by Valmiki
The older brother berated the younger one for leaving Sītā alone in a forest overrun with rākṣasas. ‘Ah Lakṣmaṇa! You should not have left Sītā alone and come here!’ said Rāma as he took Lakṣmaṇa by the right hand. But his strong words were softened by the gentleness with which they were uttered. ‘Will we find everything all right when we reach home? I feel certain that Sītā has been either devoured or abducted by the rākṣasas that wander through this forest. I see evil omens all around me. I can only hope that Sītā is safe and sound!
‘That deer which led me far away was actually a rākṣasa that deceived me. It was only when I killed him that he revealed his true form. My left eye twitches, my mind is uneasy. Lakṣmaṇa, I fear that we shall find Sītā either missing or dead!
‘If I go back to our settlement and Sītā is not there to welcome me with her sweet smile and her gentle words, I shall kill myself,’ continued Rāma. ‘Tell me, Lakṣmaṇa, is she alive? Or has she been eaten by rākṣasas because of your carelessness? She is young and not used to these hardships. She must have been frightened and lonely while I was gone. Even you must have been frightened when that wicked rākṣasa called your name in my voice!
‘I have a feeling Sītā was frightened when she heard that voice, so like mine, and she sent you out to look for me. But whatever it was, you should not have left her alone, giving the rākṣasas a chance to take revenge on me! The rākṣasas are incensed over the killing of Khara. I am sure that they have eaten Sītā.’
Hurrying on with his brother, Rāma was pale and out of breath, tired, hungry and thirsty. He reached the settlement and found no one there. He went straight to the hut and then to all the places in which he and Sītā had enjoyed themselves and been so happy. He grew more and more agitated as he saw that they were all empty.
‘I did not leave Sītā alone because I wanted to,’ said Lakṣmaṇa miserably. ‘I came to look for you because she goaded me with her sharp words. When that voice that sounded like yours called out to us, I told her not to panic, as weak-minded women are wont to do. “There is no creature in the three worlds, born or unborn, who can defeat Rāma in combat,” I said to her. ‘But she became angry and began to cry and, in her confusion, she said to me, “You have improper feelings towards me. You want to have me when your brother is dead, but that will never happen! Since you do not go after him it means that you are hatching a plot with Bharata. You followed Rāma into the forest because of me and you are delighting in his misfortunes!”
‘I was very angry when she spoke to me thus. My lips trembled and I stalked out of the settlement.’
‘You did wrong, dear brother,’ insisted Rāma. ‘You knew that I was capable of defeating the rākṣasas and still you left her, just because of her angry words. It does not please me that you came way just because an angry woman spoke to you harshly!’
Rāma looked all over the settlement. Without Sītā, the trees there seemed to weep, the birds and animals appeared downcast. It was as if the forest deities had abandoned the area. Deerskins and reed mats had been scattered and kuśa grass lay everywhere. Rāma called out to Sītā again and again. ‘She has been abducted! She is dead! She has been eaten! Or, perhaps, the poor, frightened thing went and hid in the forest! Maybe she went out to collect roots and fruits! Or to the lotus pond, or to the river!’
But though he searched high and low, Rāma could not find his beloved in the forest. His eyes red from weeping, he seemed like a madman as he ran from tree to tree, from the mountains to the river, weeping more and more as he plunged deeper and deeper into an ocean of grief.
‘O kadamba tree, have you seen my beloved who loved your fruit so? Tell me if you know where that lovely woman is! Bilva tree, where is she, the woman whose breasts are like your fruits, who is as delicate as your new shoots in her yellow silks? O palm tree, take pity on me and tell me if you have seen that beautiful woman! Rose-apple tree, my beloved’s complexion has the hues of your fruit. You must have seen her. Tell me where she is!
‘Little deer, you must know where the doe-eyed Sītā is! Is she with you in the forest? O best of elephants, Sītā had thighs like your trunk, you must know where she is! O Lakṣmaṇa, have you seen my beloved anywhere? Oh Sītā! My darling Sītā, where have you gone?’ he cried over and over again.
Rāma called out as he ran hither and thither in the forest. He leapt and jumped and spun around as if he were crazy. He could not stand still for a moment, so he ran through the forest, over the mountains and down to the streams and rivers. But though he searched every corner of that forest, he found no trace of his beloved. Still, he would not give up and renewed his efforts to find her.
