Reading section 62

Then on the king her back she turned, And answered thus the prayer she spurned: “Turn, Rávaṇ, turn thee from thy sin; Seek virtue’s paths and walk therein. To others dames be honour shown; Protect them as thou wouldst thine own. Taught by thyself, from wrong abstain Which, wrought on thee, thy heart would pain.(832) Beware: this lawless love of thine Will ruin thee and all thy line; And for thy sin, thy sin alone, Will Lanká perish overthrown. Dream not that wealth and power can sway My heart from duty’s path to stray. Linked like the Day-God and his shine, I am my lord’s and he is mine. Repent thee of thine impious deed; To Ráma’s side his consort lead. Be wise; the hero’s friendship gain, Nor perish in his fury slain. Go, ask the God of Death to spare, Or red bolt flashing through the air, But look in vain for spell or charm To stay my Ráma’s vengeful arm. Thou, when the hero bends his bow, Shalt hear the clang that heralds woe, Loud as the clash when clouds are rent And Indra’s bolt to earth is sent. Then shall his furious shafts be sped, Each like a snake with fiery head, And in their flight shall hiss and flame Marked with the mighty archer’s name.(833) Then in the fiery deluge all Thy giants round their king shall fall.”

Canto XXII. Rávan’s Threat.

Then anger swelled in Rávaṇ’s breast, Who fiercely thus the dame addressed: “’Tis ever thus: in vain we sue To woman, and her favour woo. A lover’s humble words impel Her wayward spirit to rebel. The love of thee that fills my soul Still keeps my anger in control, As charioteers with bit and rein The swerving of the steed restrain. The love that rules me bids me spare Thy forfeit life, O thou most fair. For this, O Sítá, have I borne The keen reproach, the bitter scorn, And the fond love thou boastest yet For that poor wandering anchoret; Else had the words which thou hast said Brought death upon thy guilty head. Two months, fair dame, I grant thee still To bend thee to thy lover’s will. If when that respite time is fled Thou still refuse to share my bed, My cooks shall mince thy limbs with steel And serve thee for my morning meal.”(834)

The minstrel daughters of the skies Looked on her woe with pitying eyes, And sun-bright children of the Gods(835) Consoled the queen with smiles and nods. She saw, and with her heart at ease, Addressed the fiend in words like these; “Hast thou no friend to love thee, none In all this isle to bid thee shun The ruin which thy crime will bring On thee and thine, O impious King? Who in all worlds save thee could woo Me, Ráma’s consort pure and true, As though he tempted with his love Queen Śachí(836) on her throne above? How canst thou hope, vile wretch, to fly The vengeance that e’en now is nigh, When thou hast dared, untouched by shame, To press thy suit on Ráma’s dame? Where woods are thick and grass is high A lion and a hare may lie; My Ráma is the lion, thou Art the poor hare beneath the bough. Thou railest at the lord of men, But wilt not stand within his ken. What! is that eye unstricken yet Whose impious glance on me was set? Still moves that tongue that would not spare The wife of Daśaratha’s heir?”

Then, hissing like a furious snake, The fiend again to Sítá spake: “Deaf to all prayers and threats art thou, Devoted to thy senseless vow. No longer respite will I give, And thou this day shalt cease to live; For I, as sunlight kills the morn, Will slay thee for thy scathe and scorn.”

The Rákshas guard was summoned: all The monstrous crew obeyed the call, And hastened to the king to take The orders which he fiercely spake: “See that ye guard her well, and tame, Like some wild thing, the stubborn dame, Until her haughty soul be bent By mingled threat and blandishment.”(837)

The monsters heard: away he strode, And passed within his queens’ abode.

Canto XXIII. The Demons’ Threats.

