As Rāvana directed his car over the treetops, Sītā lamented, “O Rāma, you who have sacrificed fortune, kingdom, and home for the sake of Dharma, can you not stop the worst violation of all? You defend the weak from the wicked; will you not protect your chaste wife from evil?”
Speeding through the sky, with Rāma farther away every moment, Sītā begged the forest, “O noble trees, tell Rāma that Rāvana has stolen Sītā! O creatures of the forest, large and small, tell Rāma that Rāvana has taken Sītā. O River Godāvarī, noisy with swans and cranes, quickly tell Rāma that Rāvana has carried Sītā away!”
Hearing her agonized pleas, the birds stopped singing and the trees wept.
O River Godāvarī, noisy with swans and cranes,
quickly tell Rāma that Rāvana has carried Sītā away!
—Āranya Kānda 49.31
CHAPTER 23
Sītā and the Blade of Grass
AS SĪTĀ FLEW through the skies in Rāvana’s chariot, there was another who heard her cries. Waking from his nap, the ancient bird Jatāyu, his giant wings hunched like two mountains, saw Sītā passing above.
“O noble bird,” cried Sītā from the chariot, “you will not be able to stop this demon Rāvana, who carries me off by force—but please, tell Rāma of this wicked deed.”
Jatāyu called out to Rāvana, “I am Jatāyu, king of the vultures, knower of the Veda and knower of Dharma. You also are a king, so others follow your example. It is your duty to uphold the scriptures, to protect the wives of other kings. Stop this evil plan and release her.”
Rāvana’s arrogant laugh echoed through the forest like the braying of the mules that drew his chariot.
“O Rāvana,” said Jatāyu, “I am old and have ruled with wisdom and justice. You are young and armed with sword, arrows, and an aerial chariot. Yet you cannot carry off Rāma’s wife while I look on any more than one can change the eternal meaning of the Veda through convenient arguments. While I still live, I will defend Rāma’s honor, even if it brings my death.”
Thus challenged, Rāvana rained arrows upon the courageous bird. Jatāyu flew up and landed on Rāvana, and with his thick talons tore into the rākshasa king’s back and arms, inflicting deep wounds. Seeing Sītā standing in the chariot, her face wet with tears, Jatāyu was filled with strength. He snapped Rāvana’s bow in his claws, shattered his blazing shield, and swept aside his arrows with his giant wings. He broke off the head of Rāvana’s charioteer with his beak, killed Rāvana’s mules, and smashed the chariot into pieces with one swipe of his wings. Rāvana, clutching Sītā in his arms, darted into the sky before the chariot hit the ground.
Seeing the ten-headed Rāvana humbled, the beings of the forest, who had gathered to see the heroic fight, cried out, “Long live Jatāyu! Jai Jatāyu!”
As Rāvana tried to escape, carrying Sītā, Jatāyu blocked his path. “Where can you go to escape the noose of death? Rāma and Lakshmana will find you. Your death is assured.”
Then the valiant Jatāyu lit on Rāvana and again sank his talons deep, yanking out the demon’s hair with his beak and tearing off his ten arms. But like water in a fountain, ten new arms sprang up in their place.
Filled with rage, Rāvana set Sītā on the ground and used his hands and feet to beat off the bird, who attacked him repeatedly in a furious struggle. Finally Rāvana drew his sword and sliced off the bird’s two enormous wings. Jatāyu fell to the ground, bleeding, his strength spent.
Sītā ran to the bird and cradled his enormous head in her lap, weeping for him as she would for her own kin. When the valiant bird had breathed his last breath, she cried out, “Because of me, this brave and noble bird now lies dead.”
Looking up, she saw Rāvana coming for her. She sprang to her feet and wrapped her arms tightly around a tree trunk. “O Rāma! Do you not see the bad omens of birds and creatures fleeing? Rāma, Lakshmana, save me!” she cried piteously.
Rāvana yanked Sītā by the hair and, pressing her to his side, flew above the treetops. Seeing that prince of darkness drag the blameless Sītā by the hair, the wind stopped blowing, the sun dimmed, and darkness covered the earth. The Devas cried out in distress, but at the same time they rejoiced, “The destruction of Rāvana is now complete.”
