Aranya Kanda
Narration
Today is the sixty-third canto: Shri Ram’s Lament.
Separated from his beloved Sita, Prince Shri Ram was pierced by grief and delusion. He himself was tormented, and—casting his brother Lakshman too into despondency—he again sank into intense sorrow. Lakshman was already overcome by grief; and to him, Shri Ram, drowned in a greater sorrow, spoke in a choking voice, sobbing with hot sighs, words fitting the calamity that had fallen upon him:
“O son of Sumitra, it seems there is no other man on this earth as sinful as I am, for one sorrow after another comes at me without pause, ripping through my heart, my life, and my mind. Surely in a former birth, following my own will, I committed many sinful deeds again and again. The result of some of those acts has come today: I fall from one misery into another. First I was deprived of my kingdom; then I was parted from my kinsmen. After that, my father departed to the other world; then I had to separate from my mother as well. Lakshman, whenever these things come back to me, they swell the flood of my sorrow.
“Even after coming to the forest and tasting hardship, all that pain grew quiet in my body because Sita stayed near me. But with Sita’s separation it has risen again, like a dry log that suddenly flares when it meets a spark. Alas, my steadfast, noble-natured wife has surely been carried off by a demon through the sky-path. For some time, Sita, who used to weep in a soft, sweet voice, must have cried out again and again in a broken, terrified tone. Those two rounded breasts of my beloved, always worthy of being anointed with red sandal paste, must surely be smeared now with strings of blood. Even with so many blows, my body does not fall.
“My beloved’s face—gentle and clear, speaking sweetly, adorned by the weight of dark, curly hair—has surely grown dim, like the moon swallowed by Rahu. The neck of my virtuous wife, always worthy of being decked with garlands, must have been torn in the lonely forest, and the blood-drinking demons must have drunk her blood. In my absence, in this desolate wood, those demons must have dragged her here and there; and Janaki, with her large and lovely eyes, must have cried out like the kurari bird in utter distress.
“Lakshman, this is the very slab of rock where Sita, tender-hearted and noble, once sat with me. How charming her smile was! At that time she laughed and talked so much with you. This river Godavari, foremost among streams, was always dear to my beloved. Perhaps she has gone to its bank. But she never went there alone. Her face and her large eyes are as beautiful as blooming lotuses; perhaps she went to bring lotus flowers from the Godavari’s edge. But that too cannot be, because she would never go near the lotuses without taking me along. Maybe she went to wander in this flowering forest, served by birds of many kinds; but that also seems wrong, because my timid one was very afraid to go alone in the woods.
“O Sun-God, you know what everyone has done and not done in this world. You are witness to people’s truth and falsehood, merit and sin. Tell me where my beloved Sita has gone, or who has taken her, for I am crushed by grief for her. O Wind-God, there is nothing in the whole universe that is not known to you. Tell me where my house’s guardian, Sita, is—has she died, has she been carried off, or is she on the way?
“Thus, overpowered by sorrow, Shri Ram lost consciousness and lamented. Seeing him in that state, the righteous and well-guided Sumitra’s son, Lakshman, spoke timely words:
‘Arya, give up grief and take hold of courage. Stir up zeal in your heart to search for Sita, for men of resolve never lose heart, even when faced with the hardest tasks in the world.’
“While high-hearted Lakshman spoke thus, the glory of the Raghu line, Shri Ram, pain-stricken, paid no heed to the fitness of his counsel. He cast aside patience and fell again into great anguish.
Thus ends the sixty-third canto in the Aranya Kanda of the Ramayana composed by Valmiki.
The sixty-fourth canto: Shri Ram and Lakshman begin the search for Sita—Ram’s grief, his outpouring of sorrow; guided by signs from deer, the brothers go south; Ram’s anger at the mountain; finding Sita’s scattered flowers, ornaments, and the signs of battle; and Ram’s wrath toward the gods and the three worlds.
