Rāvana returned to his kingdom. It would have ended there, except for Shūrpanakhā. That hideous demon, who had watched her brothers die in battle, waited impatiently at Rāvana’s palace, eager to seek revenge on Rāma.
“How can you sit there, consumed in your quest for pleasure, while doom is descending on you like a dark cloud?” wailed Shūrpanakhā when Rāvana arrived. “The king who does not protect his lands lives without glory, like mountains flooded by the sea. Rāma has single-handedly slain the multitude of demons of the Dandaka Forest. No one helps the degenerate monarch who fails in his duty. He is swept from his kingdom like straw. The king who is vigilant, on the other hand, is revered by all.”
Rāvana, chastised severely by his sister, was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Tell me all you know about Rāma.”
Shūrpanakhā, her voice shaking with rage, again told Rāvana the story of her disfigurement by Rāma and Lakshmana. Then she cunningly added, “Rāma’s tender wife, Sītā, is by far the loveliest lady in existence. Whoever wins her as a consort will live in all happiness. It was when I tried to capture her for you that Lakshmana so cruelly attacked me. When you see her, you will be pierced by the arrows of the god of love, so do not delay. Rāma must be repaid for the deaths of Khara and Dūshana.”
His hair standing on end, Rāvana weighed her words. Then he set out again in his chariot for Mārīcha’s āshram, flying through the clouds.
Mārīcha was not happy to see him.
“I am terribly distressed, and you can help me,” began Rāvana, who was a persuasive orator. “I am distraught with the news from my sister, Shūrpanakhā. She tells me that this insignificant mortal, Rāma, has been thrown out of his kingdom. Ruthless and without principle, he attacked my army without provocation and killed my brothers, Khara and Dūshana. Passionate and a slave to his senses, he even dared to harm Shūrpanakhā, a defenseless female. Having abandoned his duty as king, he lives in a hermitage, seeking to harm others without just cause, flaunting his strength. To punish him for his misdeeds, I am resolved to take his beautiful wife, Sītā, by force.”
Employing his considerable charm, Rāvana said to Mārīcha, “You are unequaled in skill and courage. Moreover, you are a master magician. I want you to transform yourself into a golden deer, one that will win the heart of Sītā. When she sees you bounding by, she will surely say to Rāma, ‘Capture it for me.’ While Rāma and Lakshmana are chasing you in the forest, I will carry Sītā away in my chariot. Then Rāma will die of grief and will no longer rule the Dandaka Forest.”
Mārīcha turned as pale as a swan’s feather. He licked his dry lips, his eyes fixed in terror on Rāvana.
Folding his palms together, he begged Rāvana to come to his senses. “It is easy to flatter a powerful king; it is more difficult to speak truthfully. You are deluded and your spies are incompetent. Rāma’s wrath will be the death of all rākshasas. Sītā’s smile will become the instrument of that destruction. Rāma has never been disowned by his father, nor is he angry, selfish, or harmful to others. He is the embodiment of Dharma, he is virtuous, and he is brave.”
Mārīcha saw the demon king was not convinced. He tried one more argument. “You will never conquer Rāma. He will no more be parted from his beloved Sītā, whom he values more than his own life, than the sunbeam from the sun. Unless you wish to see your opulent Lankā laid waste, its temples and gardens destroyed, and the limbs of your subjects pierced by arrows, stay clear of Rāma. Take counsel with your ministers, headed by the virtuous Vibhīshana, before embarking on this cruel and foolhardy plan. I speak for your own good, O king of the night prowlers.”
Then Mārīcha explained why he himself feared Rāma. For Mārīcha was the same demon that the young Rāma had shot years ago when defending the āshram of Vishvāmitra. The impact of Rāma’s powerful weapon did not kill him, but struck him with such force that he was flung a hundred yojanas into the sea. “Rāma was just a boy when he shot me and, being generous, spared my life. Later, still filled with contempt for him, I confronted him again in the Dandaka Forest and only barely escaped because I ran away. Now just the sound rā makes me so frightened, I jump when I hear it! That is why I took to the hermit’s life. Having seen his strength, I know that you, Your Majesty, cannot defeat him. Plus there is no greater sin than consorting with another’s wife. You have thousands of concubines; look to them and save your honor, your fortune, your kingdom, and your life.”