Then round the helpless Sítá drew With fiery eyes the hideous crew, And thus assailed her, all and each, With insult, taunt, and threatening speech: “What! can it be thou prizest not This happy chance, this glorious lot, To be the chosen wife of one So strong and great, Pulastya’s son? Pulastya—thus have sages told— Is mid the Lords of Life(838) enrolled. Lord Brahmá’s mind-born son was he, Fourth of that glorious company. Viśravas from Pulastya sprang,— Through all the worlds his glory rang. And of Viśravas, large-eyed dame! Our king the mighty Rávaṇ came. His happy consort thou mayst be: Scorn not the words we say to thee.”

One awful demon, fiery-eyed, Stood by the Maithil queen and cried: ’Come and be his, if thou art wise, Who smote the sovereign of the skies, And made the thirty Gods and three,(839) O’ercome in furious battle, flee. Thy lover turns away with scorn From wives whom grace and youth adorn. Thou art his chosen consort, thou Shall be his pride and darling now.”

Another, Vikatá by name, In words like these addressed the dame: “The king whose blows, in fury dealt, The Nágas(840) and Gandharvas(841) felt, In battle’s fiercest brunt subdued, Has stood by thee and humbly wooed. And wilt thou in thy folly miss The glory of a love like this? Scared by his eye the sun grows chill, The wanderer wind is hushed and still. The rains at his command descend, And trees with new-blown blossoms bend. His word the hosts of demons fear, And wilt thou, dame, refuse to hear? Be counselled; with his will comply, Or, lady, thou shalt surely die.”

Canto XXIV. Sítá’s Reply.

Still with reproaches rough and rude Those fiends the gentle queen pursued: “What! can so fair a life displease, To dwell with him in joyous ease? Dwell in his bowers a happy queen In silk and gold and jewels’ sheen? Still must thy woman fancy cling To Ráma and reject our king? Die in thy folly, or forget That wretched wandering anchoret. Come, Sítá, in luxurious bowers Spend with our lord thy happy hours; The mighty lord who makes his own The treasures of the worlds o’erthrown.”

Then, as a tear bedewed her eye, The hapless lady made reply: “I loathe, with heart and soul detest The shameful life your words suggest. Eat, if you will, this mortal frame: My soul rejects the sin and shame. A homeless wanderer though he be, In him my lord, my life I see, And, till my earthly days be done, Will cling to great Ikshváku’s son.”

Then with fierce eyes on Sítá set They cried again with taunt and threat: Each licking with her fiery tongue The lip that to her bosom hung, And menacing the lady’s life With axe, or spear or murderous knife: “Hear, Sítá, and our words obey, Or perish by our hands to-day. Thy love for Raghu’s son forsake, And Rávaṇ for thy husband take, Or we will rend thy limbs apart And banquet on thy quivering heart. Now from her body strike the head, And tell the king the dame is dead. Then by our lord’s commandment she A banquet for our band shall be. Come, let the wine be quickly brought That frees each heart from saddening thought. Then to the western gate repair, And we will dance and revel there.”

Canto XXV. Sítá’s Lament.

On the bare earth the lady sank, And trembling from their presence shrank Like a strayed fawn, when night is dark, And hungry wolves around her bark. Then to a shady tree she crept, And thought upon her lord and wept. By fear and bitter woe oppressed She bathed the beauties of her breast With her hot tears’ incessant flow, And found no respite from her woe. As shakes a plantain in the breeze She shook, and fell on trembling knees; While at each demon’s furious look Her cheek its native hue forsook. She lay and wept and made her moan In sorrow’s saddest undertone, And, wild with grief, with fear appalled, On Ráma and his brother called: “O dear Kauśalyá,(842) hear me cry! Sweet Queen Sumitrá,(843) list my sigh! True is the saw the wise declare: Death comes not to relieve despair. ’Tis vain for dame or man to pray; Death will not hear before his day; Since I, from Ráma’s sight debarred, And tortured by my cruel guard, Still live in hopeless woe to grieve And loathe the life I may not leave, Here, like a poor deserted thing, My limbs upon the ground I fling, And, like a bark beneath the blast, Shall sink oppressed with woes at last. Ah, blest are they, supremely blest, Whose eyes upon my lord may rest; Who mark his lion port, and hear His gentle speech that charms the ear. Alas, what antenatal crime, What trespass of forgotten time Weighs on my soul, and bids me bow Beneath this load of misery now?”

