But Indra appeared before them and congratulated Lakshman: ‘That tapasvi was a rakshasa, nephew of Ravana. Had he succeeded he would have had the power to overthrow me. I sent the boar along so that you would shoot your arrows at him. You think what you did is bad, but I say what you did is good.’
That evening Sita and the sons of Dashratha discussed karma. Lakshman said, ‘All events in our lives are reactions to past actions. Today I accidentally killed a man. I think it was bad. Indra says it was good. What impact will it have on the future? Will it generate fortune or misfortune?’
Ram said, ‘Events are events. Humans qualify them as good or bad.’
Sita could not help herself and said, ‘These days in the forest, I am sure you think they are bad. But I think they are good. There is so much freedom here in the forest, no rules and rituals and rites that bind us back home.’
Ram said, ‘All things are good and bad only in hindsight.’
Did Ram, Sita and Lakshman eat meat during their sojourn in the forest? This question remains best unanswered as there are many who react violently even at the suggestion that consuming meat was not frowned upon in ancient times. Miniature paintings often show Ram and Lakshman hunting and wearing animal hide; a few even show them roasting meat. This is rationalized as consuming meat was permitted to members of the warrior community, the kshatriyas. References to the eating of ‘flesh’ in Sanskrit works are often translated to mean ‘flesh of fruit’. Vegetarian practices became widespread first because of Buddhism and Jainism, and later because of Vaishnavism. Rational arguments aside, to eat vegetarian food continues to be in India a sign of ritual purity that places one higher in the caste hierarchy.
The episode of Sita’s unhappiness over the sport of hunting comes from the Valmiki Ramayana.
Viradha’s desire to be buried after death is significant as this goes against the common Vedic practice of cremation. In traditional Hindu society, burial is reserved for sages who have broken free from the cycle of birth and death in their lifetime.
That Viradha was a gandharva before he became a rakshasa and turns into a gandharva once again draws attention to the role of curses as an instrument of karma.
The story of the demon accidentally killed by Lakshman comes from Odia, Telugu, Tamil and Malayalam folklore based on the Ramayana.
Surpanakha’s Husband and Son
The rakshasa that Lakshman killed was Sunkumar, son of Surpanakha, sister of Ravana, king of Lanka.
Ravana’s wife, Mandodari, once refused to serve Surpanakha meat and this led to a great household altercation. Their respective husbands tried to pacify the women until, goaded by Surpanakha, her husband, Vidyutjiva, stretched out his enormous tongue and swallowed Ravana. This happened in the heat of the moment and everyone immediately realized the terrible consequences of the household quarrel: Ravana had been consumed and the only way to save him was to cut open the stomach of the man who had swallowed him. This would grant life to Ravana but cause death to Vidyutjiva.
‘Do it,’ said Ravana to his sister, ‘and I will make your son my heir and give you any man you choose as your husband.’ Surpanakha then used her claw-like nails to tear open her husband’s stomach and liberate her brother. She became a widow but was given the freedom to take any husband of her choice from the forests. And she waited for Ravana to keep his promise to declare her son his heir. But he did not. When her son grew up, he grew impatient and decided to perform tapasya and obtain a weapon that would enable him to kill Ravana. It was while he was performing tapasya that Lakshman killed him, thus inadvertently saving Ravana.
Having lost her husband and now her son, Surpanakha was furious. She could not punish the man responsible for her husband’s death, as he was her brother, but she was determined to punish this hunter, her son’s killer.
So she tracked the footsteps of Lakshman and reached the banks of the Godavari, near Panchavati, and found Ram and Lakshman seated there. They were beautiful. All thoughts of vengeance vanished and were replaced by lust.
The Valmiki Ramayana refers to a rakshasa sorcerer called Vidyutjiva, which means ‘lightning tongue’. Valmiki refers neither to Surpanakha’s husband nor to her son.
Surpanakha means one whose nails are as long as the winnow.
The story of Surpanakha’s husband and son comes from Tamil folklore. In most stories, Ravana kills Vidyutjiva accidentally as he goes about conquering the world. In the Thai version, Ravana mistakes the long tongue of Surpanakha’s husband to be the tower of a fortress or the wall of a castle, and shoots it down. This story adds more passion and domestic energy to the narrative.