As Sītā streaked through the air in Rāvana’s clutches, her golden skin shone like lightning against a storm cloud. Her yellow sārī streamed behind her like a flag, and her fire-bright bracelets fell like meteors to the earth below. The princess continued to wail, “Rāma! Lakshmana!” as she was borne through the skies.
All the creatures in the universe trembled. “There is no justice, no truth, no kindness in this world now that Sītā has been stolen by Rāvana,” the mountaintops whispered to one another. With their crests reaching to the sky like giant arms, they seemed to be lamenting for her as she passed. Seeing the gentle Sītā’s anguish, the forest deities shuddered.
Sobbing, Sītā continued to twist and turn in Rāvana’s arms to free herself from his deadly grip. “Aren’t you ashamed of this cowardly act?” she railed at him. “Afraid to face Rāma, you used trickery to lure him away, then seized me when I was alone. Jatāyu showed far more bravery than you, and now he lies slain. What kind of king are you, that you steal another’s wife when she is defenseless? It will do you no good, for I will never take a husband other than Rāma. Let me go, before Rāma finds you and destroys you. He has slain fourteen thousand demons without help. What will stop him from slaying you?”
Suddenly Sītā saw five immense monkeys sitting on the top of a mountain. Thinking quickly, she managed to free her arms and gather her jewels into her silken shawl. After knotting them into a bundle, she dropped them amidst the monkeys as she flew over. “May you whisper my fate to Rāma,” she prayed.
In his haste to carry Sītā to Lankā, the wicked rākshasa king did not notice what had happened. On and on he flew, not realizing that he carried the means of his destruction in his arms.
Rāvana dragged Sītā over the hermitages and lakes of the vast Dandaka Forest, until finally they reached the ocean, the journey’s end for all rivers. Seeing the sobbing princess in Rāvana’s arms, the ocean churned in furious waves and the fish dived to the bottom. To comfort the sea, the siddhas and chāranas (celestial singers) called down from heaven, “The destruction of Rāvana is at hand!”
They flew over the ocean until they came to the rooftops of Lankā poking through the clouds. Rāvana carried the struggling Sītā into his palace and set her down in his private chambers.
“Let no one talk to Sītā without my permission,” Rāvana ordered his servants, who were hideous female demons. “Give her rubies, diamonds, silken robes, ornaments—anything she desires. If you speak harshly to her, it will cost you your life.”
Foolishly feeling safe from Rāma’s reprisal, the deluded king reveled in the ecstasy of capturing Sītā. “Now Sītā will be my wife,” he thought. Feeling pangs of passion for her, he hastened to her side.
Guarded by the demon servants, Sītā sat weeping, her face shrouded in sorrow. Deluded by his own power and lust, Rāvana said, “See this beautiful city, inhabited by ten thousand night prowlers. Darling one, become my first, most cherished queen and rule over this city and my thousand other queens. Make me your servant. This city, surrounded by ocean waters, can never be conquered. You cannot expect Rāma—deprived of his kingdom, traveling barefoot—to rescue you now. Besides, I am a much more worthy consort for you. Forget about Rāma, let me lavish you with silks and jewels, and live by my side in delight.”
Sītā covered her moonlike face with the end of her sārī and sobbed.
“Do not worry that our union will be against Dharma, for we shall have a Vedic wedding,” the arrogant rākshasa king continued. “I will press your tender feet with my hands. Grant me my prayer and free me from the thorny torments of love, for I have never before bowed my head to a woman.” Wi
th this humble plea, the proud rākshasa king thought, “Now she is mine.”
Sītā could bear these insults no longer. She held up a single blade of grass between herself and Rāvana. Her eyes flashed with anger like sparks from a fire as she spoke to the blade of grass rather than directly to Rāvana. “There is a man who is known as the lover of Dharma. He is my husband and my God. If you had not been so cowardly, and had laid hands on me in his presence, you would already be dead. Your boon may protect you from gods and asuras, but you will never escape the fury of Rāma.
“A virtuous wife, faithful to her vows, can never be tempted by a sinner such as you, O last of the rākshasas. Why would a swan, swimming happily with her mate, be attracted to a dull, dark cormorant on the river bank? You can bind or destroy this body, but I will never be dishonored by you.”