Canto XXVI. Sítá’s Lament.

“I Ráma’s wife, on that sad day, By Rávaṇ’s arm was borne away, Seized, while I sat and feared no ill, By him who wears each form at will. A helpless captive, left forlorn To demons’ threats and taunts and scorn, Here for my lord I weep and sigh, And worn with woe would gladly die. For what is life to me afar From Ráma of the mighty car? The robber in his fruitless sin Would hope his captive’s love to win. My meaner foot shall never touch The demon whom I loathe so much. The senseless fool! he knows me not, Nor the proud soul his love would blot. Yea, limb from limb will I be rent, But never to his prayer consent; Be burnt and perish in the fire, But never meet his base desire. My lord was grateful, true and wise, And looked on woe with pitying eyes; But now, recoiling from the strife He pities not his captive wife. Alone in Janasthán he slew The thousands of the Rákshas crew. His arm was strong, his heart was brave, Why comes he not to free and save? Why blame my lord in vain surmise? He knows not where his lady lies. O, if he knew, o’er land and sea His feet were swift to set me free; This Lanká, girdled by the deep, Would fall consumed, a shapeless heap, And from each ruined home would rise A Rákshas widow’s groans and cries.”

Canto XXVII. Trijatá’s Dream.

Their threats unfeared, their counsel spurned, The demons’ breasts with fury burned. Some sought the giant king to bear The tale of Sítá’s fixt despair. With threats and taunts renewed the rest Around the weeping lady pressed. But Trijaṭá, of softer mould, A Rákshas matron wise and old, With pity for the captive moved, In words like these the fiends reproved: “Me, me,” she cried, “eat me, but spare The spouse of Daśaratha’s heir. Last night I dreamt a dream; and still The fear and awe my bosom chill; For in that dream I saw foreshown Our race by Ráma’s hand o’erthrown. I saw a chariot high in air, Of ivory exceeding fair. A hundred steeds that chariot drew As swiftly through the clouds it flew, And, clothed in white, with wreaths that shone, The sons of Raghu rode thereon. I looked and saw this lady here, Clad in the purest white, appear High on the snow white hill whose feet The angry waves of ocean beat. And she and Ráma met at last Like light and sun when night is past. Again I saw them side by side. On Rávaṇ’s car they seemed to ride, And with the princely Lakshmaṇ flee To northern realms beyond the sea. Then Rávaṇ, shaved and shorn, besmeared With oil from head to foot, appeared. He quaffed, he raved: his robes were red: Fierce was his eye, and bare his head. I saw him from his chariot thrust; I saw him rolling in the dust. A woman came and dragged away The stricken giant where he lay, And on a car which asses drew The monarch of our race she threw. He rose erect, he danced and laughed, With thirsty lips the oil he quaffed, Then with wild eyes and streaming mouth Sped on the chariot to the south.(844) Then, dropping oil from every limb, His sons the princes followed him, And Kumbhakarṇa,(845) shaved and shorn, Was southward on a camel borne. Then royal Lanká reeled and fell With gate and tower and citadel. This ancient city, far-renowned: All life within her walls was drowned; And the wild waves of ocean rolled O’er Lanká and her streets of gold. Warned by these signs I bid you fly; Or by the hand of Ráma die, Whose vengeance will not spare the life Of one who vexed his faithful wife. Your bitter taunts and threats forgo: Comfort the lady in her woe, And humbly pray her to forgive; For so you may be spared and live.”

