The Sanskrit Epics

by Delphi Classics

  He saw a hermitage that stood

  Sequestered in the holy wood.

  He saw the fiend Márícha there

  With deerskin garb, and matted hair

  Coiled up in hermit guise, who spent

  His days by rule most abstinent.

  As guest and host are wont to meet,

  They met within that lone retreat.

  Before the king Márícha placed

  Food never known to human taste.

  He entertained his guest with meat

  And gave him water for his feet,

  And then addressed the giant king

  With timely words of questioning:

  “Lord, is it well with thee, and well

  With those in Lanká’s town who dwell?

  What sudden thought, what urgent need

  Has brought thee with impetuous speed?”

  The fiend Márícha thus addressed

  Rávaṇ the king, his mighty guest,

  And he, well skilled in arts that guide

  The eloquent, in turn replied:

  Canto XXXVI. Rávan’s Speech.

  “HEAR ME, MÁRÍCHA, while I speak,

  And tell thee why thy home I seek.

  Sick and distressed am I, and see

  My surest hope and help in thee.

  Of Janasthán I need not tell,

  Where Śúrpaṇakhá, Khara, dwell,

  And Dúshaṇ with the arm of might,

  And Triśirás, the fierce in fight,

  Who feeds on human flesh and gore,

  And many noble giants more,

  Who roam in dark of midnight through

  The forest, brave and strong and true.

  By my command they live at ease

  And slaughter saints and devotees.

  Those twice seven thousand giants, all

  Obedient to their captain’s call,

  Joying in war and ruthless deeds

  Follow where mighty Khara leads.

  Those fearless warrior bands who roam

  Through Janasthán their forest home,

  In all their terrible array

  Met Ráma in the battle fray.

  Girt with all weapons forth they sped

  With Khara at the army’s head.

  The front of battle Ráma held:

  With furious wrath his bosom swelled.

  Without a word his hate to show

  He launched the arrows from his bow.

  On the fierce hosts the missiles came,

  Each burning with destructive flame,

  The twice seven thousand fell o’erthrown

  By him, a man, on foot, alone.

  Khara the army’s chief and pride,

  And Dúshaṇ, fearless warrior, died,

  And Triśirás the fierce was slain,

  And Daṇḍak wood was free again.

  He, banished by his angry sire,

  Roams with his wife in mean attire.

  This wretch, his Warrior tribe’s disgrace

  Has slain the best of giant race.

  Harsh, wicked, fierce and greedy-souled,

  A fool, with senses uncontrolled,

  No thought of duty stirs his breast:

  He joys to see the world distressed.

  He sought the wood with fair pretence

  Of truthful life and innocence,

  But his false hand my sister left

  Mangled, of nose and ears bereft.

  This Ráma’s wife who bears the name

  Of Sítá, in her face and frame

  Fair as a daughter of the skies, —

  Her will I seize and bring the prize

  Triumphant from the forest shade:

  For this I seek thy willing aid.

  If thou, O mighty one, wilt lend

  Thy help and stand beside thy friend,

  I with my brothers may defy

  All Gods embattled in the sky.

  Come, aid me now, for thine the power

  To succour in the doubtful hour.

  Thou art in war and time of fear,

  For heart and hand, without a peer.

  For thou art skilled in art and wile,

  A warrior brave and trained in guile.

  With this one hope, this only aim,

  O Rover of the Night, I came.

  Now let me tell what aid I ask

  To back me in my purposed task.

  In semblance of a golden deer

  Adorned with silver spots appear.

  Go, seek his dwelling: in the way

  Of Ráma and his consort stray.

  Doubt not the lady, when she sees

  The wondrous deer amid the trees,

  Will bid her lord and Lakshmaṇ take

  The creature for its beauty’s sake.

  Then when the chiefs have parted thence,

  And left her lone, without defence,

  As Ráhu storms the moonlight, I

  Will seize the lovely dame and fly.

  Her lord will waste away and weep

  For her his valour could not keep.

  Then boldly will I strike the blow

  And wreak my vengeance on the foe.”

  When wise Márícha heard the tale

  His heart grew faint, his cheek was pale,

  He stared with open orbs, and tried

  To moisten lips which terror dried,

  And grief, like death, his bosom rent

  As on the king his look he bent.

  The monarch’s will he strove to stay,

  Distracted with alarm,

  For well he knew the might that lay

  In Ráma’s matchless arm.

  With suppliant hands Márícha stood

  And thus began to tell

  His counsel for the tyrant’s good,

  And for his own as well:

  Canto XXXVII. Márícha’s Speech.

  MÁRÍCHA GAVE ATTENTIVE ear

  The ruler of the fiends to hear:

  Then, trained in all the rules that teach

  The eloquent, began his speech:

  “’Tis easy task, O King, to find

  Smooth speakers who delight the mind.

  But they who urge and they who do

  Distasteful things and wise, are few.

