Chapter 2

Then lest the people should repeat Their visit to his calm retreat, Away from Chitrakúṭa’s hill Fared Ráma ever onward till Beneath the shady trees he stood Of Daṇḍaká’s primeval wood, Virádha, giant fiend, he slew, And then Agastya’s friendship knew. Counselled by him he gained the sword And bow of Indra, heavenly lord: A pair of quivers too, that bore Of arrows an exhaustless store. While there he dwelt in greenwood shade The trembling hermits sought his aid, And bade him with his sword and bow Destroy the fiends who worked them woe: To come like Indra strong and brave, A guardian God to help and save. And Ráma’s falchion left its trace Deep cut on Śúrpaṇakhá’s face: A hideous giantess who came Burning for him with lawless flame. Their sister’s cries the giants heard. And vengeance in each bosom stirred: The monster of the triple head. And Dúshaṇ to the contest sped. But they and myriad fiends beside Beneath the might of Ráma died.

When Rávaṇ, dreaded warrior, knew The slaughter of his giant crew: Rávaṇ, the king, whose name of fear Earth, hell, and heaven all shook to hear: He bade the fiend Márícha aid The vengeful plot his fury laid. In vain the wise Márícha tried To turn him from his course aside: Not Rávaṇ’s self, he said, might hope With Ráma and his strength to cope. Impelled by fate and blind with rage He came to Ráma’s hermitage. There, by Márícha’s magic art, He wiled the princely youths apart, The vulture(31) slew, and bore away The wife of Ráma as his prey. The son of Raghu(32) came and found Jaṭáyu slain upon the ground. He rushed within his leafy cot; He sought his wife, but found her not. Then, then the hero’s senses failed; In mad despair he wept and wailed. Upon the pile that bird he laid, And still in quest of Sítá strayed. A hideous giant then he saw, Kabandha named, a shape of awe. The monstrous fiend he smote and slew, And in the flame the body threw; When straight from out the funeral flame In lovely form Kabandha came, And bade him seek in his distress A wise and holy hermitess. By counsel of this saintly dame To Pampá’s pleasant flood he came, And there the steadfast friendship won Of Hanumán the Wind-God’s son. Counselled by him he told his grief To great Sugríva, Vánar chief, Who, knowing all the tale, before The sacred flame alliance swore. Sugríva to his new-found friend Told his own story to the end: His hate of Báli for the wrong And insult he had borne so long. And Ráma lent a willing ear And promised to allay his fear. Sugríva warned him of the might Of Báli, matchless in the fight, And, credence for his tale to gain, Showed the huge fiend(33) by Báli slain. The prostrate corse of mountain size Seemed nothing in the hero’s eyes; He lightly kicked it, as it lay, And cast it twenty leagues(34) away. To prove his might his arrows through Seven palms in line, uninjured, flew. He cleft a mighty hill apart, And down to hell he hurled his dart. Then high Sugríva’s spirit rose, Assured of conquest o’er his foes. With his new champion by his side To vast Kishkindhá’s cave he hied. Then, summoned by his awful shout, King Báli came in fury out, First comforted his trembling wife, Then sought Sugríva in the strife. One shaft from Ráma’s deadly bow The monarch in the dust laid low. Then Ráma bade Sugríva reign In place of royal Báli slain. Then speedy envoys hurried forth Eastward and westward, south and north, Commanded by the grateful king Tidings of Ráma’s spouse to bring.

Then by Sampáti’s counsel led, Brave Hanumán, who mocked at dread, Sprang at one wild tremendous leap Two hundred leagues across the deep. To Lanká’s(35) town he urged his way, Where Rávaṇ held his royal sway. There pensive ’neath Aśoka(36) boughs He found poor Sítá, Ráma’s spouse. He gave the hapless girl a ring, A token from her lord and king. A pledge from her fair hand he bore; Then battered down the garden door. Five captains of the host he slew, Seven sons of councillors o’erthrew; Crushed youthful Aksha on the field, Then to his captors chose to yield. Soon from their bonds his limbs were free, But honouring the high decree Which Brahmá(37) had pronounced of yore, He calmly all their insults bore. The town he burnt with hostile flame, And spoke again with Ráma’s dame, Then swiftly back to Ráma flew With tidings of the interview.