Anger stirred Rāvana’s blood. “Consider carefully, lovely princess. If you do not submit to me before twelve months have passed, my cooks will cut you to pieces and serve you to me for breakfast.”
Then Rāvana privately instructed the demon women who surrounded Sītā. “Break her will, as hunters break the will of a female elephant. Flatter her, then terrify her in turns.”
With Rāvana’s orders, those gigantic and terrifying women, who shook the earth when they walked, seized Sītā and dragged her to the Ashoka Grove inside the palace wall. A gazelle ensnared by lions, thinking only of Rāma, Sītā fell to the ground in a faint.
Sītā gathered her jewels into her silken shawl
and dropped them amidst the monkeys.
“May you whisper my fate to Rāma,” she prayed.
—Āranya Kānda 54.3
CHAPTER 24
Rāma’s Lament
In this enchanted valley
Sītā sat beside me.
Smiling, she spoke gentle words.
Perhaps she still wanders the sides of the river
or gathers flowers.
Yet I know she would only walk
these winding banks
with me by her side.
Never caring to stroll in solitude,
she of the lotus eyes,
wreathed with blossoms
and trailed by songbirds,
was too timid to enter
the forest alone.
O radiant sun, you are the witness
of all good things on earth
and all evil.
Has Sītā wandered away
or has she been stolen?
O relentless wind, you pry into every hidden crack
in this world.
Has Sītā, my tender flower,
lost her way,
been carried off
—or is she no more?
As Rāma rushed through the forest toward the hermitage, leaping over logs, ducking his head to avoid low branches, oblivious of shrubs grazing his legs and tearing at his skin, he trembled at the sound of jackals howling and the cries of birds and beasts fleeing the forest in fear. Alarmed by these omens, Rāma thought, “Surely Mārīcha aimed to lead me away so he could harm Sītā.”
Trembling with apprehension, he spotted Lakshmana striding toward him, pale and discouraged.
“My dear brother,” said Rāma as he took Lakshmana by the hand, “why have you left Sītā unprotected? You were wrong to leave her. I see so many evil omens. That deer turned out to be the demon Mārīcha, who called out in my voice to lure you here. My left eye throbs and my heart is heavy. I fear the worst for Sītā.”
Lakshmana could find no words to answer him, but only looked down.
The two brothers raced back to the hermitage to find Sītā. As they ran, Rāma, his emotions overwhelming him, cried out to Lakshmana, “Where is Sītā, my life’s strength, who is like a daughter to the gods? O Lakshmana, without her I cannot live, even for a moment. If something has happened to her, I will die. Then what will happen to my poor mother, who, without a son to protect her, will fall under Kaikeyī’s sway? If I return to the āshram and do not find Sītā, who always smiled before she spoke, I will give up my life. I am drowning in an ocean of sorrow. I tremble before my fate.”
When the two brothers reached the āshram, it was empty. The grass mats were scattered on the ground in disarray. The deserted hut was like a lake in autumn, shorn of its lotus flowers. Bereft of Sītā, the trees drooped as if weeping and the color of their blossoms faded away. Deer no longer leapt, birds no longer sang. Rāma ran to all of Sītā’s favorite places crying, “Sītā! My Sītā!”
As he stumbled over a banyan tree root, he shook all over. “O Lakshmana, why did you desert Sītā, when I left her in your care?” he asked, his voice weak and choked to a whisper.
Seeing Rāma so stricken, Lakshmana nearly broke into tears. “Please believe me, it was not I who wanted to leave her,” he said. He told Rāma how Sītā had wept and pleaded with him. “I was forced to leave because of her cruel words, my lips trembling, my eyes flaming with anger.”
“O dear brother,” replied Rāma in anguish, “it was wrong to abandon her. You know well that I could defend myself without your help. Yet reacting to her indignant words, spoken out of extreme anxiety, you gave in to anger and disobeyed my command. This was truly a breach of Dharma.”
Rāma ran to the trees, calling them by name. “O jambu tree,” he pleaded, “have you seen my dear love, whose hair your rose-apple blossoms loved to adorn? Tell me, where has she gone?”