  Thou hast not learnt, by proof untaught,

  And borne away by eager thought,

  That Ráma, formed for high emprise,

  With Varuṇ or with Indra vies.

  Still let thy people live in peace,

  Nor let their name and lineage cease,

  For Ráma with his vengeful hand

  Can sweep the giants from the land.

  O, let not Janak’s daughter bring

  Destruction on the giant king.

  Let not the lady Sítá wake

  A tempest, on thy head to break.

  Still let the dame, by care untried,

  Be happy by her husband’s side,

  Lest swift avenging ruin fall

  On glorious Lanká, thee, and all.

  Men such as thou with wills unchained,

  Advised by sin and unrestrained,

  Destroy themselves, the king, the state,

  And leave the people desolate.

  Ráma, in bonds of duty held,

  Was never by his sire expelled.

  He is no wretch of greedy mind,

  Dishonour of his Warrior kind.

  Free from all touch of rancorous spite,

  All creatures’ good is his delight.

  He saw his sire of truthful heart

  Deceived by Queen Kaikeyí’s art,

  And said, a true and duteous son,

  “What thou hast promised shall be done.”

  To gratify the lady’s will,

  His father’s promise to fulfil,

  He left his realm and all delight

  For Daṇḍak wood, an anchorite.

  No cruel wretch, no senseless fool

  Is Ráma, unrestrained by rule.

  This groundless charge has n
e’er been heard,

  Nor shouldst thou speak the slanderous word.

  Ráma in truth and goodness bold

  Is Virtue’s self in human mould,

  The sovereign of the world confessed

  As Indra rules among the Blest.

  And dost thou plot from him to rend

  The darling whom his arms defend?

  Less vain the hope to steal away

  The glory of the Lord of Day.

  O Rávaṇ, guard thee from the fire

  Of vengeful Ráma’s kindled ire, —

  Each spark a shaft with deadly aim,

  While bow and falchion feed the flame.

  Cast not away in hopeless strife

  Thy realm, thy bliss, thine own dear life.

  O Rávaṇ of his might beware,

  A God of Death who will not spare.

  That bow he knows so well to draw

  Is the destroyer’s flaming jaw,

  And with his shafts which flash and glow

  He slays the armies of the foe.

  Thou ne’er canst win — the thought forego —

  From the safe guard of shaft and bow

  King Janak’s child, the dear delight

  Of Ráma unapproached in might.

  The spouse of Raghu’s son, confessed

  Lion of men with lion chest, —

  Dearer than life, through good and ill

  Devoted to her husband’s will,

  The slender-waisted, still must be

  From thy polluting touches free.

  Far better grasp with venturous hand

  The flame to wildest fury fanned.

  What, King of giants, canst thou gain

  From this attempt so wild and vain?

  If in the fight his eye he bend

  Upon thee, Lord, thy days must end,

  So life and bliss and royal sway,

  Lost beyond hope, will pass away.

  Summon each lord of high estate,

  And chief, Vibhishaṇ490 to debate.

  With peers in lore of counsel tried

  Consider, reason, and decide

  Scan strength and weakness, count the cost,

  What may be gained and what be lost.

  Examine and compare aright

  Thy proper power and Ráma’s might,

  Then if thy weal be still thy care,

  Thou wilt be prudent and forbear.

  O giant King, the contest shun,

  Thy force is all too weak

  The lord of Kosál’s mighty son

  In deadly fray to seek.

  King of the hosts that rove at night,

  O hear what I advise:

  My prudent counsel do not slight;

  Be patient and be wise.”

  Canto XXXVIII. Márícha’s Speech.

  “ONCE IN MY strength and vigour’s pride

  I roamed this earth from side to side,

  And towering like a mountain’s crest,

  A thousand Nágas’491 might possessed.

  Like some vast sable cloud I showed:

  My golden armlets flashed and glowed.

  A crown I wore, an axe I swayed,

  And all I met were sore afraid.

  I roved where Daṇḍak wood is spread;

  On flesh of slaughtered saints I fed.

  Then Viśvámitra, sage revered,

  Holy of heart, my fury feared.

  To Daśaratha’s court he sped

  And went before the king and said:492

  “With me, my lord, thy Ráma send

  On holy days his aid to lend.

  Márícha fills my soul with dread

  And keeps me sore disquieted.”

  The monarch heard the saint’s request

  And thus the glorious sage addressed:

  “My boy as yet in arms untrained

  The age of twelve has scarce attained.

  But I myself a host will lead

  To guard thee in the hour of need.

  My host with fourfold troops complete,

  The rover of the night shall meet,

  And I, O best of saints, will kill

  Thy foeman and thy prayer fulfil.”

  The king vouchsafed his willing aid:

  The saint again this answer made:

  “By Ráma’s might, and his alone,

  Can this great fiend be overthrown.

  I know in days of yore the Blest

  Thy saving help in fight confessed.

  Still of thy famous deeds they tell

  In heaven above, in earth, and hell,

  A mighty host obeys thy hest:

  Here let it still, I pray thee, rest.

