Lakshmana smiled and said, “How could you be happy to be the wife of a slave? I serve my brother day and night, and as my wife, you would also be forced to labor.”
Frustrated, the demoness pointed at the fawn-eyed Sītā. “It is because of this ugly and deformed woman that you reject me. No matter, I will devour her and then I will live happily with you, without a rival.” Her red hair flying like the tail of a meteor, her teeth sharp as knives, her eyes blazing like red suns, she let out a piercing shriek and rushed at the innocent Sītā.
Rāma swiftly stood up to block her from harming his wife. He said to Lakshmana, “I should never have teased the violent and wicked. Although we cannot kill a woman, no matter how evil, stop her with your sword.”
When the demon flew at Sītā from another direction, Lakshmana swiftly chopped off her nose and ears. Shrieking in pain, holding her nose and ears to stop the stream of blood, the repulsive monster fled from the forest, her howls filling the air long after she left.
Shūrpanakhā fled to the palace of her brother Khara and found him sitting on his throne, bolstered by his army of demons. Screaming in terror, she hurled herself at his feet like an ocean storm hurling waves on the shore. The rākshasa Khara shouted, “Who has disfigured you so hideously, you who are all-powerful and can go anywhere in any form? They should know that they have placed the noose of death around their necks, for I will make their blood flow today!”
“Two brothers, who look more like gods than men, did this to me on account of a young, beautiful woman covered in jewels,” shrieked Shūrpanakhā. “It is because of her that I have been dishonored like an adulteress. Now I only wish to drink the blood of that woman and those two youths, who live in the Dandaka Forest like hermits!”
Khara, his face red with fury, ordered fourteen of his fiercest, most dreadful demons to seek out the brothers and kill them.
Rāma and Sītā were seated under the leafy arbor when the fourteen rākshasas raged into the forest, goaded by the cruel Shūrpanakhā like a cloud driven by wind. Seeing the unsightly band before them, Rāma said quietly to Lakshmana, “Stay with Sītā, and I will kill these evil demons who have come to destroy us.”
Rāma twanged his great bow, inlaid with gold and jewels. His legs planted firmly, his face reflecting calm resolve, he said, “We are the sons of Dasharatha, Rāma and Lakshmana, who have come here to fulfill my father’s vow. We pass our days in quiet meditation, harming no one. Why do you wish to attack us, wicked creatures that you are? It is by the request of the holy sages that I reside here. Stop, turn back, if you wish to live.”
Angered by Rāma’s unshakable courage and sweet speech, they answered, “It is you who will die, standing all alone.” The gruesome monsters with anger-red eyes bore down on Rāma, brandishing spears, maces, and arrows. Their cavernous mouths screamed in fury.
Rāma quickly let loose fourteen arrows tipped in gold and snapped their fourteen spears like straw. Then he calmly strung fourteen new arrows and let them fly. Each one hit its mark, piercing the fourteen rākshasas through the heart.
Seeing the blood of Khara’s fourteen ace warriors spilt all around, Shūrpanakhā once again ran screaming to her brother and threw herself at his feet, rolling on the palace floor and sobbing.
“Why are you still in hysterics?” asked Khara. “I’ve sent my fourteen best warriors and surely they must have killed those three hermits by now. Sit up, there is no need for tears.”
“I run to you in desperation,” Shūrpanakhā managed to say between sobs. “Only you can save me. Those fourteen warriors are dead, killed by Rāma alone. Now I am drowning in an ocean of tears, hunted by crocodiles of fear. You must leave your palace and kill Rāma and Lakshmana before they destroy all demons. If you do not have the strength or courage to kill these two men, how can we live here?”
Khara slammed his hand on the arm of his throne. “Say no more! Your traitorous speech makes me burn with rage. Rāma is no threat to me. I will send him to Yama today. Stop your crying, for soon you will quench your thirst for his blood.”
He ordered his brother Dūshana, the commander of his army: “Mobilize fourteen thousand of the fiercest and most bloodthirsty titans. Bring me my chariot, for I will lead them in battle.”
Outside his palace, the demon king Khara climbed into his chariot, inlaid with gold. Chiming with bells, its panels decorated with paintings of fish, flowers, trees, and other good luck symbols, it was drawn by spirited horses.
