by Valmiki
‘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!’
Sitā 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 fa
mily.
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 flew 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!’
The eight rākṣasas were pleased with the praises showered upon them and were eager to perform the task ahead of them. They left Lanka together immediately, without being seen.
And Rāvaṇa, now that he had captured Sītā and purchased Rāma’s enmity along with that, was full of joy, delighting in his folly.
Rāvaṇa believed that he had achieved his life’s goal. Helpless with love, his mind turned again to Sītā and he went back to his apartments eagerly, to see her. The king of the rākṣasas entered the palace and there, surrounded by rākṣasīs, he saw the grieving Sītā. Her face was stained with tears and the weight of her sorrows made her pathetic. Utterly helpless, she was like a tiny boat on the open seas, tossed about by storm winds. She hung her head, like a doe that has strayed from the herd and is surrounded by hunting hounds.
Rāvaṇa forced her, vulnerable and unwilling, to see his palace, which was like the abode of the gods. Its huge buildings were studded with gems of all kinds and inhabited by thousands of women and many types of beautiful birds. It had pillars of gold and silver and crystal which were inlaid with diamonds and lapis and dazzled the eye. Rāvaṇa climbed a flight of stairs made of beaten gold with Sītā, and they resounded with each footstep like celestial drums. Its arches were decorated with exquisite silver and ivory lattices. Rāvaṇa pointed out the floors inset with pearls and showed Sītā the lotus pools surrounded by flowering trees.
‘There are thirty two million rākṣasas here, not including the sick, the old and children,’ he boasted, after he had shown Sītā the entire palace. ‘Each and every one of them is fierce and terrible. Sītā, I am the lord and master of all these forbidding creatures. I have one thousand of them just to wait on me personally! I give you my kingdom and all this, large-eyed lady, because you are dearer to me than my life! You can do what you want with it.
‘Ah beloved! Become my wife and mistress of the thousands of women in my harem. Listen to me, for I mean well. What will you gain by doing otherwise? I burn with desire for you, submit to me! Lankā is one hundred yojanās long and is surrounded on all sides by the ocean. Not even the gods led by Indra can beseige it or capture it!
‘There is no one in the three worlds who is my equal in strength and courage. What are you doing with that mortal Rāma? He has little power and no kingdom. He lives the life of an ascetic and will soon die! Give yourself to me, Sītā, I am a worthy husband for you! The days of our youth are short, enjoy them with me while you can!
‘Do not be ashamed, thinking that this is a violation of dharma. Our union is destined and it has the sanction of the ṛṣis. Look, I lay my ten heads at your delicate feet. I am your slave. Be gracious to me! Rāvaṇa has never ever placed his heads at the feet of a woman! I have never debased myself like this before, these humble words arise from my anguish.’ As he spoke and placed his heads within the noose of death, Rāvaṇa thought triumphantly to himself, ‘She is mine!’
Vulnerable and anguished, Sītā placed a blade of grass between herself and Rāvaṇa. ‘King Daśaratha upheld dharma and everyone knew him as an honourable man. Rāma is his righteous son and his glory has spread throughout the three worlds,’ she said to Rāvaṇa. ‘That powerful man with large eyes is my husband, he is like a god to me. Born in the line of the Ikṣvākus, he is brave and has shoulders as mighty as a lion’s. He and his brother Lakṣmaṇa will surely kill you!
‘If you had tried to abduct me in his presence, you would now be lying dead in Janasthāna, just like Khara! You may be invulnerable to the gods and the asuras, Rāvaṇa, but now that you have sought Rāma’s enmity, you will not escape alive. Rāma will take what remains of your life. You have as much chance of survival as a sacrificial animal tied to a stake!
‘Just as a caṇḍāla cannot touch the sanctified pots and ladles and the fire-altar for the sacrifice, so, too, you cannot touch me, you base rākṣasa! I am Rāma’s lawful and virtuous wife! You can imprison and injure this corporeal body of mine. I have no desire to protect my body or my life. What I cannot bear is the shame that has been heaped upon me!’ she said angr
ily.
‘Listen to me, Sītā!’ said Rāvaṇa, trying to intimidate her. ‘If you do not submit to me in the next twelve months, my cooks will chop you up for my breakfast!’
Rāvaṇa turned to the rākṣasīs. ‘You fierce and deformed creatures who live on flesh and blood must crush her pride!’ he said. The rākṣasīs joined their palms and gathered around Sītā. Stamping his feet as if he would smash the earth to pieces, Rāvaṇa said, ‘Take Sītā to the aśoka grove and guard her zealously, safe from prying eyes. Threaten her and cajole her alternately, the way wild elephants are tamed. Convince her that she must accede to my wishes!’
The rākṣasīs surrounded Sītā and took her to the aśoka grove. The grove was filled with trees which bore every kind of fruit and flower and were visited by birds all the year round. But in the hands of the rākṣasīs, Sītā was like a doe surrounded by tigers. Overwhelmed with grief and terrified by those ugly creatures, she found no peace in the aśoka grove. Her mind was constantly on her god-like husband.
Chapter Seven
Meanwhile, Rāma, had killed the form-changing rākṣasa Mārīca who had been wandering around as a deer, and was hurrying back to his settlement. As he was returning, anxious to see Sītā, a jackal howled behind him. Rāma recognized that hair-raising sound and grew worried. ‘This is terrible! The cry of a jackal is a bad omen! I hope all is well with Sītā and that the rākṣasas have not been harassing her. If Lakṣmaṇa heard Mārīca cry out in my voice while he was disguised as a deer, he will have left Sītā alone, on her insistence, and come after me. I just hope they are both all right without me. I have earned the enmity of the rākṣasas after the incident at Janasthāna. Oh dear! I see more and more bad omens!’
Worrying about the omens and the fact that he had been drawn away, Rāma reached Janasthāna, full of anxiety. Birds and animals saw the agitated Rāma coming and they ran around him, calling out in harsh voices. Rāma considered that a bad omen too. Before long, he saw Lakṣmaṇa, downcast and miserable. Soon, they were face to face, both of them anxious and upset.