Then with Sugríva for his guide, Came Ráma to the ocean side. He smote the sea with shafts as bright As sunbeams in their summer height, And quick appeared the Rivers’ King(38) Obedient to the summoning. A bridge was thrown by Nala o’er The narrow sea from shore to shore.(39) They crossed to Lanká’s golden town, Where Ráma’s hand smote Rávaṇ down. Vibhishaṇ there was left to reign Over his brother’s wide domain. To meet her husband Sítá came; But Ráma, stung with ire and shame, With bitter words his wife addressed Before the crowd that round her pressed. But Sítá, touched with noble ire, Gave her fair body to the fire. Then straight the God of Wind appeared, And words from heaven her honour cleared. And Ráma clasped his wife again, Uninjured, pure from spot and stain, Obedient to the Lord of Fire And the high mandate of his sire. Led by the Lord who rules the sky, The Gods and heavenly saints drew nigh, And honoured him with worthy meed, Rejoicing in each glorious deed. His task achieved, his foe removed, He triumphed, by the Gods approved. By grace of Heaven he raised to life The chieftains slain in mortal strife; Then in the magic chariot through The clouds to Nandigráma flew. Met by his faithful brothers there, He loosed his votive coil of hair: Thence fair Ayodhyá’s town he gained, And o’er his father’s kingdom reigned. Disease or famine ne’er oppressed His happy people, richly blest With all the joys of ample wealth, Of sweet content and perfect health. No widow mourned her well-loved mate, No sire his son’s untimely fate. They feared not storm or robber’s hand; No fire or flood laid waste the land: The Golden Age(40) had come again To bless the days of Ráma’s reign.

From him, the great and glorious king, Shall many a princely scion spring. And he shall rule, beloved by men, Ten thousand years and hundreds ten,(41) And when his life on earth is past To Brahmá’s world shall go at last.”

Whoe’er this noble poem reads That tells the tale of Ráma’s deeds, Good as the Scriptures, he shall be From every sin and blemish free. Whoever reads the saving strain, With all his kin the heavens shall gain. Bráhmans who read shall gather hence The highest praise for eloquence. The warrior, o’er the land shall reign, The merchant, luck in trade obtain; And Śúdras listening(42) ne’er shall fail To reap advantage from the tale.(43)

Canto II. Brahmá’s Visit

Válmíki, graceful speaker, heard, To highest admiration stirred. To him whose fame the tale rehearsed He paid his mental worship first; Then with his pupil humbly bent Before the saint most eloquent. Thus honoured and dismissed the seer Departed to his heavenly sphere. Then from his cot Válmíki hied To Tamasá’s(44) sequestered side, Not far remote from Gangá’s tide. He stood and saw the ripples roll Pellucid o’er a pebbly shoal. To Bharadvája(45) by his side He turned in ecstasy, and cried: “See, pupil dear, this lovely sight, The smooth-floored shallow, pure and bright, With not a speck or shade to mar, And clear as good men’s bosoms are. Here on the brink thy pitcher lay, And bring my zone of bark, I pray. Here will I bathe: the rill has not, To lave the limbs, a fairer spot. Do quickly as I bid, nor waste The precious time; away, and haste.”

Obedient to his master’s hest Quick from the cot he brought the vest; The hermit took it from his hand, And tightened round his waist the band; Then duly dipped and bathed him there, And muttered low his secret prayer. To spirits and to Gods he made Libation of the stream, and strayed Viewing the forest deep and wide That spread its shade on every side. Close by the bank he saw a pair Of curlews sporting fearless there. But suddenly with evil mind An outcast fowler stole behind, And, with an aim too sure and true, The male bird near the hermit slew. The wretched hen in wild despair With fluttering pinions beat the air, And shrieked a long and bitter cry When low on earth she saw him lie, Her loved companion, quivering, dead, His dear wings with his lifeblood red; And for her golden crested mate She mourned, and was disconsolate.

The hermit saw the slaughtered bird, And all his heart with ruth was stirred. The fowler’s impious deed distressed His gentle sympathetic breast, And while the curlew’s sad cries rang Within his ears, the hermit sang: “No fame be thine for endless time, Because, base outcast, of thy crime, Whose cruel hand was fain to slay One of this gentle pair at play!” E’en as he spoke his bosom wrought And laboured with the wondering thought What was the speech his ready tongue Had uttered when his heart was wrung. He pondered long upon the speech, Recalled the words and measured each, And thus exclaimed the saintly guide To Bharadvája by his side: “With equal lines of even feet, With rhythm and time and tone complete, The measured form of words I spoke In shock of grief be termed a śloke.”(46) And Bharadvája, nothing slow His faithful love and zeal to show, Answered those words of wisdom, “Be The name, my lord, as pleases thee.”