The son of Surpanakha is variously identified as Shambukumar, Darasinha, Japasura, Jambukumar and Sunkumar, in various southern oral Ramayana s, often narrated during shadow theatre performances.
In some versions, Lakshman finds a sword floating in the air. It has materialized for him to kill Surpanakha’s son who is behind a clump of bamboo grass, meditating. Not realizing this, Lakshman takes the sword, swings it, and ends up accidentally killing the demon-ascetic, much to Indra’s delight.
The Tamil Ramayana of Kamban humanizes the rakshasas and shows them as creatures of passion. This folklore amplifies this trend. Unlike the lustful woman of Valmiki’s poem, we have here a lonely woman who has lost her husband and her son and seeks pleasure in a handsome man, only to be brutally disappointed.
The tale also highlights how lives get entangled accidentally. Had Lakshman not accidentally killed the demon-ascetic, would he have attracted Surpanakha’s attention, and hence Ravana’s?
In Kamban’s Ramayana, it is suggested that Surpanakha draws Ram into a quarrel with Ravana to avenge her husband’s death at Ravana’s hands.
Disfiguring Surpanakha
Yes, they looked like sages. They had matted hair and beards. Their bodies were covered with ash. And they wore clothes of bark and animal hide. And they carried weapons, like men from the north. But they were beautiful. Tall and lithe, their bodies gleamed like bronze in the sunlight. The smell of their sweat was intoxicating. Surpanakha felt giddy with desire.
She first went to Ram, who she felt was taller and had wider shoulders, and said, ‘Come, be my beloved, satisfy my desire.’
Ram, amused by this unabashed display of desire, said, ‘I am married.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I have a woman already with me, and will look upon no other. Perhaps you can ask my brother here who is all alone in the forest.’
When she approached Lakshman, he said, ‘No, go away. I am not interested. I serve my brother and no other.’
Surpanakha did not understand. Why would they turn her away? Was she not attractive? Were they not lonely? She then saw Sita seated beside Ram and surmised that perhaps with her around they desired no satisfaction elsewhere. She was the rival. She had to be exterminated. So like a beast in heat, she rushed towards Sita, determined to strike her with a rock and smash her skull. ‘Stop her,’ shouted Ram, pulling Sita behind him.
Lakshman caught Surpanakha by the hair and pulled her back. Surpanakha resisted and shoved him away. She was strong, and determined to have her way.
‘Don’t kill her,’ shouted Sita, for she had watched how Ram and Lakshman had mercilessly killed Viradha.
‘Then I will punish her,’ said Lakshman. ‘I will teach her a lesson that she will never forget.’ He grabbed a knife and in one swift stroke chopped off her nose.
Surpanakha yelled out loud in shock. What was this? Could so beautiful a man be so cruel? She ran away crying, her mournful wails filling the air. She ran in search of her brothers Khara and Dushana, who would teach these deceptive monsters a lesson.
Sita trembled. ‘Don’t be afraid, Sita. We will protect you,’ said Ram.
And Sita said, ‘I fear for all of us. That was no animal, my husband. That was a human. And in her eyes, you are the villain and I am no victim. This action will have a reaction that will not be pleasant.’
In the Valmiki Ramayana, Surpanakha is foul and ugly and demonic. In the Kamban Ramayana, she is lovelorn and beautiful. Versions vary about how she looks. In Ram-leela plays of the Gangetic plains, she is comical in her vulgar display of erotic desire. The story makes explicit the conflict between natural desire and social values. It makes one wonder how one should see an erotically aroused woman, with disgust, with sympathy or with amusement. How would women see her – sympathetically or with suspicion? How would men see her – with outrage or embarrassment? The Ramayana repeatedly provokes such intense emotions and thoughts and thus draws out the humanity of those who hear the tale.
In some retellings, Ram orders the mutilation of Surpanakha but in others it is Lakshman’s decision. The narrator knows the ambiguous ethics of the action and is uncomfortable attributing it to Ram.