Just as a patient who is about to die refuses the remedy, Rāvana blindly refused to listen to Mārīcha’s forthright words. Instead he lashed out at the unfortunate Mārīcha. “You miserable wretch! You will see me conquer this stupid and inconsequential human. I did not ask you for advice; I only asked you to help me. A gloomy response does not please a king; no sovereign likes having his dignity affronted by his advisors. A king embodies the five Devas: Agni (ardor), Indra (valor), Soma (gentleness), Yama (retribution), and Varuna (forgiveness). At all times you should honor these qualities in me; yet you have offered me only arrogance and have treated me, your guest, as a reprobate. My mind is fixed. You will help me capture Sītā. If you refuse, I will put an end to your miserable life now.”
Mārīcha did not quake, nor did he shrink in fear. He was not afraid of Rāvana’s blustering. “The king is the source of all righteousness and virtue in his subjects. A cruel leader cannot protect his subjects any more than a jackal can protect a herd of deer. Ministers who counsel violence will certainly reap violence along with their king, as a chariot driving swiftly on rough roads is destroyed along with its dull-witted charioteer. Who is this foolish person who advises you on this course? It will surely lead to your destruction. The rākshasa race, under your leadership, is doomed to extinction.
“But since you are determined to offer up your life to Rāma, I will go with you. I would rather die by the arrow of Rāma, and thus attain liberation, than be killed by you. May you be prosperous, O mighty king.”
Rāvana felt rage rush through his body, from his ten heads to his ten toes. Mārīcha deserved to be punished for his arrogance—yet Rāvana restrained himself. He knew he needed Mārīcha’s skills in sorcery if his plan was to succeed.
Thus Rāvana subdued his anger and smiled at last. “Now you are talking like the Mārīcha I know. Lead me to Sītā.”
Sweeping across the sky in Rāvana’s aerial chariot, far above the land, they traveled to the Dandaka Forest.
Ministers who counsel violence will certainly reap violence
along with their king, as a chariot driving swiftly on rough roads
is destroyed along with its dull-witted charioteer.
—Āranya Kānda 41.12
CHAPTER 22
The Golden Deer
I am devoted to Rāma,
unshakable as Mount Meru,
invincible as the ocean.
I embrace Rāma,
who shelters me
as the limbs of the banyan tree
provide shade to the earth.
I am Rāma’s shadow,
clinging to the
lionhearted and brave.
I am loyal to Rāma,
whose face shines like
the full moon,
the soul of the universe.
And who are you,
who dare to desire me,
a lioness beyond your reach?
Trying to win me
is as futile as trying to shoot the
sun from the sky,
tear the moon from its orbit,
or swim the seas
with a boulder on your back.
For an infinite ocean separates you from Rāma,
as wide as the gulf between
jackal and lion.
You and Rāma are as different as
crow and peacock,
straw and silk,
le
ad and gold.
You could no more
steal my heart from Rāma
than a wasp
could swallow
a diamond.
Sītā wandered through the flowering groves outside their hermitage. The sun shone on her golden skin, lighting it with even greater brilliance than usual. Blessed with an inner happiness that never faded, her voice rose in melody while she plucked blossoms of crimson, magenta, and butter yellow.
Suddenly she stopped in her tracks, her song broken off in the middle. Before her pranced the most enchanting animal she had ever seen. It was a golden deer, its horns shining with silver and crusted with emeralds, pearls, and rubies. Its mouth glittered bright as the red lotus, its eyes the color of turquoise, its dainty feet sparkled like blue sapphire. As it leapt in the sunlight, its iridescent coat rippled in a rainbow of colors. Sometimes this rare creature bent to nibble the undergrowth, sometimes it gently pawed the earth. Shimmering with light, its radiance illumined the entire forest, like the moon frosting the trees with silver.
“Rāma, come here quickly!” called Sītā. “Bring Lakshmana!”