Then day broke. In a plaintive voice Shri Ram said to Lakshman, “Lakshman, go quickly to the bank of the Godavari and find out whether Sita went to fetch lotuses.” Receiving this command, Lakshman swiftly went again to the Godavari’s shore. After searching the riverbank with its many fords and holy ghats, Lakshman returned and said, “Brother, I do not see Sita at the Godavari’s ghats. Even when I shouted loudly, she did not answer me. O Ram, the princess who ends all your troubles—who knows to which land she has gone? Brother Ram, I do not know the place where Sita of the slim waist has gone.”
Hearing Lakshman’s words, Shri Ram, dazed by grief and distress, went himself to the bank of the Godavari. Reaching there, Shri Ram asked, “Where is Sita?” But among all beings no one spoke about Sita, who had been carried off by the demon-king Ravana, fit to be slain. The Godavari, too, gave Shri Ram no answer. Then all the creatures of the forest urged the river, “Tell Shri Ram the whereabouts of his beloved.” Yet even when asked by the grief-stricken Ram, Godavari did not tell Sita’s whereabouts. Remembering that wicked Ravana’s form and deeds, Godavari, out of fear, said nothing to Shri Ram about Vaidehi.
When the river gave him no hope of seeing Sita, Shri Ram, sore with the pain of not seeing her, spoke thus to Sumitra’s son: “Gentle Lakshman, this Godavari gives me no answer. When I meet King Janaka, what will I say to him now? And how shall I tell his queen this harsh news when I meet her without Janaki? Bereft of my kingdom, living in the forest on wild fruits and roots, she stayed with me and took away all my sorrows—where has that princess of Videha gone? I was already separated from my kinsmen, and now I am deprived even of the sight of Sita. Because of my constant worrying for her, all my nights will grow terribly long. I will wander again and again at the Mandakini, at bathing places, and upon sloping mountains—perhaps I will find some trace of Sita there.
“Brave Lakshman, see these great deer looking toward me again and again, as if they wish to tell me something. I understand their gestures.”
Then, looking at them all, the lion among men, Shri Ram, said to the deer, “Tell me—where is Sita?” When the king asked thus in a tear-choked voice, those deer suddenly stood up, looked upward, pointed to the sky-path, and all ran with their faces toward the south. They went along the very path in the direction where Mithilesh’s daughter Sita had been carried away, turning back again and again to look at King Shri Ram. They looked both to the sky and to the earth, and, as if roaring, pressed on ahead. Lakshman noted their gestures and clearly understood what they wished to say. Then, wise Lakshman, deeply moved, said to his elder brother:
“Today, when you asked, ‘Where is Sita?’ these deer suddenly stood up, and they indicated both the earth and the south. Therefore, Arya, it is best we go south. Perhaps by going this way we may learn some news of Sita—or, Arya, Sita herself may appear before us.”
“‘Very well,’ said Shri Ram.” Taking Lakshman with him, keeping his mind on the ground, he set out toward the south. Speaking together thus, the two brothers came upon a path where some flowers were seen fallen upon the earth. Seeing this rain of flowers on the ground, the valiant Shri Ram, grieving, said to Lakshman:
“Lakshman, I know these flowers. These are the very flowers I once gave to the daughter of Videha in the forest, and she placed them in her hair. I think the Sun, the Wind, and the famed Earth have kept these flowers safe to do me a kindness.”
Saying this, the righteous, great Shri Ram addressed the mountain full of cascades: “O King of Mountains, have you seen in this delightful stretch of forest the all-beautiful Sita, who has been torn from me?”
Then, as a lion roars at a small deer, he spoke, enraged, to the mountain: “Mountain, before I destroy all your peaks, show me that golden-hued Sita! At once!”
When Shri Ram demanded Sita thus, the mountain revealed some signs, as if showing the way to her, but could not present Sita before Shri Raghunath himself. Then Dasharatha’s son said to that mountain:
“Ah! You will be burnt to ashes by the fire of my arrows. You will no longer be fit for anyone’s refuge. Your trees and leaves will be destroyed.”
After that he spoke to Sumitra’s son: “Lakshman, if this river does not tell me today of moon-faced Sita, I will dry it up as well.” Saying so, blazing with wrath, Shri Ram gazed at the river as if to burn it up with his glance.
