Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 8 - Draupadī Haraṇa Parva Chapter 3 - The Story of Sītā -Raam

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then the venerable Mārkaṇḍeya, filled with compassion, spoke to Yudhiṣṭhira:

“O bull of the Bharata race, even Rāma, son of Daśaratha, endured sorrows beyond compare. Rāvaṇa, king of the Rākṣasas, with deceit and violence, slew the vulture Jatāyu and carried away Sītā from her hermitage. Yet through alliance with Sugrīva, lord of the vānaras, Rāma crossed the sea upon a bridge of stones and with his flaming arrows consumed Laṅkā, regaining his beloved.”

Yudhiṣṭhira said:

“O holy one, tell me more of Rāma. In what race was he born? What measure of might was his? And who was this Rāvaṇa, whose enmity brought such strife? Speak fully, for I long to hear the deeds of Rāma of immeasurable power.”

Mārkaṇḍeya said:

“Listen then, O son of Pṛthā, as the ancient tale was told.

In the line of Ikṣvāku there was a great king named Aja. From him was born Daśaratha, master of the Vedas, pure in conduct, resplendent in dharma. Daśaratha had four sons, lions among men—Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, Śatrughna, and mighty Bharata. Rāma’s mother was Kausalyā, Bharata’s mother Kaikeyī, and the valiant twins Lakṣmaṇa and Śatrughna were born of Sumitrā.

In Videha reigned the noble Janaka, and Sītā was his daughter—

but not begotten of the womb. At the furrow of the sacrificial field she arose, fashioned by Tvaṣṭṛ, the divine artificer, to be Rāma’s destined bride.”

From altar’s earth, from furrow’s line,

A lotus-born maiden shone divine.

Pure as flame, yet gentle, sweet,

She came as Rāma’s fate to meet.

Mārkaṇḍeya continued:

“As for Rāvaṇa—hear his lineage, O king. The Self-born Prajāpati, grandsire of beings, was his ancestor. Pulastya, son of the grandsire, begot a mighty son named Vaiśravaṇa. This Vaiśravaṇa, by devotion, won the favor of Brahmā and received sovereignty of wealth, guardianship of the north, immortality, and the city of Laṅkā with its hosts of rākṣasas. The grandsire also bestowed upon him the celestial car Puṣpaka and a son, Nalakūbera.

But Pulastya, angered when his son turned away from him, created again from himself another—Viśravas. From Viśravas was born Rāvaṇa, dark in power, fiery in spirit, born for vengeance. Thus was he brother to Vaiśravaṇa yet opposed in heart.”

From Pulastya’s wrath a seed was sown,

A second self, fierce, darkly grown.

Thus Rāvaṇa rose, by fate’s command,

To shake the worlds with impious hand.

Vaiśampāyana said:

So Mārkaṇḍeya recounted the births of Rāma and Sītā, and of Rāvaṇa the Rākṣasa king, laying the ground for the tale of their fateful clash.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then the great Mārkaṇḍeya continued his tale to Yudhiṣṭhira:

“Viśravas, son of Pulastya’s half-soul, bore enmity toward Vaiśravaṇa, the lord of wealth, Kuvera. Yet Kuvera, mindful of filial duty, sought to appease his father with gifts and attendants. He sent unto him three Rākṣasī women—Puṣpotkaṭā, Rākā, and Mālinī—skilled in dance and song, slender-waisted and tireless in service. Pleased with them, Viśravas granted each a boon of sons.

Thus were born the mighty Rākṣasas: from Puṣpotkaṭā came Kumbhakarṇa and Rāvaṇa the Ten-headed; from Mālinī, the righteous Vibhīṣaṇa; and from Rākā, Khara and the sister Śūrpaṇakhā. Of these, Rāvaṇa was eldest, strong in penance and energy; Kumbhakarṇa was fierce, learned in māyā and terrible in battle; Khara cruel, given to flesh and enmity with Brāhmaṇas; Śūrpaṇakhā ever troubling ascetics; and Vibhīṣaṇa, gentle, virtuous, devoted to dharma.

