ears. She must have taunted Khara into attacking Rama. Then what choice did the prince have, except to defend himself? I speak to you from my heart, as not merely my king but my nephew. Be guided by me, Ravana. You have vanquished many great enemies in battle, but this kshatriya is different. All the wise say he is Vishnu’s Avatara.”

  Maricha fell silent, hoping good sense would dawn on his sovereign. But like one whose evil hour had come, Ravana was impervious to wise counsel. The older rakshasa’s words fell by the way, like seeds in a desert.

  After a moment’s tense silence, Ravana said softly as ever, “I am not afraid, uncle. My mind is made up: Sita must be taken. I did not come to you for your advice but for your help.”

  His voice had an unpleasant edge to it now. He bared a fang briefly, and Maricha trembled.

  Ravana said, “Don’t let the freedom I give you as an elder go to your head. Don’t forget who I am: obedience, unquestioning obedience to me, Maricha, is your dharma.”

  Those terrible eyes bored into Maricha’s frightened ones. Some of the heads appeared briefly, in a haze, to glare at this insignificant demon that dared thwart Ravana.

  Ravana said, “Uncle, be a golden deer with silver speckles for me. Enchant Sita’s heart. When I have taken her, I want nothing more from you. Come, we will go in the chariot and arrive quickly.”

  Maricha still hesitated. Ravana studied his fingernails and said in deadly quiet, “If you value your life, Uncle Maricha, I think you should do as I say.”

  But in a final burst of courage and good sense, Maricha said, “Someone wants you dead. And it seems you yourself are keen to put an end to all your glory. Ravana, if you do this thing you will die, and doom will come to Lanka. As for me, it is foolish to speak of my freedom: the moment I see Rama again, I will die. He told me as much. But at least if I die at his hands I will find heaven for myself. Ah, Ravana, I see the stubbornness in your eyes and I know you will do as you have decided. This is the last chance you have to save yourself. You seek to embrace the lovely Sita, but you will clasp your death instead.”

  13. A golden deer

  But Ravana was in no mood to pay any attention to Maricha’s advice. He wanted to see Sita: to possess her as quickly as he could. Surpanaka had inflamed him well, and he had surrendered his reason to the seductive images that filled his mind. Ravana rose and fingered his sword meaningfully. He said, “Let us go.”

  He strode out of the asrama. Maricha cast a last sad look at the hermitage that had been his home for so long. He was sure he would never see it again.

  Ravana called impatiently over his shoulder, “Hurry up, Maricha; my time is short.”

  Maricha mumbled to himself, “Ravana, you are the most arrogant and callous rakshasa, and you will lie dead upon the earth very soon, pierced by Rama’s arrows.”

  With a sigh he went out to his determined king. Ravana embraced him. In febrile anticipation of seeing Sita, he cried, “Now you are my obliging uncle again. I will reward you when your task is finished, Maricha. I will reward you beyond your dreams.”

  They climbed into the chariot and flew like the wind toward Panchavati. The air in the higher reaches froze Maricha’s blood, and much too soon for his liking they saw Panchavati from the sky. Ravana grasped his uncle’s hand in excitement. He guided the chariot down into some woods near the princes’ asrama.

  The Emperor of the rakshasas helped Maricha out of the chariot. He whispered, “Now, uncle, change yourself!”

  Maricha shut his eyes with a prayer. He focused his maya sakti upon his own body. In a moment he was transformed and a velvet stag stood there, its golden skin twitching. Even Ravana gasped: so graceful, so brilliant and beautiful was that creature. Silver markings shone like stars on its body; it was a treasure alive, with great, limpid eyes, curled antlers, and a delicate gait. Ravana stroked the golden stag’s flanks and it quivered beneath his hand. After patting it a few times to quieten it, he slapped the deer sharply on its side and sent it dashing off toward Rama’s asrama.

  Maricha, the golden stag, came in enchantment to the asrama in Panchavati. Shy, playful, and tremulous, it approached the hermitage. Its skin was molten; its antlers seemed to be made from stalks of diamond and its silver markings glowed like bits of the moon. It pranced there, at times cropping lush grass and at others dancing on quicksilver hooves, as if for the rapture of being alive and being so lovely a creature.

  There were other deer around Rama’s asrama. The moment they saw this gilded beast they fled, barking in alarm at his smell. Maricha would have loved to sink his
fangs into their throats and drink warm blood. But the pleasure was denied him today. Under the karnikara trees encircling the asrama, the golden stag strutted in disdain of those lesser creatures. Even the squirrels chattered down angrily at the predator they smelled clearly under his shimmering hide.