Just then, near the mountain and the bank of the Godavari, there appeared the huge footprint of a demon imprinted upon the ground. Alongside were the footprints of the princess of Videha, whom the demon had pursued, who cherished hope in Shri Ram, and who, terrified by Ravana, had fled here and there. Seeing the tracks of Sita and the demon, the broken bow, the quiver, and a chariot shattered into many pieces, Shri Ram’s heart trembled. He said to his beloved brother, Sumitra’s son:
“Lakshman, look—these are the golden bells from Sita’s ornaments, scattered. See, the many kinds of her necklaces are broken and strewn. See how the ground everywhere is stained with strange drops of blood, like drops of gold. Lakshman, it seems to me shape-shifting demons have here cut Sita into pieces and divided and eaten her! Sumitranandan, two demons contending for Sita must have fought a fierce battle here. See—there lies a very beautiful and massive bow, set with pearls and gems, broken and fallen to the earth. Whose bow can this be, child? Is it a demon’s or a god’s? It shines like the morning sun, and it is inlaid with cat’s-eye and sapphire.
“Gentle one, over there on the earth lies a smashed golden cuirass—whose is it? And whose is this parasol adorned with divine garlands? Its staff is broken and it has been thrown down. And see these asses with demon-faces, fearsome and monstrous, lying dead. Their bodies were huge; golden breastplates are strapped upon their chests. They seem slain in battle. Whose were they? And whose is this war-chariot lying here? Someone has overturned it and shattered it; a banner to signal its lord in battle was fixed upon it. This bright chariot blazed like a flaming fire. And whose are these terrible arrows, shattered in pieces and scattered here? Their length and girth seem like a chariot’s axle. Their heads are broken and they are adorned with gold.
“Lakshman, look there—two quivers filled with arrows lie destroyed. Whose charioteer is this, lying dead, with whip and reins still in his hands? Surely this is the footprint of a demon. With these pitiless, lust-fired demons, my anger is now a hundred times increased. See—this wrath will be quiet only with their lives!
“Surely the ascetic princess of Videha has been carried off, slain, or devoured by the demons. In this vast forest, even Dharma does not protect Sita as she is taken away. Gentle Lakshman, when the daughter of Videha has become the demons’ prey or has been carried off, and there is no helper—then who in this world is able to do what is dear to me?
“Lakshman, even Maheshvara, the destroyer of Tripura, endowed with valor, when he sits silent out of compassion, is despised by creatures who do not know his majesty. I am devoted to the welfare of the world, self-controlled, and compassionate to beings; therefore Indra and the other lords of gods surely think me stainless. Only then could they fail to protect Sita. Look, Lakshman—gentleness and other good qualities have become a fault for me. Thinking me harmless, they have dared to steal my wife. So now I must display manly strength. As, at the time of dissolution, the mighty sun rises and destroys the moon’s cool light and blazes with fierce splendor—so today my brilliance will flame forth in a terrible form to end all beings and demons. See, Lakshman: neither yakshas nor gandharvas, neither pishachas nor rakshasas, nor kinnaras nor men will live at ease now. In a short while I will fill the sky with my arrows, and the creatures that roam the three worlds will not be able to stir or fight. The planets will halt; the moon will vanish; the fire-god, the wind-hosts, and the sun will lose their power. All will be plunged in darkness. Mountain peaks will be shattered. All reservoirs—rivers and lakes—will dry up. Trees, vines, and groves will be destroyed, and even the oceans will be laid waste. Thus I will begin the dance of Time’s destruction across the three worlds.