As rules prescribe the hermit took Some lustral water from the brook. But still on this his constant thought Kept brooding, as his home he sought; While Bharadvája paced behind, A pupil sage of lowly mind, And in his hand a pitcher bore With pure fresh water brimming o’er. Soon as they reached their calm retreat The holy hermit took his seat; His mind from worldly cares recalled, And mused in deepest thought enthralled.

Then glorious Brahmá,(47) Lord Most High, Creator of the earth and sky, The four-faced God, to meet the sage Came to Válmíki’s hermitage. Soon as the mighty God he saw, Up sprang the saint in wondering awe. Mute, with clasped hands, his head he bent, And stood before him reverent. His honoured guest he greeted well, Who bade him of his welfare tell; Gave water for his blessed feet, Brought offerings,(48) and prepared a seat. In honoured place the God Most High Sate down, and bade the saint sit nigh. There sate before Válmíki’s eyes The Father of the earth and skies; But still the hermit’s thoughts were bent On one thing only, all intent On that poor curlew’s mournful fate Lamenting for her slaughtered mate; And still his lips, in absent mood, The verse that told his grief, renewed: “Woe to the fowler’s impious hand That did the deed that folly planned; That could to needless death devote The curlew of the tuneful throat!”

The heavenly Father smiled in glee, And said, “O best of hermits, see, A verse, unconscious, thou hast made; No longer be the task delayed. Seek not to trace, with labour vain, The unpremeditated strain. The tuneful lines thy lips rehearsed Spontaneous from thy bosom burst. Then come, O best of seers, relate The life of Ráma good and great, The tale that saintly Nárad told, In all its glorious length unfold. Of all the deeds his arm has done Upon this earth, omit not one, And thus the noble life record Of that wise, brave, and virtuous lord. His every act to day displayed, His secret life to none betrayed: How Lakshmaṇ, how the giants fought; With high emprise and hidden thought: And all that Janak’s child(49) befell Where all could see, where none could tell. The whole of this shall truly be Made known, O best of saints, to thee. In all thy poem, through my grace, No word of falsehood shall have place. Begin the story, and rehearse The tale divine in charming verse. As long as in this firm-set land The streams shall flow, the mountains stand, So long throughout the world, be sure, The great Rámáyan shall endure.(50) While the Rámáyan’s ancient strain Shall glorious in the earth remain, To higher spheres shalt thou arise And dwell with me above the skies.”

He spoke, and vanished into air, And left Válmíki wondering there. The pupils of the holy man, Moved by their love of him, began To chant that verse, and ever more They marvelled as they sang it o’er: “Behold, the four-lined balanced rime, Repeated over many a time, In words that from the hermit broke In shock of grief, becomes a śloke.” This measure now Válmíki chose Wherein his story to compose. In hundreds of such verses, sweet With equal lines and even feet, The saintly poet, lofty-souled, The glorious deeds of Ráma told.

Canto III. The Argument.