Utterly miserable, Rāma said wretchedly to Lakṣmaṇa, ‘Go to the river Godāvarī quickly and see if Sītā went there to gather lotuses.’ When Lakṣmaṇa did not find her, Rāma went there himself.
Equally upset, the two brothers walked along. Suddenly, they saw a trail of flowers on the ground. ‘I recognize these flowers, Lakṣmaṇa,’ said Rāma when he saw them. ‘I gave them to Sītā in the forest and she braided them into her hair!’ Looking further, Rāma found the huge foot print of a rākṣasa. His heart hammering in his chest, Rāma called out to his brother. ‘Look, Lakṣmaṇa, there are all kinds of flowers scattered here and little bits of gold from Sītā’s broken ornaments! The ground is covered with drops of blood that gleam like gold. Sītā must have been torn to pieces by form-changing rākṣasas, or she must have been eaten by them!’
‘These signs suggest that there was a great battle here between two mighty rākṣasas over Sītā. Look at this broken bow, this shattered armour and royal umbrella, these dead donkeys with piśāca faces, this wrecked chariot and scattered arrows!
‘My hostility towards the rākṣasas has now multiplied a hundred times. I shall kill all these form-changing rākṣasas! If Sītā has been devoured or abducted, Lakṣmaṇa, there is no one in all the worlds who would dare challenge me! Perhaps the gods think I am a weakling because I am gentle and compassionate and devoted to the well-being of all creatures! Even this virtue has become a flaw in my character! But today I will show the rākṣasas and all the other creatures my true powers!
‘The yakṣas, the gandharvas, the piśācas or rākṣasas, the kinnaras and mortals shall not have a moment’s happiness, Lakṣmaṇa! I shall fill the sky with my arrows and missiles, making it impassable for all those who travel through the three worlds. I shall stop the planets in their orbits, obstruct the course of the moon, destroy the fire and the wind, eclipse the radiance of the sun. I shall smash the mountain peaks, dry up the lakes, uproot trees and creepers and bushes and stir up the waters of the ocean!
‘If the gods do not deliver Sītā to me unharmed, they will see the kind of destruction I can wreak in a single hour! There will not be a single god, dānava, daitya, piśāca or rākṣasa left when I have finished destroying the three worlds in my anger. Even as old age, sickness, death and fate cannot be escaped, so, too, I cannot be diverted from my purpose! If the gods do not return Sītā to me, sweet and smiling as she was before, I will destroy the universe along with the gods gandharvas, mortals and serpents!’
Lakṣmaṇa had never seen Rāma so angry before. His mouth dry with fear, he joined his palms and said, ‘Rāma, you have always been gentle and compassionate and devoted to the welfare of all creatures. Do not let your anger control you and make you act against your natural disposition.
‘I do not know whose chariot this is that lies here, smashed to bits. I have no idea who used it and for what purpose. The earth has been gouged by chariot wheels and hooves and the ground is splattered with blood. Clearly, a battle was fought here. But I think there was only one chariot and not two.
‘You cannot destroy the worlds because of the crimes of a single person. Great kings mete out punishments judiciously and dispassionately. Armed with your bow and arrow and with me by your side, we can find out what happened to Sītā with the help of the ṛṣis. W
e shall scour the oceans, the mountains and the forests, the caves, the rivers and the woods. We shall search through the worlds of the gods and the gandharvas without rest until we find your wife’s abductor!
‘And after all that, if the gods do not restore your wife to you, then, O king of Kosalā, it will be time for you to take action! If you cannot get Sītā back through diplomacy and conciliation, then you can achieve your ends through a rain of gold-tipped arrows that fall like Indra’s thunderbolt!’
Even though he was the older brother, Rāma took Lakṣmaṇa’s wise and judicious advice seriously. He controlled his anger and leaning on his great bow, he said, ‘What shall we do now Lakṣmaṇa? Where shall we go next? Think about how we can find Sītā.’
‘We should first look carefully here in Janasthāna which is full of trees and teeming with rākṣasas. There are many mountainous places here that are hard to reach, as well as clefts and hollows in the rocks and caves that are homes of fierce wild animals,’ said Lakṣmaṇa. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa searched the entire forest. Rāma was still angry and he carried his great bow fitted with a sharp and deadly arrow.