“Sumitra’s son—if the lords of the gods do not, at this very moment, bring back Lady Sita of Kosala, they will behold my might. By the swarms of arrows loosed from my bowstring, the sky will be packed full; no creature will be able to fly. See today, by my wrath, this whole world trampled under my arrows will be distraught and stripped of order; the beasts and birds here will be ruined and driven mad. It will be very hard for living beings to withstand the arrows I draw to my ear and let fly. For Sita’s sake I will destroy all pishachas and demons with those shafts. The gods will see the power of my far-flying, unerring arrows loosed with fury and scorn. When the three worlds are destroyed by my anger, neither gods, nor daityas, nor pishachas, nor rakshasas will remain. The hosts of gods, demons, yakshas, and rakshasas will be chopped to pieces again and again by my flights of arrows and will fall to the ground. Sumitra’s son—if the lords of gods do not bring to me Sita—living or dead—then today I will, with the blows of my forces, overthrow the order of all three worlds. If they do not restore my beloved princess of Videha to me as she was, I will destroy the entire universe of moving and unmoving beings. Until I see Sita, with my allies I will keep scorching the whole world.”
Saying this, Shri Ram’s eyes grew red with anger; his limbs quivered. He tightened his bark garment and deer-skin, and he bound up his matted hair. Filled with wrath, ready for destruction, his body looked like Rudra of old, the destroyer of Tripura.
After a short time, taking the bow from Lakshman’s hand, Shri Ram grasped it firmly, and taking a blazing arrow—terrible like a venomous serpent—he set it upon the string. Then, the conqueror of the city of the enemy, Shri Ram, furious like the Fire at doomsday, spoke:
“Lakshman, just as old age, death, Time, and the Maker deal blows upon all beings and none can stop them, so surely, when I am inflamed with wrath, none can check me. If today the gods do not return to me at once the faultless, lovely, lotus-toothed princess of Mithila, I will overturn the whole world—gods, gandharvas, men, serpents, and mountains along with it.”
Thus ends the sixty-fourth canto as composed by Valmiki.
The sixty-fifth canto: Lakshman calms Shri Ram.
When Shri Ram, burning with the pain of Sita’s abduction, was ready to destroy all beings like the world-ending fire, stringing his bow, gazing at it again and again, drawing long breaths—when he wished, like Rudra at the end of an age, to scorch the universe—then Lakshman, whom no one had ever seen in such a situation, looked at the fiercely enraged Shri Ram and, with folded hands and a dry mouth, said:
“You have always been gentle of nature, self-controlled, devoted to the good of all beings. Do not, being mastered by anger, forsake your own true nature. As beauty in the moon, brilliance in the sun, movement in the wind, and forbearance in the earth ever abide, so supreme fame forever shines in you. Do not destroy all for the offense of one. I will learn whose is this yoked, war-ready chariot; who yoked it and for what purpose it has been broken with all its gear. We must discover that, too.
“Prince, the ground here is gouged by horses’ hooves and weary wheels, and wet with drops of sweat; this proves a fierce battle happened. Yet I see no footprints of a vast army—only of a single chariot. Therefore, do not destroy all for the guilt of one, for kings give punishment according to the offense; they are gentle by nature and calm. You are ever the refuge and supreme goal of all beings. Who would rejoice in the destruction or abduction of your wife? Just as gentle men initiated for sacrifice never do evil, so rivers, the ocean, mountains, gods, kin, and donors—none would act against you.
“O King, the one who carried off Sita must be sought out. With me, bow in hand, and aided by great rishis, discover him. Let us, with concentrated minds, search the ocean, the mountains and forests, scatter the darkness of many dreadful caves and lakes, and also search the realms of gods and gandharvas. Until we find the wicked one who abducted your wife, we will keep up this effort. O King of Kosala, if, by peaceful conduct, the lords of gods will not reveal your wife’s whereabouts, then act as the occasion demands. If, even after acting with good conduct, policy, humility, and justice, you do not get news of Sita, then, with golden-feathered, Indra-thunderbolt-like arrows, destroy all beings.”
Thus ends the sixty-fifth in the Aranya Kanda.
The sixty-sixth is complete.
The sixty-seventh: Shri Ram and Lakshman—meeting the bird-king Jatayu; and Shri Ram embracing him and weeping.
Lord Shri Ram, who grasps the essence of all things, though elder in years, accepted the supremely wise and excellent words spoken by Lakshman and held them. Then the great-armed Shri Ram checked his swelling wrath, took down his marvellous bow, and said to Lakshman:
“Enough. What shall we do now? Where should we go, Lakshman? By what means shall we find Sita? Consider this.”