“Charge!” he roared to the multitude of fierce rākshasas, who were armed with every deadly weapon imaginable. Their tumultuous shouts echoed in four directions, like a colossal thunderstorm.
As Khara, Dūshana, and their hordes rumbled through the Dandaka Forest in search of Rāma, bad omens appeared. A black shadow eclipsed the sun, making the rim appear red as blood and the day appear as night. The swift horses pulling Khara’s chariot stumbled on their way, jackals howled at the army as it swept by, hyenas and vultures shrieked ghastly cries. Lotuses withered, fruits and flowers disappeared, winds blew violently, and dust clouds covered the forest. As the earth trembled and shook, the army faltered.
“Only the weak are influenced by such trifles,” said Khara with an arrogant laugh. “These mean nothing to one as powerful as me. I can shoot down the stars with my shafts. I have never known defeat in battle. I can vanquish Indra, the king of the Devas, so what do I have to fear from two ordinary men?”
Khara’s loud boasting renewed his army’s courage. They roared louder than ever, and hurtled on, destroying everything in their path.
Sitting outside their hermitage, Rāma and Lakshmana saw the same omens. “These brown clouds, raining blood, portend the death of the rākshasas,” said Rāma. “See the smoke rising from my arrows, as if they are eager for the fight. My right arm twitches; victory will be ours.”
As the pounding of drums echoed through the forest, Rāma said, “Take Sītā to a mountain cave, one difficult to reach and screened by trees. Do not leave her under any circumstances. I know that you could defeat these demons, but I wish to slay these night prowlers single-handedly.”
Lakshmana bowed to Rāma and immediately set out for the cave with Sītā. His heart cheered by Lakshmana’s willingness to follow his every command, Rāma donned his coat of armor, shimmering like a flame.
Hearing the thunderous din of the rākshasas crashing through the forests, the Devas, Gandharvas, and celestial Rishis assembled in the skies to watch the battle. “Just as Vishnu vanquished the asuras, may Rāma triumph over the titans,” they cried. “Yet how will Rāma vanquish these fourteen thousand monsters by himself?” They floated in their celestial chariots high above the battlefield, talking among themselves.
The army of demons plunged into the clearing beside Rāma’s quiet āshram. Shouting “Kill the enemy!” they loosed bloodcurdling screams that shook the forest trees.
Rāma calmly stood and surveyed the field with the eyes of an experienced bowman. Taking one celestial arrow from his quiver, he strung his bow, its twang resounding like thunder through the trees, causing his enemies to quake.
“Destroy him!” shouted Khara, and drove his chariot straight at Rāma, his army clustered around him like the planets around the sun.
Khara’s bow spat a thousand arrows at Rāma, and lumbering ahead like elephants the giant demons let loose clubs, swords, spears, and axes on him, coming at him from all sides like a typhoon surrounding a boat at sea.
Without flinching, Rāma bent his bow like a sickle and shot a thousand arrows, each piercing a demon in the heart. The rākshasas, their legions slaughtered, scrambled over heaps of bodies to escape from the battlefield. Then the rākshasa commander Dūshana, invincible in battle, rallied the army, and they charged Rāma straight on, wielding boulders and trunks of tall arjuna trees.
Watching from the heavens, the Devas sometimes thought Rāma was winning, other ti
mes the demons. Then, just as demons engulfed him like the ocean, Rāma shouted so loud that his voice rang around the forest like a gong. Stringing a celestial Gandharva weapon on the bow, he fired a thousand arrows in all eight directions. For a while, Rāma’s arrows flew so fast and thick that the Devas saw only a black cloud covering the sun, and no one could see when he strung his bow and when he shot the arrows. Rāma stood at the silent center, unmoved by fear, his eyes closed like a bull in a rainstorm. Titans, horses, and elephants lay in heaps around the battlefield, slain by the arrows of Rāma.
Seeing his army decimated, Dūshana wheeled his chariot to charge Rāma. Rāma’s arrows shattered Dūshana’s horse, the charioteer, and his bow, and struck Dūshana in the chest. Staggering with injuries, Dūshana hurled his mace, large as a mountain peak and studded with sharp nails, which had conquered the Devas and smashed heaven’s gates. Rāma pierced it with his arrows, and it shattered in eight directions. A few more swings of Rāma’s sword, and Dūshana was dead.