[I omit the 28th and 29th Cantos as an unmistakeable interpolation. Instead of advancing the story it goes back to Canto XVII, containing a lamentation of Sítá after Rávaṇ has left her, and describes the the auspicious signs sent to cheer her, the throbbing of her left eye, arm, and side. The Canto is found in the Bengal recension. Gorresio translates it. and observes: “I think that Chapter XXVIII.—The Auspicious Signs—is an addition, a later interpolation by the Rhapsodists. It has no bond of connexion either with what precedes or follows it, and may be struck out not only without injury to, but positively to the advantage of the poem. The metre in which this chapter is written differs from that which is generally adopted in the course of the poem.”]

Canto XXX. Hanumán’s Deliberation.

The Vánar watched concealed: each word Of Sítá and the fiends he heard, And in a maze of anxious thought His quick-conceiving bosom wrought. “At length my watchful eyes have seen, Pursued so long, the Maithil queen, Sought by our Vánar hosts in vain From east to west, from main to main. A cautious spy have I explored The palace of the Rákhshas lord, And thoroughly learned, concealed from sight, The giant monarch’s power and might. And now my task must be to cheer The royal dame who sorrows here. For if I go, and soothe her not, A captive in this distant spot, She, when she finds no comfort nigh, Will sink beneath her woes and die. How shall my tale, if unconsoled I leave her, be to Ráma told? How shall I answer Raghu’s son, “No message from my darling, none?” The husband’s wrath, to fury fanned, Will scorch me lifeless where I stand, Or if I urge my lord the king To Lanká’s isle his hosts to bring, In vain will be his zeal, in vain The toil, the danger, and the pain. Yea, this occasion must I seize That from her guard the lady frees,(846) To win her ear with soft address And whisper hope in dire distress. Shall I, a puny Vánar, choose The Sanskrit men delight to use? If, as a man of Bráhman kind, I speak the tongue by rules refined, The lady, yielding to her fears, Will think ’tis Rávaṇ’s voice she hears. I must assume my only plan— The language of a common(847) man. Yet, if the lady sees me nigh, In terror she will start and cry; And all the demon band, alarmed, Will come with various weapons armed, With their wild shouts the grove will fill, And strive to take me, or to kill. And, at my death or capture, dies The hope of Ráma‘s enterprise. For none can leap, save only me, A hundred leagues across the sea. It is a sin in me, I own, To talk with Janak’s child alone. Yet greater is the sin if I Be silent, and the lady die. First I will utter Ráma’s name, And laud the hero’s gifts and fame. Perchance the name she holds so dear Will soothe the faithful lady’s fear.”

Canto XXXI. Hanumán’s Speech.

Then in sweet accents low and mild The Vánar spoke to Janak’s child: “A noble king, by sin unstained, The mighty Daśaratha reigned. Lord of the warrior’s car and steed, The pride of old Ikshváku’s seed. A faithful friend, a blameless king, Protector of each living thing. A glorious monarch, strong to save, Blest with the bliss he freely gave. His son, the best of all who know The science of the bended bow, Was moon-bright Ráma, brave and strong, Who loved the right and loathed the wrong, Who ne’er from kingly duty swerved, Loved by the lands his might preserved. His feet the path of law pursued; His arm rebellious foes subdued. His sire’s command the prince obeyed And, banished, sought the forest shade, Where with his wife and brother he Wandered a saintly devotee. There as he roamed the wilds he slew The bravest of the Rákshas crew. The giant king the prince beguiled, And stole his consort, Janak’s child. Then Ráma roamed the country round, And a firm friend, Sugríva, found, Lord of the Vánar race, expelled From his own realm which Báli held, He conquered Báli and restored The kingdom to the rightful lord. Then by Sugríva’s high decree The Vánar legions searched for thee, Sampáti’s counsel bade me leap A hundred leagues across the deep. And now my happy eyes have seen At last the long-sought Maithil queen. Such was the form, the eye, the grace Of her whom Ráma bade me trace.”

He ceased: her flowing locks she drew To shield her from a stranger’s view; Then, trembling in her wild surprise, Raised to the tree her anxious eyes.

Canto XXXII. Sítá’s Doubt.