Lakshman said to the grief-stricken Shri Ram:
“Brother, you should search here in this Janasthana itself. This dense forest, full of many trees and vines, is thick with demons. On the mountains are many hard places—split rocks and caverns—terrible caves of many kinds filled with beasts. On the mountains are the dwellings of kinnaras and the houses of gandharvas. Come with me and search all these places with a one-pointed mind for Sita. As mountains are not shaken by the wind’s speed, so wise, great-souled men like you do not waver in adversity.”
Hearing this, Shri Ram, together with Lakshman, went through the whole forest in anger, stringing his bow and fitting dreadful, sharp arrows. A little way ahead they saw the great bird Jatayu, whose vast body was like a mountain peak, lying on the ground bathed in blood. Seeing that vulture-king, mountain-like, Shri Ram said to Lakshman:
“Lakshman, surely this is a demon in the form of a vulture, roaming this forest. Surely it has eaten Sita of the wide eyes and now sits here at ease after devouring her. I will slay it with my straight-flying arrows whose heads blaze.”
So saying, ablaze with anger, Shri Ram set an arrow to the cord and strode forward, shaking the earth to the ocean’s edge. At that very moment, Jatayu the bird, vomiting frothy blood from his mouth, spoke in a pitiful voice to Dasharatha’s son:
“May you live long! In this great forest, the lady you seek like a remedy—Sita—and my very life as well, were taken by Ravana. Raghunandan, when you and Lakshman were not there, the mighty Ravana came and carried off Lady Sita. When my eyes fell upon Sita, at once I rushed to aid her. I fought Ravana; in that fight I smashed his chariot and parasol and all his equipment; he too fell wounded to the ground. Here is his broken bow; here are his shattered arrows; here is his war-chariot, wrecked by me in battle. This is Ravana’s charioteer; I struck him down with my wings. When I had grown weary in the fight, Ravana cut off both my wings with his sword and flew into the sky bearing the princess of Videha. I have already been slain by that demon’s hand—do not slay me now.”
Hearing this dear news concerning Sita, Shri Ram cast aside his great bow and, embracing the vulture-king Jatayu, fell to the earth overcome with sorrow, and wept with Lakshman. Though steadfast, Shri Ram then felt deep pain. Helpless, drawing long, labored breaths, he looked upon Jatayu and was filled with grief. He said to Sumitra’s son:
“Lakshman, my kingdom is lost; I was exiled; my father died; Sita was abducted; and now even this great helper of mine, the king of birds, is dead. Such misfortune of mine could burn even fire to ashes. If today I were to swim the full ocean, even the lord of rivers, the sea, would surely dry up from the heat of my ill fate. In this whole world there is no one more luckless than I; by this misfortune I am caught fast in a vast net of calamity. This mighty king of birds, Jatayu, was my father’s friend; but today, by my ill fate, he lies slain upon the earth.”
Speaking many such things, Shri Raghunath, with Lakshman, stroked Jatayu’s body and showed him the same affection he would show to his own father. Jatayu, with wings cut off, bled; in that state, embracing him, Shri Raghunath asked:
“Father, where has my beloved, life-like princess of Mithila gone?”
Saying just this, he fell to the ground. Thus ends the sixty-seventh in Valmiki’s Aranya Kanda.
The sixty-eighth canto: Jatayu’s passing and Shri Ram’s cremation of him.
Looking upon the bird-king Jatayu—cast to earth by the terrible demon Ravana—Lord Shri Ram, rich in the qualities of friendship, said to Sumitra’s son Lakshman:
“Brother, this bird was striving only to accomplish my work, but he was slain in battle by the demon. For my sake he lays down his life. Lakshman, the life within this body pains him sorely; that is why his voice falters and he looks about in great distress.”