Suddenly, they came upon the bird Jaṭāyu, huge as a mountain, lying on the ground, drenched in blood. ‘I am sure Sītā has been devoured by this thing here!’ said Rāma when he saw that enormous creature. ‘This is a rākṣasa who has taken the form of a vulture to wander through these forests. He has eaten large-eyed Sītā and now he lies here resting! I shall kill him with my fiery arrows!’
Rāma fitted the arrows into his bow and approached the bird with a tread that would have stirred up the ocean. But the bird addressed the sorrowing Rāma, vomiting frothy blood as he spoke. ‘The woman you search for like a rare herb in the forest has been carried away by Rāvaṇa who has taken my life as well! I saw her being abducted against her will while you and Lakṣmaṇa were gone. I rushed to her rescue and fought with Rāvaṇa. I destroyed his chariot which lies there on the ground. Rāvaṇa cut off my wings with his sword when I grew tired and flew into the sky with Sītā. You don’t have to shoot me, the rākṣasa has already killed me!’
When Rāma heard this news about his wife, he embraced the bird along with Lakṣmaṇa and began to weep. He was deeply distressed to see Jaṭāyu lying on a narrow path, having difficulty breathing. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa caressed the dying, wingless, bloodied bird with affection, as if he were their child. ‘Where shall I find Sītā?’ cried Rāma and threw himself upon the ground.
Then he turned and spoke to Lakṣmaṇa. ‘This bird made such a tremendous effort for my sake and was struck down in battle. Now he has to give up his life, which most creatures cling to. His voice quavers and he sees but dimly. There is still some life in his body but he is weak and feeble. Jaṭāyu, if you can still speak, tell me about Sītā and how you were wounded.
‘Why did Rāvaṇa take Sītā away? What harm have I ever done him that he should abduct my beloved? What does he look like? How strong is he? What can he do? Where does he live? Answer these questions if you can, dear bird!’
Jaṭāyu told Rāma in great detail how he had been struck down. ‘Do not grieve for Sītā!’ he continued. ‘It won’t be long before you kill this rākṣasa in battle and enjoy the pleasures of Sītā’s company once again,’ said the dying bird whose mind was still lucid. Then he vomited more blood and bits of flesh. ‘The son of Viśravas and the brother of Kubera,’ began the bird, but his breath left him and he died.
‘Tell me, tell me!’ begged Rāma with his palms joined but the bird’s soul had left his body and gone to heaven. His head fell to the ground, his legs sprawled forward and his body jerked violently.
‘This mighty bird died for my sake!’ said Rāma to Lakṣmaṇa. ‘Even among the lower orders of beings there are those who are virtuous, honourable and brave, who are the refuge of the weak and helpless. Even the sadness of Sītā’s abduction does not match the grief I feel at the death of this bird who died for me!
‘He is as worthy of honour and respect as my father Daśaratha. Collect some wood, Lakṣmaṇa, and I shall start a fire. We must cremate the king of the vultures. Mighty bird, you shall enjoy worlds of incomparable bliss with the last rites that I perform for you!’ Rāma placed the bird’s body on a blazing pyre and cremated him, mourning as he would for a member of his family.
The two brothers went further south through the forest, looking for Sītā. Secure in their prowess, they scoured the forest when, suddenly, there was a huge sound that seemed to tear the forest apart. The trees were agitated as if by storm winds and the huge sound filled the sky.
Armed with their bows and arrows, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa tried to find out where the sound had come from and came upon an immense rākṣasa with a huge chest. As they came closer, they saw what appeared to be a headless torso. Its mouth was on its belly and it was covered with short spiky hair. The size of a mountain and dark as a rain cloud, the torso rumbled like thunder. There was one huge yellow eye with a red eyelid in the middle of its forehead which was stuck on its chest.
The rākṣasa, Kabandha, had enormous arms, each of them one yojanā long, and he swept the air with them, gathering bears and flocks of birds and herds of deer into his mouth. The rākṣasa stretched his arms to their fullest extent and grabbed Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. Even though they were strong and brave and armed with swords and bows, the brothers were utterly helpless against this powerful force.