The two brothers came running. Sītā pointed and exclaimed, “Will you catch this enchanting deer for me? It will make a magnificent pet for our āshram. We can charm our mothers and Bharata with its wonders when we return to the palace.”
Lakshmana frowned. “This beast is a fantasy, not found in nature. Surely this is the work of the sorcerer Mārīcha, who wishes us harm.”
But Rāma, too, was enchanted by the gilded deer with its gem-studded horns. Wishing to please Sītā, he said, “Who could not be mesmerized by this extraordinary creature? We should add its wealth to the coffers of the king. If it is a demon in disguise, then I will end its life and bring home its skin for Sītā to sit upon, for this wicked Mārīcha has preyed on the Rishis of Dandaka Forest long enough.”
Then he ordered Lakshmana, “Stay here and guard Sītā with your life. Protecting her is our most important duty. Maintain utmost vigilance while I shoot this deer.”
Rāma fastened his sword around his waist and carried his bow. Seeing him approaching, the deer bounded away. Rāma followed him into the forest, but the deer leapt ahead of him and, just as Rāma was about to shoot, disappeared. Then it suddenly appeared again, like the moon showing its face from behind the clouds. Thus the deer led Rāma deeper into the woods in a treacherous game of hide-and-seek. Finally, growing impatient at being led so far from the āshram, Rāma made up his mind to end the chase. Drawing his Brahmā arrow, he sent the fiery shaft straight into Mārīcha’s heart.
Pierced by the arrow, losing blood, the demon reverted to his normal monstrous shape. Honoring his promise to Rāvana, Mārīcha completed the final stroke of deceit. He called out loudly in Rāma’s voice, “Alas Sītā, alas Lakshmana!” And then he died, liberated by Rāma’s arrow.
Rāma shuddered when he heard the dying rākshasa call out in his own voice. “What will Sītā think, when she hears me calling? What will Lakshmana do?” His heart filled with dread, he quickly hurried home.
Rāma’s fears were well founded, for Sītā was highly alarmed. Her mind flooded with frightening thoughts and her heart pounded. “Quickly, go help Rāma!” she cried to Lakshmana. “That long, plaintive call was surely a cry for help!”
But Lakshmana remembered Rāma’s instructions and stood silently, unmoved.
Wild with anxiety, Sītā burst into tears. “Lakshmana, you are nothing but an enemy to your brother,” she sobbed in fear and confusion. “Otherwise, how could you stand here while he calls you? You obviously have no love for him. Why wouldn’t you protect him, when that is why you came to the forest in the first place? O brother of Rāma, what can I do to make you move?”
Lakshmana calmly reassured her. “There is no need to worry about Rāma, dear Sītā, for there is no one in this world or the next who can harm your husband. You have no reason to speak to me so harshly, for I cannot possibly leave you alone in the forest. I gave my word to Rāma, and I will stay here until he returns. Surely that voice was just a rākshasa trying to trick us. Do not worry, Rāma will soon return.”
Hearing Lakshmana’s comforting words, Sītā grew even more agitated. Her eyes stinging with tears and flashing with anger, she railed at him, her one thought to help Rāma. “Surely you have come to this forest as an enemy in disguise, perhaps sent by Bharata, perhaps to have your way with me. But your plan will never work, for how could I ever love anyone but the compassionate Rāma? I will give up my life first, for I cannot live a day without him.”
Now Lakshmana shuddered. “You are like a goddess to me, and it is not for me to answer. But truly, I cannot endure such unjust and bitter words from you. They pierce my heart like flaming arrows. So be it—I will follow Rāma, against his command. I fear for your safety, for the omens are evil. May the trees protect you! May the creatures of the forest protect you! May we find you safe on our return!”
The faithful and good-hearted Lakshmana bowed to Sītā’s feet. Out of her mind with distress, she refused to look at him or answer him. Tears streaming down her face, she wailed, “If Rāma does not return, I will take poison, I will drown in the Godāvarī, I will throw myself in the fire—but I will never touch a man other than Rāma.”