  Thy glorious son, though yet a boy,

  Will in the fight that fiend destroy.

  Ráma alone with me shall go:

  Be happy, victor of the foe.”

  He spoke: the monarch gave assent,

  And Ráma to the hermit lent.

  So to his woodland home in joy

  Went Viśvámitra with the boy.

  With ready bow the champion stood

  To guard the rites in Daṇḍak wood.

  With glorious eyes, most bright to view,

  Beardless as yet and dark of hue;

  A single robe his only wear,

  His temples veiled with waving hair,

  Around his neck a chain of gold,

  He grasped the bow he loved to hold;

  And the young hero’s presence made

  A glory in the forest shade.

  Thus Ráma with his beauteous mien,

  Like the young rising moon was seen,

  I, like a cloud which tempest brings,

  My arms adorned with golden rings,

  Proud of the boon which lent me might,

  Approached where dwelt the anchorite.

  But Ráma saw me venturing nigh,

  Raising my murderous axe on high;

  He saw, and fearless of the foe,

  Strung with calm hand his trusty bow.

  By pride of conscious strength beguiled,

  I scorned him as a feeble child,

  And rushed with an impetuous bound

  On Viśvámitra’s holy ground.

  A keen swift shaft he pointed well,

  The foeman’s rage to check and quell,

  And hurled a hundred leagues away

  Deep in the ocean waves I lay.

  He would not kill, but, nobly brave,

  My forfeit life he chose to save.

  So there I lay with wandering sense

  Dazed by that arrow’s violence.

  Long in the sea I lay: at length

  Slowly returned my sense and strength,

  And rising from my watery bed

  To Lanká’s town again I sped.

  Thus was I spared, but all my band

  Fell slain by Ráma’s conquering hand, —

  A boy, untrained in warrior’s skill,

  Of iron arm and dauntless will.

  If thou with Ráma still, in spite

  Of warning and of prayer, wilt fight,

  I see terrific woes impend,

  And dire defeat thy days will end.

  Thy giants all will feel the blow

  And share the fatal overthrow,

  Who love the taste of joy and play,

  The banquet and the festal day.

  Thine eyes will see destruction take

  Thy Lanká, lost for Sítá’s sake,

  And stately pile and palace fall

  With terrace, dome, and jewelled wall.

  The good will die: the crime of kings

  Destruction on the people brings:

  The sinless die, as in the lake

  The fish must perish with the snake.

  The prostrate giants thou wilt see

  Slain for this folly wrought by thee,

  Their bodies bright with precious scent

  And sheen of heavenly ornament;

  Or see the remnant of thy train

  Seek refuge f
ar, when help is vain

  And with their wives, or widowed, fly

  To every quarter of the sky;

  Thy mournful eyes, where’er they turn,

  Will see thy stately city burn,

  When royal homes with fire are red,

  And arrowy nets around are spread.

  A sin that tops all sins in shame

  Is outrage to another’s dame,

  A thousand wives thy palace fill,

  And countless beauties wait thy will.

  O rest contented with thine own,

  Nor let thy race be overthrown.

  If thou, O King, hast still delight

  In rank and wealth and power and might,

  In noble wives, in troops of friends,

  In all that royal state attends,

  I warn thee, cast not all away,

  Nor challenge Ráma to the fray.

  If deaf to every friendly prayer,

  Thou still wilt seek the strife,

  And from the side of Ráma tear

  His lovely Maithil wife,

  Soon will thy life and empire end

  Destroyed by Ráma’s bow,

  And thou, with kith and kin and friend,

  To Yáma’s realm must go.”

  Canto XXXIX. Márícha’s Speech.

  “I TOLD THEE of that dreadful day

  When Ráma smote and spared to slay.

  Now hear me, Rávaṇ, while I tell

  What in the after time befell.

  At length, restored to strength and pride,

  I and two mighty fiends beside

  Assumed the forms of deer and strayed

  Through Daṇḍak wood in lawn and glade,

  I reared terrific horns: beneath

  Were flaming tongue and pointed teeth.

  I roamed where’er my fancy led,

  And on the flesh of hermits fed,

  In sacred haunt, by hallowed tree,

  Where’er the ritual fires might be.

  A fearful shape, I wandered through

  The wood, and many a hermit slew.

  With ruthless rage the saints I killed

  Who in the grove their tasks fulfilled.

  When smitten to the earth they sank,

  Their flesh I ate, their blood I drank,

  And with my cruel deeds dismayed

  All dwellers in the forest shade,

  Spoiling their rites in bitter hate,

  With human blood inebriate.

  Once in the wood I chanced to see

  Ráma again, a devotee,

  A hermit, fed on scanty fare,

  Who made the good of all his care.

  His noble wife was by his side,

  And Lakshmaṇ in the battle tried.

  In senseless pride I scorned the might

  Of that illustrious anchorite,

  And heedless of a hermit foe,

  Recalled my earlier overthrow.