“Well done!” cried the Devas who watched from above. “Well done!”
Now Khara, enraged to see Rāma strike down his brother as lightning fells a great tree, ordered three generals and the remaining army to kill Rāma. Rāma’s arrows pierced them all, so that only Khara remained.
Standing alone, Khara finally understood that Rāma had single-handedly vanquished his powerful brother and the entire demon army, and for the first time in his life, he felt fear. Nevertheless, he mounted his chariot, let loose a hundred poisonous arrows, and darted about the battlefield, revealing his formidable skill in battle.
The arrows flew so thickly from both sides that soon the battlefield was covered in darkness. At first Khara thought that Rāma was overcome with fatigue, because he stayed rooted to one spot. But Rāma continued to loose his arrows, as unconcerned with danger as a mighty lion in the company of a deer.
Then Khara made a bold move. He drove his chariot straight into Rāma and broke Rāma’s bow. Letting loose seven shafts like Indra’s thunderbolt, he shattered Rāma’s armor and wounded him. Khara whooped in victory.
Rāma raised a second bow, the one that Rishi Agastya had given him, named Vaishnava. Like a clear, smokeless flame, Rāma advanced on Khara, shooting arrows that cracked the demon’s bow, killed his horses and charioteer, and smashed his shield. Watching from above, the Devas shook their heads in wonder at such prowess in battle.
Now Khara faced Rāma on foot, wielding his mighty mace. Seeing him about to attack, Rāma’s voice rang out in the forest. “You who love the darkness, see how your evil deeds, the killing of innocent sages in this Dandaka Forest, have led to your death. The tyrant who causes pain to others can never gain happiness. It is to save those innocent saints that I have come to this forest. Now you will reap the inevitable harvest sown by your actions; now I will cut off your head like the fruit of a palm tree.” At this, Rāma raised his bow and dispatched a single arrow, cracking the mighty mace of Khara into smithereens.
His ugly mouth foaming with anger, Khara hurled abuses at Rāma. Glancing about wildly for a weapon, he uprooted a giant axlewood tree. “With this you are dead!” he cried as he charged at Rāma.
Rāma easily broke the tree with his arrows, and then, his patience having run out, pierced Khara’s body with countless arrows. Still, Khara hurtled on like an arrow that, once unleashed, cannot be stopped. Taking up the shaft of Brahmā and uttering the sacred mantras to empower it, Rāma let fly the fatal arrow that pierced the demon’s heart. The terrible demon Khara crashed to the earth, dead.
The celestial crowds above cried out, “Jai Rāma!” and showered flower garlands on Rāma below. They rejoiced with the beating of drums, the ringing of bells, and the blowing of conch shells. “Wonderful is this great deed of Rāma, the knower of the Self. Wonderful is his might. In strength he resembles Lord Vishnu himself.” Chattering happily to one another, they recounted again and again how Rāma, possessed of the Self, single-handedly destroyed fourteen thousand demons in the course of an hour.
Soon the famed Rishis of the Dandaka Forest, led by Agastya, assembled to give thanks to Rāma. “It was for this heroic deed that you were brought to this lonely place,” rejoiced Agastya. “Now holy men can live in peace in the Dandaka Forest, without fear of attack.”
After Rāma returned to the hermitage, Lakshmana and Sītā emerged from their mountain hiding place and joined him there. Seeing her adored husband victorious over the enemy, Sītā embraced him happily. Delighted by Rāma’s victory, suffused with bliss to find her beloved Rāma unharmed, Sītā washed his face and feet, served him food and drink, and soothed away the fatigue of battle with songs of praise.
Wonderful is this great deed of Rāma, the knower of the Self.
Wonderful is his might. In strength he resembles Lord Vishnu himself.
—Āranya Kānda 30.32
CHAPTER 21
Rāvana Plots to Kill Rāma
Blazing like the sun
he sits on his throne,
Rāvana, the lord of the three worlds.
Twenty arms fan out like a peacock’s plumes,
striped with emeralds and gold.
Ten heads gape open-mouthed,
like caves armed with stalactite teeth.
Neither gods nor Gandharvas
nor Rishis can vanquish him,
nor Death himself.