  Sita came out of the asrama to gather flowers for her puja. She crossed to the karnikara and asoka trees, and the flowering bushes that grew in their shade. Suddenly the golden deer stepped out from behind a tree. Sita almost dropped her basket. Her eyes were riveted to the bewitching creature. She called to it, as she did to the other deer that frequented the asrama. But this beast appeared not to understand her.

  Excitedly, Sita called Rama and Lakshmana. The deer stood quivering, quite near her, then ran a small way off when it saw the princes coming. When Lakshmana saw the golden stag he stopped in his stride, scowling. He said to his brother, “Be careful, Rama, this is no deer. I don’t know why, but I feel strangely sure that this is our old friend Maricha.”

  But Sita cried, “Oh, Rama, just look at this creature. How beautiful he is. I have never wanted anything as I do this deer. He can be a companion for me here, and a wonder when we take him back to Ayodhya. I beg you, take him alive for me.”

  When Rama saw the deer, he too was bewitched. How could anything so indescribably beautiful be evil? He said to Lakshmana, “Not even Indra’s Nandana or Kubera’s Chaitra will have a deer like this one. Look at its tongue when it feeds: like a small streak of lightning. I must capture the creature for Sita. Even I am enchanted by it; how she must want it for herself.

  “Besides, if it does turn out to be Maricha, I will kill him. But if it is not the rakshasa, then Sita shall have an exquisite pet. She never asks me for anything; I can’t refuse her this.”

  Rama stopped speaking and stood staring at the golden stag. He gazed hard and shook his head as if to clear it.

  His mouth was set tightly, and he said, “I think you may be right after all, Lakshmana. There is an evil feeling about this golden deer. The certainty grows on me also that he is Maricha. I will follow the beast, and I think kill it. All my instincts cry out warning: some great danger is very near. Keep your bow in your hand and fit it with an arrow. Watch over Sita as the mothers of the wild do their young. I will be back soon; Sita, be careful.”

  As if it had understood everything he said, the stag streaked away into the woods. Bow in hand, Rama ran after it. Sita stood waving to him. Rama waved back at her a last time and was lost to view, as he plunged after the golden deer into the thicker forest around Panchavati.

  14. The dark mendicant

  His sword strapped to his waist, his bow shining in his hand, Rama chased the golden deer through the Dandaka vana. It led him along so cunningly, he grew more and more convinced it was no stag, but an enemy disguised. The deer seemed to realize he would not kill it, until he was sure it was not a deer. It would stop in its tracks, gleaming under the trees of the dim forest. It would let him come quite close; then his heart would soften, seeing what a lovely creature it was, its eyes so soulful. But just as he drew near enough to make a spring and take it, the golden stag would prance away deeper into the forest, even as if it mocked him.

  So the chase went on. The deer led Rama farther and farther from the asrama. It tantalized him by vanishing; he thought he had lost it and turned back. Then he glimpsed a flash of gold from behind a tree, like a crack of the moon through dark clouds, and he was off after it again.

  An hour of this and Rama was convinced a rakshasa was leading him on this chase. He decided to kill it the next time it showed itself. If it was a creature of maya, as he suspected, an ordinary arrow would not kill the deer; and it would alert the golden thing that he had changed his mind about taking it alive. With a soft mantra, Rama drew an astra from his quiver. Now he waited; he knew it would return even if he stopped following it.

  Rama stood very still beside a small clearing, and he did not have long to wait. The golden stag stepped into the glade, near enough to let him chase it again, too far to seize. Quick as a thought, Rama raised his bow and shot the astra through the creature’s heart. With a horrible scream Maricha fell, his body a rakshasa’s again, cut almost in two by the shaft of fire. He lay panting, dying. But before his life was gone, Maricha the sorcerer threw back his head and, in an uncanny likeness of Rama’s voice, screamed piercingly, “Sita! Lakshmana! Help me!” Then he cried out again, and so convincingly because his agony was genuine.

  The next moment he was dead. Hearing the rakshasa scream like that in his voice, dread gripped Rama. Some great mischief was afoot and he was so far from the asrama. Anxiety burning him, he turned and ran back at a lope.

  In Panchavati, at the edge of the grove around the asrama, Sita heard Maricha scream and cried, “That was Rama. Fly to him, Lakshmana!”

  But Lakshmana stood silent and would not answer her in the mood she was in. She trembled; her eyes filled with tears. Shaking him, she said angrily, “Why do you stand there as if you didn’t hear Rama cry out?”

  A shadow crossed her face; she backed away from Lakshmana. “O evil one!” she breathed. “So you don’t love your brother, after all. You want him dead, don’t you, so you can make me your wife?”