The most common version of the tale refers to Surpanakha’s nose being cut off. But often the cutting of the nose is accompanied by the chopping of her ears. And in the most brutal version, found in Kamban’s Tamil Ramayana, there is even a reference to her breasts being cut off. In South Indian folklore, the breasts are where a woman’s power resides.
In Tamil oral Ramayana s, when Surpanakha’s body parts are thus mutilated, Ravana’s heads keep falling off. He feels her pain and wonders what is going on. Thus the relationship of the brother and sister is amplified.
Modern templates, rooted in Western mindsets, thrive on rigid categorizations, fixed power equations, judgement and most importantly separating the narration from the audience. Thus using Western academic templates, scholars tend to see the Ramayana only in terms of the suppression of certain emotions, races, communities and gender. It equates dharma with the biblical commandment. It becomes a tale about ‘them’ and ‘us’. This clear demarcation is not part of traditional storytelling, which allows for ‘them’ to become ‘us’. The audience appreciates and rejects both Ram and Surpanakha simultaneously. One is constantly asked to negotiate the cruelty of Ram’s actions with Ram’s divinity. Is God fair? Must he be fair? Can humans be fair? Who decides what is fair, Sita or Surpanakha, Ram or Lakshman? Thus are thoughts provoked and ideas churned.
Before her nose is cut, Surpanakha comes across as a villain. After the act, she becomes a victim. One wonders if the brutality of the punishment matches the intensity of the crime. Is it criminal to express desire or is it criminal to disregard the rules of marriage?
Viradha is killed for touching Sita. Surpanakha is mutilated for attacking Sita. Most people who hear the Ramayana forget the killing of Viradha but everyone remembers the mutilation of Surpanakha.
The Force of Khara and Dushana
The next day, as the first light touched the sky, the air was filled with the sounds of roaring rakshasas led by Khara and Dushana screaming for revenge. Ram and Lakshman circled their hut, armed with bows and arrows.
A terrific fight followed that lasted all morning. The rakshasas came screaming, bearing axes and spears and maces, one after the other, in swarms, like mad bees.
Ram and Lakshman directed a shower of arrows at them. They chanted hymns to invoke the power of the wind and water to make the rakshasas slip and fall, and break their necks against rocks and trees. They shot arrows that had the strength of elephants and the speed of leopards. With their arrows they cut the rakshasa horde to pieces. By the time the sun was overhead in the sky, Khara and Dushana and their hordes were all dead. Several dozen corpses littered the forest around Sita’s hut.
Vultures came from the skies and cats from the forests to feed on the field of carcasses. Ram ordered Lakshman to shoo them away and then prepared to cremate the fallen rakshasas. ‘You give them too much dignity,’ said Lakshman as he lit the pyre.
‘It is the only way to remind ourselves that we are still humans,’ said Ram. ‘Let the forest and its fears not claim you. Stay true to the idea of dharma. Be the best you can be, in the worst of circumstances, even when no one is watching.’
As the fire rose, Lakshman heaved a sigh of relief. ‘There, it is over.’ His body was covered with blood and sweat and his eyes were gleaming with the excitement of victory.
‘No, it is not,’ said Ram, who had seen Surpanakha watching the flames from atop a distant hill. ‘Strength has failed. They will now use cunning. Like hungry animals on a hunt they will not stop till they get their prey. We should move.’
Tadaka is associated with two men, Marichi and Subahu; so is Surpanakha associated with Khara and Dushana. They are sometimes called her brothers, sometimes her sons, and one wonders if this mirror relationship is merely coincidental or significant. Temples dedicated to the Goddess often show her flanked by two male warriors, identified as her guards or brothers or sons. Are these rakshasa matriarchs of the Ramayana embodiments of forest goddesses, wild and ferocious, who demand hook-swinging and fire-walking for their pleasure, who love meat, alcohol and lemons as offerings? Did Vedic sages encounter such forest goddesses when they entered the jungles of the south? The answers are purely speculative.
Khara and Dushana are not mere troublemaking rakshasas. They are victims seeking revenge and justice. God, the dispenser of justice, is now victimizer as well as victim. Thus further enquiry is provoked into the idea of God.