Again stung by Sītā’s words, Lakshmana ran into the woods to find his brother, glancing back at Sītā until she disappeared from his view.
This was the moment Rāvana had been waiting for. Disguised as a wandering holy man carrying a staff, his saffron robes covered with dust, his gray hair matted in a knot on top of his head, he walked briskly along the forest path. As he passed, the wind stopped playing in the trees, the River Godāvarī slowed in its course and the birds stilled their chatter.
When he entered the clearing, Rāvana stopped suddenly as he glimpsed Sītā for the first time. Sitting desolate in front of her hut on a pillow of leaves, she wept uncontrollably. Even in distress, her golden complexion, her narrow waist, her lotus-red lips, and her radiant inner light pierced Rāvana with desire.
Feigning old age, Rāvana hobbled to the hut with his stick and addressed Sītā in words oozing with deceit. “Who are you, lovely lady, with the coal-black eyes, the playful looks, and the raven hair? Surely you are the Devī Lakshmī, come down to earth.”
He could barely refrain from leering. “With your yellow silken robes and garland of flowers, you look as ravishing as a divine nymph. Why are you all alone in this forsaken forest that teems with rākshasas? One as divinely beautiful as you belongs in a tall mansion, attended by a multitude of servants, or in a pleasure garden, agreeable to the senses.”
Sītā looked up then, her eyes flooded with tears. She saw a holy man standing before her, and, accustomed to welcoming the guests of the forest, the pure-hearted Sītā stood up, offered him a seat under the arbor, and brought him water. She glanced around frequently, anxiously awaiting Rāma and Lakshmana. This holy man spoke strangely and she was all alone, yet if she did not answer his questions respectfully, he might curse her. So to be hospitable she told him all about Rāma and Lakshmana, the story of Rāma’s banishment, and their stay in the forest.
“You may rest here awhile,” she concluded in her soft voice. “In a moment, my husband will return with food. And now please tell me where you are from and what is your name.”
Not wanting to waste another moment, Rāvana revealed his identity. “I am Rāvana, the demon king,” he said in a loud, arrogant tone. “I rule over the richest kingdom in the world, the fabled Lankā of unimaginable wealth and beauty. I have many other wives, but none please me as much as you. Come with me to Lankā and be my first queen. I will reward you with five thousand servants and a life of luxury, far from this wretched forest.”
Sītā’s eyes blazed with indignation. “I am devoted to Rāma. I could never be your queen, nor any other’s. If you think you can steal Rā
ma’s beloved wife, you may as well poke out your eyes with a stick. Compared to his lionlike greatness, you are a mere spider.” Having said these brave words, Sītā trembled all over.
Seeing her quivering with fear, Rāvana only wanted her more. “I do not think you heard me, fair lady,” he said with a frown. “I am Rāvana, the half brother of Kubera, the god of wealth. I have conquered the Devas and Indra himself. Even the wind ceases and the rivers stop flowing when I pass by. I am the most powerful king in the world. My city, Lankā, is a pleasure ground fit for the gods. With its lofty palaces, its gates set with gems, you will forget your life as a human. When you can have me, why would you want Rāma, so helpless that he allowed his father to banish him? He is weaker than my thumb. If you do not come with me, you will regret it.”
Sītā could barely contain her disdain. “If you are the brother of the god of wealth, how did you come to live such a low life? Your evil ways will bring the destruction of your kingdom and your entire race. It may be possible to steal the wife of Indra, but if you lay even a finger on Rāma’s cherished wife, you will never escape his arrows.”
At this, Rāvana could not hide his anger. He smacked his fist to the palm of his other hand. Twisting about, he grew until he reached his true size and assumed his usual ten-headed form. Towering above her, he grabbed Sītā with one hand and lifted her body with another. Blinded by passion, he dragged her to his golden aerial chariot, which hovered nearby.
The spirits of the woods fled in a panic, seeing this unforgivable act. Sītā writhed in Rāvana’s arms, struggling to break free. She pleaded, “Rāma, save me! Lakshmana, stop this demon!”
The Ramayana Page 18