Her eyes the Maithil lady raised And on the monkey speaker gazed. She looked, and trembling at the sight Wept bitter tears in wild affright. She shrank a while with fear distraught, Then, nerved again, the lady thought: “Is this a dream mine eyes have seen, This creature, by our laws unclean? O, may the Gods keep Ráma, still, And Lakshmaṇ, and my sire, from ill! It is no dream: I have not slept, But, trouble-worn, have watched and wept Afar from that dear lord of mine For whom in ceaseless woe I pine, No art may soothe my wild distress Or lull me to forgetfulness. I see but him: my lips can frame No syllable but Ráma’s name. Each sight I see, each sound I hear, Brings Ráma to mine eye or ear, The wish was in my heart, and hence The sweet illusion mocked my sense. ’Twas but a phantom of the mind, And yet the voice was soft and kind. Be glory to the Eternal Sire,(848) Be glory to the Lord of Fire, The mighty Teacher in the skies,(849) And Indra with his thousand eyes, And may they grant the truth to be E’en as the words that startled me.”

Canto XXXIII. The Colloquy.

Down from the tree Hanumán came And humbly stood before the dame. Then joining reverent palm to palm Addressed her thus with words of balm: “Why should the tears of sorrow rise, Sweet lady, to those lovely eyes, As when the wind-swept river floods Two half expanded lotus buds? Who art thou, O most fair of face? Of Asur,(850) or celestial race? Did Nága mother give thee birth? For sure thou art no child of earth. Do Rudras(851) claim that heavenly form? Or the swift Gods(852) who ride the storm? Or art thou Rohiṇí(853) the blest, That star more lovely than the rest,— Reft from the Moon thou lovest well And doomed a while on earth to dwell? Or canst thou, fairest wonder, be The starry queen Arundhatí,(854) Fled in thy wrath or jealous pride From her dear lord Vaśishṭha’s side? Who is the husband, father, son Or brother, O thou loveliest one, Gone from this world in heaven to dwell, For whom those eyes with weeping swell? Yet, by the tears those sweet eyes shed, Yet, by the earth that bears thy tread,(855) By calling on a monarch’s name, No Goddess but a royal dame. Art thou the queen, fair lady, say, Whom Rávaṇ stole and bore away? Yea, by that agony of woe, That form unrivalled here below, That votive garb, thou art, I ween, King Janak’s child and Ráma’s queen.”

Hope at the name of Ráma woke, And thus the gentle lady spoke: “I am that Sítá wooed and won By Daśaratha’s royal son, The noblest of Ikshváku’s line; And every earthly joy was mine. But Ráma left his royal home In Daṇḍak’s tangled wilds to roam. Where with Sumitrá’s son and me, He lived a saintly devotee. The giant Rávaṇ came with guile And bore me thence to Lanká’s isle. Some respite yet the fiend allows, Two months of life, to Ráma’s spouse. Two moons of hopeless woe remain, And then the captive will be slain.”

Canto XXXIV. Hanumán’s Speech.

Thus spoke the dame in mournful mood, And Hanumán his speech renewed: “O lady, by thy lord’s decree I come a messenger to thee. Thy lord is safe with steadfast friends, And greeting to his queen he sends, And Lakshmaṇ, ever faithful bows His reverent head to Ráma’s spouse.”

Through all her frame the rapture ran, As thus again the dame began: “Now verily the truth I know Of the wise saw of long ago: “Once only in a hundred years True joy to living man appears.”

He marked her rapture-beaming hue, And nearer to the lady drew, But at each onward step he took Suspicious fear her spirit shook. “Alas, Alas,” she cried in fear. “False is the tale I joyed to hear. ’Tis Rávaṇ, ’tis the fiend, who tries To mock me with a new disguise. If thou, to wring my woman’s heart, Hast changed thy shape by magic art, And wouldst a helpless dame beguile, The wicked deed is doubly vile. But no: that fiend thou canst not be: Such joy I had from seeing thee. But if my fancy does not err, And thou art Ráma’s messenger, The glories of my lord repeat: For to these ears such words are sweet.”