Kabandha saw that the brothers were trapped in his arms as if they were in the noose of death and said, ‘Why are you standing there, mighty kṣatriyas? Can’t you see that I am ravenous? Fate has sent you to me. Consider yourselves dead!’
The two brothers knew what was appropriate for time and place and they hacked off his arms at the shoulder, experiencing great delight as they did so. Rāma faced no resistance as he swiftly cut off Kabandha’s left arm. Lakṣmaṇa took off his right arm with his sword.
The rākṣasa fell to the ground and his howls filled the earth, the sky and the four quarters. Looking at his bloodied, severed arms, the rākṣasa asked humbly, ‘Who are you?’
‘This is the famous Rāma, born in the line of the Ikṣvākus,’ said auspicious Lakṣmaṇa, ‘and I am his younger brother Lakṣmaṇa. While this god-like man was living in the deserted forest, his wife was abducted by a rākṣasa. We have come here in search of her. But who are you and what are you doing in the forest, a headless torso, struggling on the ground?’
‘Welcome, best of men!’ the rākṣasa responded with joy, and proceeded to tell Lakṣmaṇa all that Indra had told him. ‘It is my great good fortune that you came here. These arms were my bonds and you have severed them. Listen and I will tell you how I came to have this terrifying form because of my arrogance and pride.
‘Long ago, Rāma, I was handsome and strong and famous in all the three worlds. I was as beautiful as the sun and the moon, as beautiful as Indra, even! But I would take on this hideous shape and harass the world, especially the ṛṣis of the forest. One day, when I was in this form, I angered the sage Sthūlaśiras while he was collecting food in the forest. He looked straight at me and uttered this terrible curse: “This cruel and wicked form shall stay with you!” I pleaded with him to pronounce an end to the curse which I had brought upon myself and he said, “When Rāma cuts off your arms and cremates you in the deserted forest, then your original beauty will be restored to you.”
‘And so I would eat all that I could in the hope that one day I would find you. I will help you in any way that I can. When you have cremated me, I shall tell you where to find an ally!’
‘When my brother and I were away from Janasthāna, the rākṣasa Rāvaṇa carried off my lovely wife with facile ease,’ said Rāma. ‘I only know the rākṣasa’s name. I do not know what he looks like, where he lives or how powerful he is. It would be wonderful if you would sympathize and help us. We have no allies and we have been wandering from place to place in search of Sītā, overwhelmed with grief.
&n
bsp; ‘We will return the favour. We shall gather dry wood which has been brushed off trees by passing elephants and cremate you in a big pit that we shall dig. Tell us who abducted Sītā. It will be a great favour if you tell us where she has been taken.’
‘I have no divine knowledge now and I know nothing about Sītā,’ said Kabandha. ‘But when you cremate me and I regain my original form, I will be able to tell you about someone who has all this information.’
The brothers carried Kabandha to a hollow and there, with flaming torches, Lakṣmaṇa lit the pyre. It soon broke into a roaring blaze. Kabandha’s enormous body was like a mound of fat and the fire consumed it slowly. Scattering the pyre, Kabandha rose like a flame, wearing shining white clothes and a garland of celestial flowers, adorned with jewels all over his body. He leapt off the pyre joyfully, blazing with splendour.
‘Listen, Rāma, and I will tell you how to get Sītā back!’ he said. ‘You and Lakṣmaṇa are vulnerable and have fallen into adverse circumstances. That is why it was easy for your wife to be abducted. You must acquire a friend and ally. I can see no way for you to achieve your ends without one.
‘There is a monkey named Sugrīva who was displaced by his brother Vālī, the son of Indra, in a fit of anger. With his four monkey companions, he lives on the Ṛṣyamūka mountain whose beauty is enhanced by Lake Pampā. Sugrīva is strong and brave.
‘Leave here immediately, Rāma, and make friends with Sugrīva, with fire as a witness to your mutual loyalty. That mighty king of the monkeys is brave and he can change his shape at will. Do not slight him, Rāma. He needs your help and he will be ever grateful for it. Together, you can achieve his ends, but he will help you even if his task is not accomplished. He knows all there is to know about any place over which the sun shines. He will search the rivers, the mountains and the deep caves with his monkeys and he will find your wife. He will send his mighty monkeys in all directions to find Sītā who is pining in her separation from you!’