Saying this to Lakshman, Shri Ram spoke to the bird:
“Jatayu, if you can still speak, may it be well with you—tell me: what is Sita’s condition, and how were you slain? What fault did Ravana see that he abducted my beloved wife? What fault of mine, and when? For what reason did Ravana seize Sita? O best of birds, how looked Sita’s moon-like lovely face at that time? What did she say? What are the strength, the valor, and the form of that demon? What does he do, and where is his home? Tell me everything I ask.”
Lamenting like one orphaned, Shri Ram looked at him; the righteous Jatayu began to speak in a faltering voice:
“Raghunandan, the wicked demon-king Ravana, taking shelter in vast illusion, raised wind and rain and, in that panic, abducted Sita. When I was wearied with fighting him, he cut off both my wings; taking the daughter of Videha with him, that night-ranger went south. Raghunandan, my breath is failing, my sight is whirling, and all the trees seem golden-hued to me—as if yellow hairs were upon them. The moment when Ravana carried off Sita was the Vinda moment, in which lost wealth returns quickly to its master—but the demon did not know this. As a fish bites the hook only to meet its death, so too will he, taking Sita, soon be destroyed. Therefore, do not grieve in your heart for Janaka’s daughter. At the brink of battle you will slay that night-ranger and soon will sport again with the princess of Videha.”
Though dying, Jatayu’s mind was not clouded by delusion; his senses and voice were clear. He was answering Shri Ram when flesh-streaked breath began to pour from his mouth. He said:
“Ravana is the son of Vishrava and the own brother of Kubera.”
Saying thus, the bird-king yielded up his hard-won life. Shri Ram, hands joined, said, “Speak—say more—speak again,” but in a moment Jatayu’s life departed his body and went to the sky. He laid his head upon the ground, stretched out both feet, and sank to earth. His eyes were red; with life departed, he lay unmoving like a mountain.
Seeing him thus, Shri Ram, weighed down by many griefs, said to Sumitra’s son:
“Lakshman, for many years the dwellers in this Dandaka—these demons—lived here at ease; here the king of birds has cast off his body. His life was long; he saw much. Now in his old age, slain by that demon, he sleeps upon the earth—for none can transgress Time. Look, Lakshman—Jatayu was a great benefactor of mine, yet today he is dead, slain by Ravana’s hand when he rose to protect Sita. Renouncing a vast kingdom inherited from his forefathers, this bird-king gave his very life for me. The dharma of protecting those who seek refuge is seen everywhere—even in the births of beasts and birds it is not absent.
“Gentle Lakshman, at this moment I feel not so much the grief of Sita’s abduction as I do the pain of Jatayu’s death—he who gave his life for me. As my revered and worshipful father, King Dasharatha, was to me, so is this bird-king Jatayu. Sumitranandan, bring dry wood; I will kindle fire and perform the cremation of this friend attained to me.”
Then, addressing Jatayu, he said:
“O mighty king of birds, go—by my command—to those highest worlds that are attained by men who perform sacrifices, tend the sacred fires, never turn their backs in battle, and give away land in charity. Having been cremated by me, may you reach blessed states.”
Thus speaking, the righteous Shri Ram—grieving—laid the king of birds upon the pyre and lit the fire, performing his friend’s last rites. Then, with Lakshman, the valiant Shri Ram went into the forest, cut great tubers and roots, and, offering them for Jatayu, spread some upon the ground. The most illustrious Shri Ram took out the pith of the roots, shaped them into funeral cakes, and, upon fair green kusa grass, offered pindas for Jatayu. The mantras that brahmins recite to guide a departed one to heaven—those mantras Lord Shri Ram chanted. Then the two princes went to the bank of the Godavari and offered libations of water for the vulture-king. Bathing in the Godavari, they made water-offerings for a time according to the scriptures.
Because the cremation was performed by the sage-like Shri Ram, the aged Jatayu attained a supremely pure and soul-benefiting state. He had shown a most difficult and fame-increasing valor on the battlefield; but at the end Ravana slew him. After the offerings, those two great men of the Raghu line, holding a father-like steady feeling toward the vulture-king Jatayu, fixed their minds upon the search for Sita and advanced into the forest like Vishnu and Indra.
Thus ends the sixty-eighth canto of the Aranya Kanda of the Ramayana.