He bears the scars of
Vishnu’s discus,
yet his limbs still punch the air
like mountain peaks.
He snatched the magical car
Pushpaka from the god of wealth,
he wrecked the pleasure gardens
of the Devas,
and stole their Soma elixir.
He alone can churn the seas.
Through austerity he won
Brahmā’s boons,
freeing himself from death
by Devas, Gandharvas, or demons.
All but the humble creatures—
monkeys and bears,
and man.
In his arrogance,
he forgot to ask for
immunity against those he deemed
too weak to stop him
from stealing the wives of others
and terrorizing the holy.
In his arrogance,
he forgot to save himself
from the bottomless ocean
that is Shrī Rāma.
Rāvana, the king of the rākshasas, sat on a throne inlaid with a most lavish and rare assortment of gems. Through the windows of the great hall where he held court, he could see the golden rooftops of his domain, the fabled city of Lankā. It had been built by the divine architect, Vishvakarman, and there was no other place like it on earth. The citizens of Lankā lived in ornate palaces, the walls lined with gold and the doors studded with precious gems. The city sparkled in brilliant hues of cat’s-eye, emerald, ruby, diamond, and sapphire. Demons dressed in luxurious robes and feasted on delicacies unknown to man. Singers and dancers entertained them in bejeweled halls, and everyone lived in opulence and ease.
Yes, Rāvana’s day had started pleasantly, like any other—his bards sang his praises at the first light of dawn, recounting all the Devas, Gandharvas, and Rishis he had conquered. This always put him in a good mood, because it reminded him that he had never been defeated. There was no one, not even Indra in heaven, who did not fear him. He was the undisputed ruler of all three worlds.
On this day, however, a messenger dared to bring him the disturbing news of Dūshana and Khara’s destruction. “Who would dare attack my brothers?” Rāvana roared at the unlucky messenger, Akampana. “I will destroy him, just as I have conquered Indra, Varuna, and Death himself!”
Akampana, who had barely escaped Rāma’s arrows on the battlefield, visibly quaked under the harsh storm of R�
�vana’s wrath. “A prince by the name of Rāma, the youthful son of Dasharatha, faced the rākshasa army alone in the Dandaka Forest at Janasthāna and destroyed them,” he managed to say in a voice strangled with fear.
“He must have been helped by the Devas!” screamed Rāvana. He hoisted his mammoth body from his throne and stomped up and down the hall in a rage.
“His golden-winged arrows twisted into five-headed serpents, killing five with one,” said the messenger. “But the Devas did not help him.”
“I will go there myself and kill him!” bellowed Rāvana. His voice echoed off the golden walls and rattled the jeweled chandeliers.
“This man can destroy the worlds and create a new universe,” said the messenger. “There is no one who can defeat him.”
Seeing Rāvana about to explode in anger, the hapless messenger quickly added, “But I know of a way. Rāma is inordinately attached to his wife, who accompanied him to the forest. Adorned with jewels, she is the most beautiful woman in the world. She is far more lovely than the nymphs or Devas. Kidnap her, and Rāma will die of grief.”
Rāvana liked the idea, and for the first time he smiled. He immediately climbed aboard his aerial chariot, drawn by mules. Gleaming with gold, it swiftly bore Rāvana high above cities and villages, tranquil lakes, and dense forests. Soon he landed in a clearing in the woods, where the rākshasa Mārīcha sat outside a hut performing austerities, wearing the guise of a hermit.
Mārīcha served Rāvana a sumptuous feast. Then he said, “I feel apprehensive. What brings you to this quiet retreat?”
Rāvana laid out his plan to steal Sītā. Mārīcha held up his hands in protest. He did not want to tangle with Rāma.
“Surely the fool who suggested this plan was your enemy, craving your destruction,” he said. “It is not possible to defeat Rāma. Like an elephant, he has the lineage of heroes as his trunk, valor as his blood, and muscle-knotted arms as tusks. Do not hurtle yourself into the bottomless ocean that is Rāma. His bow is the crocodile, his arms are nimble as quicksand, his shafts are like rising waves that submerge the battlefield in endless waters. Return to your kingdom in peace and let Rāma dwell in the forest.”
The Ramayana Page 17