The hermit thus with watchful heed Received the poem’s pregnant seed, And looked with eager thought around If fuller knowledge might be found. His lips with water first bedewed,(51) He sate, in reverent attitude On holy grass,(52) the points all bent Together toward the orient;(53) And thus in meditation he Entered the path of poesy. Then clearly, through his virtue’s might, All lay discovered to his sight, Whate’er befell, through all their life, Ráma, his brother, and his wife: And Daśaratha and each queen At every time, in every scene: His people too, of every sort; The nobles of his princely court: Whate’er was said, whate’er decreed, Each time they sate each plan and deed: For holy thought and fervent rite Had so refined his keener sight That by his sanctity his view The present, past, and future knew, And he with mental eye could grasp, Like fruit within his fingers clasp, The life of Ráma, great and good, Roaming with Sítá in the wood. He told, with secret-piercing eyes, The tale of Ráma’s high emprise, Each listening ear that shall entice, A sea of pearls of highest price. Thus good Válmíki, sage divine, Rehearsed the tale of Raghu’s line, As Nárad, heavenly saint, before Had traced the story’s outline o’er. He sang of Ráma’s princely birth, His kindness and heroic worth; His love for all, his patient youth, His gentleness and constant truth, And many a tale and legend old By holy Viśvámitra told. How Janak’s child he wooed and won, And broke the bow that bent to none. How he with every virtue fraught His namesake Ráma(54) met and fought. The choice of Ráma for the throne; The malice by Kaikeyí shown, Whose evil counsel marred the plan And drove him forth a banisht man. How the king grieved and groaned, and cried, And swooned away and pining died. The subjects’ woe when thus bereft; And how the following crowds he left: With Guha talked, and firmly stern Ordered his driver to return. How Gangá’s farther shore he gained; By Bharadvája entertained, By whose advice he journeyed still And came to Chitrakúṭa’s hill. How there he dwelt and built a cot; How Bharat journeyed to the spot; His earnest supplication made; Drink-offerings to their father paid; The sandals given by Ráma’s hand, As emblems of his right, to stand: How from his presence Bharat went And years in Nandigráma spent. How Ráma entered Daṇḍak wood And in Sutíkhṇa’s presence stood. The favour Anasúyá showed, The wondrous balsam she bestowed. How Śarabhanga’s dwelling-place They sought; saw Indra face to face; The meeting with Agastya gained; The heavenly bow from him obtained. How Ráma with Virádha met; Their home in Panchavaṭa set. How Śúrpaṇakhá underwent The mockery and disfigurement. Of Triśirá’s and Khara’s fall, Of Rávaṇ roused at vengeance call, Márícha doomed, without escape; The fair Videhan(55) lady’s rape. How Ráma wept and raved in vain, And how the Vulture-king was slain. How Ráma fierce Kabandha slew; Then to the side of Pampá drew, Met Hanumán, and her whose vows Were kept beneath the greenwood boughs. How Raghu’s son, the lofty-souled, On Pampá’s bank wept uncontrolled, Then journeyed, Rishyamúk to reach, And of Sugríva then had speech. The friendship made, which both had sought: How Báli and Sugríva fought. How Báli in the strife was slain, And how Sugríva came to reign. The treaty, Tára’s wild lament; The rainy nights in watching spent. The wrath of Raghu’s lion son; The gathering of the hosts in one. The sending of the spies about, And all the regions pointed out. The ring by Ráma’s hand bestowed; The cave wherein the bear abode. The fast proposed, their lives to end; Sampati gained to be their friend. The scaling of the hill, the leap Of Hanumán across the deep. Ocean’s command that bade them seek Maináka of the lofty peak. The death of Sinhiká, the sight Of Lanká with her palace bright How Hanumán stole in at eve; His plan the giants to deceive. How through the square he made his way To chambers where the women lay, Within the Aśoka garden came And there found Ráma’s captive dame. His colloquy with her he sought, And giving of the ring he brought. How Sítá gave a gem o’erjoyed; How Hanumán the grove destroyed. How giantesses trembling fled, And servant fiends were smitten dead. How Hanumán was seized; their ire When Lanká blazed with hostile fire. His leap across the sea once more; The eating of the honey store. How Ráma he consoled, and how He showed the gem from Sítá’s brow. With Ocean, Ráma’s interview; The bridge that Nala o’er it threw. The crossing, and the sitting down At night round Lanká’s royal town. The treaty with Vibhíshaṇ made: The plan for Rávaṇ’s slaughter laid. How Kumbhakarṇa in his pride And Meghanáda fought and died. How Rávaṇ in the fight was slain, And captive Sítá brought again. Vibhíshaṇ set upon the throne; The flying chariot Pushpak shown. How Brahmá and the Gods appeared, And Sítá’s doubted honour cleared. How in the flying car they rode To Bharadvája’s cabin abode. The Wind-God’s son sent on afar; How Bharat met the flying car. How Ráma then was king ordained; The legions their discharge obtained. How Ráma cast his queen away; How grew the people’s love each day. Thus did the saint Válmíki tell Whate’er in Ráma’s life befell, And in the closing verses all That yet to come will once befall.

Canto IV. The Rhapsodists.

When to the end the tale was brought, Rose in the sage’s mind the thought; “Now who throughout this earth will go, And tell it forth that all may know?” As thus he mused with anxious breast, Behold, in hermit’s raiment dressed, Kuśá and Lava(56) came to greet Their master and embrace his feet. The twins he saw, that princely pair Sweet-voiced, who dwelt beside him there None for the task could be more fit, For skilled were they in Holy Writ; And so the great Rámáyan, fraught With lore divine, to these he taught: The lay whose verses sweet and clear Take with delight the listening ear, That tell of Sítá’s noble life And Rávaṇ’s fall in battle strife. Great joy to all who hear they bring, Sweet to recite and sweet to sing. For music’s sevenfold notes are there, And triple measure,(57) wrought with care With melody and tone and time, And flavours(58) that enhance the rime; Heroic might has ample place, And loathing of the false and base, With anger, mirth, and terror, blent With tenderness, surprise, content. When, half the hermit’s grace to gain, And half because they loved the strain, The youth within their hearts had stored The poem that his lips outpoured, Válmíki kissed them on the head, As at his feet they bowed, and said; “Recite ye this heroic song In tranquil shades where sages throng: Recite it where the good resort, In lowly home and royal court.”