“O ashoka tree,” he cried, “you are the dispeller of grief. Prove worthy of your name and reveal where my beloved is hiding.”
Then he ran after the beasts, calling, “O gentle deer, where is she of the doe-like glances, who fed the fawns out of her hands?”
“O brave tiger,” he cried, “where is my gentle spouse, who is radiant as the moon? Tell me, O fearless one!”
Overcome with anxiety, he thought he glimpsed her yellow sārī flitting behind a pomegranate tree and called, “Why do you hide from me, my lotus-eyed one? I see you, lady of lovely smiles. Stay, if you have any love for me.”
When it proved to be a shadow he was chasing, he sobbed, “My Sītā has been devoured by a demon. She with her golden complexion, her white teeth and rose-red lips, her queenly nose, her delicate ears, her skin like jasmine, her slender neck smooth as sandalwood—she has perished, like one who has no husband to protect her.”
Rāma ran from mountaintop to riverside, from cave to meadow. Overcome with despair, he staggered like one who had lost his wits. Searching frantically throughout the woods for his love, he finally returned to the hermitage and collapsed in exhaustion.
“O Sītā, if you are hiding from me in jest, come out now. You have enjoyed my anguish long enough. O my darling one, the gazelles want to play with you. See how their eyes are filled with tears, they miss you so. O Sītā, more graceful than the bough of the plantain tree, end my pain. O goddess of my heart, enough of this laughing at me. It is not fitting to play so much at a hermitage, although I know laughter comes naturally to you. Come home.”
When Lakshmana also returned alone from his search, his face blanched with fear, Rāma cried out, “I cannot live without Sītā! I will join my father, who will reproach me for not keeping his vow. I could never go back to Ayodhyā without her. And what would I say to King Janaka, when I left with her and returned alone? No, Lakshmana, you go without me and embrace Bharata tenderly. Tell him that I command him to rule the earth. Comfort our mothers and tell them of Sītā’s death and mine.”
Lakshmana shuddered to see Rāma so distraught. He tried to console his brother. “You are a man of wisdom. Do not waste your energy in grieving. Let us search this forest together. Sītā has undoubtedly wandered after a colorful bird, or perhaps she has hidden in a cave to tease us. It is by searching the forest that you will be reunited with Sītā.”
But Rāma would not hear
of it. “We have searched the forest, and no trace of my gentle Sītā can be found.” He sank to the ground, barely conscious, sobbing and crying out, “O Sītā, do not leave me!” He fell deeper and deeper into an abyss.
Lakshmana stood before Rāma with his hands folded together in respect, begging, pleading, trying everything in his power to rouse the heartbroken Rāma.
“Surely there is no one in this world more miserable than me!” cried out Rāma. “I must have done something sinful in a previous lifetime. First the loss of the kingdom, then the exile from all who love me, then the parting from my father and mother. I had forgotten all this sadness, living happily here with Sītā. But now that she is gone, these memories sear me like a log falling from the fire. My tenderhearted wife has been carried off by a demon. How can I endure these sleepless nights?”
Lakshmana now spoke sternly. “O brave hero, give up your grieving. You need your strength to search for Sītā. Great warriors do not lose themselves in emotion, even when faced with insurmountable hardships.”
Rallying for a moment, Rāma said, “Lakshmana, search the River Godāvarī. Perhaps she has gone there to gather lotus flowers.”
When Lakshmana again returned without Sītā, Rāma jumped up and ran to the Godāvarī like a wild man, crying to that holy river, “Where is Sītā?”
Silence greeted his anguished cries.
“Where is Sītā?” he beseeched a herd of deer. The deer rose as one and faced the south, craning their necks upward. Then they ran to and fro in front of Rāma and Lakshmana.
Lakshmana understood. “Rāma, the deer are trying to tell you something. They are pointing to the south. Perhaps if we go that way we will find Sītā.”
“So be it,” said Rāma. He strode briskly on the path to the south. Suddenly he cried out, “O Lakshmana, look! Here are the flowers I gathered for my darling Sītā just this morning. She braided them in her hair. It looks as if the sun, the wind, and the earth saved them for me, here on the path.”
The Ramayana Page 19