In the Jain Ramchandra-charitra Purana written in Kannada by Nagachandra, Ravana asks Avalokinividya to roar like a lion. Lakshman, busy fighting Khara and Dushana, does not hear this. Ram hears it and, fearing for Lakshman’s life, leaves Sita alone. Taking advantage of this breach in her security, Ravana arrives in his flying chariot and whisks her away.
The Cunning of the Golden Deer
They moved camp down the river Godavari to a place enclosed by rocks, which gave Ram and Lakshman a chance of spotting intruders from a distance. The forest was some way off. A hut was built here for Sita. The brothers sat on the rocks all day and night, keeping watch.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Viradha and Surpanakha were a distant memory. Once again the forest looked beautiful with its flowers and fruits. The rivers and the mountains had stories to tell. Once again boredom descended and the trio wondered how to spend the day. There was enough food and so there was no point foraging. And hunting made Sita unhappy. There were no hermits around this place to chat with, and all the stars in the night sky were familiar.
‘Do animals get bored?’ asked Lakshman.
‘Do trees get bored?’ wondered Ram.
‘Let us create board games to fill the time so that we do not think of boredom,’ said Sita. And just when she said this she saw a deer, shining like gold. It had two heads and long antlers. As it jumped about, its hooves destroyed the patch of grass that Sita loved and with its antlers it ripped out the flower-laden vine that Sita particularly liked.
‘Let me catch him for you, Sita. Alive, it will make a great pet. Dead, its skin will make a lovely mat for you,’ said Ram. Sita did not stop Ram. She was spellbound by the creature. She wanted to possess it. And Ram saw this in her eyes. For the first time in all these years, she wanted something. ‘I will fetch it for you,’ he promised, eager to please the princess who never ever showed signs of discontent.
‘Maybe this buck leads a herd,’ said Sita, her eyes twinkling with the possibility of seeing hundreds of golden deer.
Lakshman warned, ‘Golden deer do not exist. This is unnatural.’
‘Or just unique, undiscovered,’ said Sita, eager to believe this creature was real enough to be caught, tamed, possessed.
Delighted by the prospect of making the otherwise lofty Sita smile by having a very petty desire fulfilled, Ram set out for the woods. ‘Stay by her side, Lakshman, while I hunt this deer down,’ he said before running after the golden deer.
The sun had barely risen when Ram left the camp. By the time it was noon, Sita got restless. ‘He never takes this long. What is happening?’
‘The deer is no ordinary deer if it runs so fast and eludes Ram,’ said Lakshman.
Then, mid-afternoon, they heard a cr
y: ‘Save me, Lakshman. Save me, Sita. I am dying.’ Sita, who had not eaten food nor sipped water since Ram’s departure, became agitated. Once again they heard the voice.
‘Go to him, Lakshman. There is trouble,’ said Sita.
‘No,’ said Lakshman, ‘I will not leave your side.’
‘But Ram needs help.’
‘I will obey him and not leave your side.’
‘What is wrong with you? Do you want him to die?’
Lakshman flinched at these words. ‘Something is amiss. This is a trick. This forest is full of rakshasas who can mimic anyone’s voice. I don’t think Ram is in trouble. It must be the wind. Hunger and thirst are clouding our minds, making us hear things.’
Sita was furious. ‘You seem overly eager not to go to Ram. Do you want him to die? Do you? In the jungle, when the dominant male dies, the next one claims his mate. Is that what you want?’
Lakshman could not believe what he was hearing. His noble sister-in-law, in her panic, was willing to descend to the vulgar to make him obey her. Was she so frightened? Did she not trust Ram? Not wanting the situation to get worse, Lakshman decided to go in search of Ram.
But before he left, he traced a line around Sita’s hut. ‘This is the line of Lakshman, the Lakshman-rekha. I imbue it with the power of hymns I have learned from Vasishtha and Vishwamitra. Any man who tries to cross this line will burst into flames instantly. Stay within this line. Inside is Ayodhya and you are Ram’s wife. Outside is the jungle, you are a woman for the taking.’
Sita: An Illustrated Retelling of the Ramayana Page 14