The hermit ceased. The tuneful pair, Like heavenly minstrels sweet and fair, In music’s art divinely skilled, Their saintly master’s word fulfilled. Like Ráma’s self, from whom they came, They showed their sire in face and frame, As though from some fair sculptured stone Two selfsame images had grown. Sometimes the pair rose up to sing, Surrounded by a holy ring, Where seated on the grass had met Full many a musing anchoret. Then tears bedimmed those gentle eyes, As transport took them and surprise, And as they listened every one Cried in delight, Well done! Well done! Those sages versed in holy lore Praised the sweet minstrels more and more: And wondered at the singers’ skill, And the bard’s verses sweeter still, Which laid so clear before the eye The glorious deeds of days gone by. Thus by the virtuous hermits praised, Inspirited their voice they raised. Pleased with the song this holy man Would give the youths a water-can; One gave a fair ascetic dress, Or sweet fruit from the wilderness. One saint a black-deer’s hide would bring, And one a sacrificial string: One, a clay pitcher from his hoard, And one, a twisted munja cord.(59) One in his joy an axe would find, One braid, their plaited locks to bind. One gave a sacrificial cup, One rope to tie their fagots up; While fuel at their feet was laid, Or hermit’s stool of fig-tree made. All gave, or if they gave not, none Forgot at least a benison. Some saints, delighted with their lays, Would promise health and length of days; Others with surest words would add Some boon to make their spirit glad. In such degree of honour then That song was held by holy men: That living song which life can give, By which shall many a minstrel live. In seat of kings, in crowded hall, They sang the poem, praised of all. And Ráma chanced to hear their lay, While he the votive steed(60) would slay, And sent fit messengers to bring The minstrel pair before the king. They came, and found the monarch high Enthroned in gold, his brothers nigh; While many a minister below, And noble, sate in lengthened row. The youthful pair awhile he viewed Graceful in modest attitude, And then in words like these addressed His brother Lakshmaṇ and the rest: “Come, listen to the wondrous strain Recited by these godlike twain, Sweet singers of a story fraught With melody and lofty thought.”

The pair, with voices sweet and strong, Rolled the full tide of noble song, With tone and accent deftly blent To suit the changing argument. Mid that assembly loud and clear Rang forth that lay so sweet to hear, That universal rapture stole Through each man’s frame and heart and soul. “These minstrels, blest with every sign That marks a high and princely line, In holy shades who dwell, Enshrined in Saint Válmíki’s lay, A monument to live for aye, My deeds in song shall tell.” Thus Ráma spoke: their breasts were fired, And the great tale, as if inspired, The youths began to sing, While every heart with transport swelled, And mute and rapt attention held The concourse and the king.

Canto V. Ayodhyá.

“Ikshváku’s sons from days of old Were ever brave and mighty-souled. The land their arms had made their own Was bounded by the sea alone. Their holy works have won them praise, Through countless years, from Manu’s days. Their ancient sire was Sagar, he Whose high command dug out the sea:(61) With sixty thousand sons to throng Around him as he marched along. From them this glorious tale proceeds: The great Rámáyan tells their deeds. This noble song whose lines contain Lessons of duty, love, and gain, We two will now at length recite, While good men listen with delight.

On Sarjú’s(62) bank, of ample size, The happy realm of Kośal lies, With fertile length of fair champaign And flocks and herds and wealth of grain. There, famous in her old renown, Ayodhyá(63) stands, the royal town, In bygone ages built and planned By sainted Manu’s(64) princely hand. Imperial seat! her walls extend Twelve measured leagues from end to end, And three in width from side to side, With square and palace beautified. Her gates at even distance stand; Her ample roads are wisely planned. Right glorious is her royal street Where streams allay the dust and heat. On level ground in even row Her houses rise in goodly show: Terrace and palace, arch and gate The queenly city decorate. High are her ramparts, strong and vast, By ways at even distance passed, With circling moat, both deep and wide, And store of weapons fortified.