  Hurt sprang into Lakshmana’s eyes. He said patiently, “Sita, calm yourself. No rakshasa, Danava, gandharva, Deva, not an army of all these, can make Rama cry out like that. He will soon be back with the hide of the devil that turned himself into a golden deer.”

  But Sita’s eyes blazed. “You are an anarya. You are a blot on the Ikshvaku name, that you can be so calm while your brother is being killed. You have waited patiently for this Godsend, either for yourself or for Bharata’s sake, pretending to love Rama while you have always been his worst enemy.

  “But if you think I will ever be yours, banish the thought, Lakshmana. I will kill myself rather than let you touch me.”

  Lakshmana cringed. He folded his hands to her and cried, “Sita, how can you even think this of me? The wounds of battle I can bear gladly, and arrows of fire; but not these savage words from you. I only waited here because he told me not to leave you for an instant, whatever happened. But I cannot bear to listen to you any more. I too am afraid; I feel grave danger very near. May the vana devatas preserve you from harm.”

  But she only glared at him and cried, “Fly! If you want me to believe you.” Tears in his eyes, glancing back over his shoulder to see if she would relent, Lakshmana followed the awful cry into the jungle.

  * * *

  Ravana waited impatiently in a nearby thicket for Lakshmana to leave. He heard Maricha cry out in Rama’s voice and a smile lit his dark lips. His uncle had served him well in his last moment. As soon as Lakshmana had gone, with just a thought Ravana transformed himself into a parivrajaka. He was a wandering mendicant, clad in ochre robes, a kamandalu and a battered umbrella in his hands, his hair matted in jata, wooden sandals on his feet, rudraksha round his neck and wrists. Only his eyes betrayed anything of what he truly was.

  As night accosts evening, when the sun has set and the moon is yet to rise, Ravana came to Sita, alone in that asrama. He came softly, yet in a fever, to the door of the little hermitage and stood staring in at her. She had her back turned to him. Before he went, Lakshmana had drawn a magical line across this door, an occult rekha. It protected the doorway, so no one could enter the dwelling unless they were asked in. At this line of power, Ravana hesitated.

  For the first time, the Demon saw Sita and he was inflamed. Jaded with the love of any woman he wanted casually, of the most beautiful women of all the races, it was an age since Ravana had been moved by a passion like the one that seized him now. In fact, he had never felt such desire: for never in all his years had the monster seen anyone like Sita. The very chasteness of her was fire to his blood. He was mad for her.

  He knew his time was short; he coughed softly at her back. Sita whirled around with a cry, thinking Rama had returned. She had been on edge since she heard Mar
icha’s inspired scream, and stood wringing her hands. The trees around Panchavati, and the spirits in their branches, all held their breath. The river stumbled over her bed at what Sita was about to do. She would invite the terrible mendicant inside and break the spell of Lakshmana’s rekha.

  Ravana stood utterly still when Sita turned and faced him. No fantasy he had of how lovely she must be had prepared him for her beauty. The moment the Rakshasa saw her face to face, whatever hope there might have been of his turning back was gone. His very soul was lost: an absolute love seized the Demon of Lanka.

  He murmured some mantras from the Veda to calm himself; he had to restrain the blinding lust he felt. Sita folded her hands to the parivrajaka. If any instinct warned her that he was not what he seemed to be, it was blurred by her anxiety for Rama. Maricha’s cry still echoed in her mind.

  Barely keeping the hoarseness from his voice, Ravana said, “Who are you, young woman? Your skin is like burnished gold; you are as fragrant as a pool full of lotuses. Tell me, are you Parvati come unknown into this forest, or Indra’s Sachi? Or Lakshmi, perhaps? Or are you Bhumi Devi, or Rati? Your teeth are pearls strung together; your body is so perfect I can hardly believe you are real. What can I say of your eyes, your face, your hair, your breasts, your waist I can hold in one hand? Save that I have never seen anyone whose beauty remotely approaches yours.

  “Yet you are neither a Deva woman nor a gandharvi. Don’t you know this forest is full of rakshasas? Go back to where you came from, lest any of them see you. For they are wild demons who must possess what they desire. Who are you? To whom do you belong? Tell me how you came to the vana.”

  Unusual talk indeed for a mendicant of a holy order. But Sita decided he spoke in good faith, for only in good faith had all the rishis she had ever met spoken to her, though none as this one did of her charms, and so warmly. On another day, Sita would have blushed to hear him; she may have resented what he said. But today, she merely fetched a darbhasana for him, as she would for any sannyasi, and said, “Come inside, Muni, and sit down.”