The Vánar knew the lady’s thought,(856) And gave the answer fondly sought: “Bright as the sun that lights the sky Dear as the Moon to every eye. He scatters blessings o’er the land Like bounties from Vaiśravaṇ’s(857) hand. Like Vishṇu strong and unsubdued, Unmatched in might and fortitude. Wise, truthful as the Lord of Speech, With gentle words he welcomes each. Of noblest mould and form is he, Like love’s incarnate deity. He quells the fury of the foe, And strikes when justice prompts the blow. Safe in the shadow of his arm The world is kept from scathe and harm. Now soon shall Rávaṇ rue his theft, And fall, of realm and life bereft. For Ráma’s wrathful hand shall wing His shafts against the giant king. The day, O Maithil Queen, is near When he and Lakshmaṇ will be here, And by their side Sugríva lead His countless hosts of Vánar breed. Sugríva’s servant, I, by name Hanumán, by his order came. With desperate leap I crossed the sea To Lanká’s isle in search of thee, No traitor, gentle dame, am I: Upon my word and faith rely.”

Canto XXXV. Hanumán’s Speech.

With joyous heart she heard him tell Of the great lord she loved so well, And in sweet accents, soft and low, Spoke, half forgetful of her woe: “How didst thou stand by Ráma’s side? How came my lord and thou allied? How met the people of the wood With men on terms of brotherhood? Declare each grace and regal sign That decks the lords of Raghu’s line. Each circumstance and look relate: Tell Ráma’s form and speech, and gait.”

“Thy fear and doubt,” he cried, “dispelled, Hear, lady, what mine eyes beheld. Hear the imperial signs that grace The glory of Ikshváku’s race. With moon-bright face and lotus eyes, Most beautiful and good and wise, With sun-like glory round his head, Long-suffering as the earth we tread, He from all foes his realm defends. Yea, o’er the world his care extends. He follows right in all his ways, And ne’er from royal duty strays. He knows the lore that strengthens kings; His heart to truth and honour clings. Each grace and gift of form and mind Adorns that prince of human kind; And virtues like his own endue His brother ever firm and true. O’er all the land they roamed distraught, And thee with vain endeavour sought, Until at length their wandering feet Trod wearily our wild retreat. Our banished king Sugríva spied The princes from the mountain side. By his command I sought the pair And led them to our monarch there. Thus Ráma and Sugríva met, And joined the bonds that knit them yet, When each besought the other’s aid, And friendship and alliance made. An arrow launched from Ráma’s bow Laid Báli dead, Sugríva’s foe. Then by commandment of our lord The Vánar hosts each land explored. We reached the coast: I crossed the sea And found my way at length to thee.”(858)

Canto XXXVI. Ráma’s Ring.

“Receive,” he cried, “this precious ring,(859) Sure token from thy lord the king: The golden ring he wont to wear: See, Ráma’s name engraven there.” Then, as she took the ring he showed, The tears that spring of rapture flowed. She seemed to touch the hand that sent The dearly valued ornament, And with her heart again at ease, Replied in gentle words like these: “O thou, whose soul no fears deter, Wise, brave, and faithful messenger! And hast thou dared, o’er wave and foam, To seek me in the giants’ home? In thee, true messenger, I find The noblest of thy woodland kind. Who couldst, unmoved by terror, brook On Rávaṇ, king of fiends, to look. Now may we commune here as friends, For he whom royal Ráma sends Must needs be one in danger tried, A valiant, wise, and faithful guide. Say, is it well with Ráma still? Lives Lakshmaṇ yet untouched by ill? Then why should Ráma’s hand be slow To free his consort from her woe? Why spare to burn, in search of me, The land encircled by the sea? Can Bharat send no army out With banners, cars and battle shout? Cannot thy king Sugríva lend His legions to assist his friend?”