Living with their father in Gandhamādana, they saw Kuvera, borne upon men’s shoulders, glittering with wealth, and jealousy arose in their hearts. They turned to terrible austerities, resolving to win power from Brahmā himself.

Rāvaṇa stood on one leg for a thousand years, surrounded by fires, living only on air, cutting off his own heads and casting them into the flame. Kumbhakarṇa hung head downwards, fasting with dreadful vows. Vibhīṣaṇa subsisted on dry leaves, his mind fixed on righteousness. Khara and Śūrpaṇakhā guarded them in their vigils.

At last, after a thousand years, when Rāvaṇa cast his heads into the fire, the Grandsire, Brahmā, appeared, radiant as a thousand suns, and said:

“Cease, my sons, from these dread vows;

Ask what ye will, save deathless life.

For none among mortals gains immortality,

Yet other gifts may end your strife.

Rāvaṇa, thy severed heads shall grow,

Thy body unharmed, no wound shall stay.

Any form thou shalt assume at will,

Thine enemies in battle thou shalt slay.”

Rāvaṇa bowed and asked with pride:

“Grant me victory over Gandharvas, Devas, Kinnaras,

Over Asuras, Yakṣas, Nāgas, and Rākṣasas!

Let none of these creatures defeat me in war!”

Brahmā replied:

“So be it, lord of ten fierce heads!

No fear shalt thou have from those thou hast named.

But from men alone shall thy fall be,

For so is destiny by me ordained.”

Mārkaṇḍeya said:

Thus, blinded by arrogance, Rāvaṇa despised mankind, and in his folly sought not protection against them.

Then Brahmā turned to Kumbhakarṇa. But by the darkness of delusion, he uttered not what he intended, and asked instead for a boon of sleep that lasted for ages. So Brahmā granted it, saying, “So be it.”

Next he spoke to Vibhīṣaṇa, whose heart was pure: “Choose a boon.”

And Vibhīṣaṇa, with folded palms, said:

“Even in peril, may I not swerve from dharma.

Though born among Rākṣasas, may righteousness be my way.

Ignorant though I am, let divine light guide me—

O Lord, let truth illumine my day.”

Pleased, Brahmā granted him immortality, saying: “Since thy soul inclines not to evil, death shall not claim thee.”

Having thus received their boons, the brothers grew in power. Rāvaṇa, now terrible, rose against Kuvera, seized Laṅkā and the golden car Puṣpaka. And Kuvera, robbed and insulted by his own brother, cursed him, declaring:

“This car shall bear not thee, Rāvaṇa,

But only him who ends thy breath.

For thy insult to me, thy elder,

Soon thou shalt meet thy destined death.”

Mārkaṇḍeya said:

Thus Rāvaṇa, proud of his might, took lordship over Rākṣasas and Piśācas, spreading terror among gods, Asuras, and all beings. Because he caused creatures to wail in fear, he was named Rāvaṇa. And so great was his force that even the celestials trembled at his roar.

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Vaiśampāyana said:

Then the sage Mārkaṇḍeya, addressing Yudhiṣṭhira, spoke these words of old:

“When Rāvaṇa’s might grew unendurable, the Brahmarṣis, Siddhas, and Devarṣis, with Agni as their spokesman, sought refuge in Brahmā.

And Agni said:

‘That son of Viśravas, the Ten-headed, armed with thy boon, cannot be slain by gods or Asuras. Fierce in power, he oppresses all beings—men, Yakṣas, Gandharvas, serpents. There is none save thee to deliver us! Protect, O Lord, thy creation.’

Then the Grandsire replied:

‘Fear not, O Agni, nor you, gods and ṛṣis! Against him no Deva or Dānava shall prevail. Yet his end is near! For I have already ordained that Viṣṇu himself, the foremost of smiters, shall descend upon earth to compass Rāvaṇa’s fall. Nārāyaṇa, the four-headed Lord incarnate, is already engaged in this work.’

“Go forth, O Śakra, king of gods!

Take birth on earth with thy hosts divine.

Beget upon monkeys and upon bears

Sons of splendour, sons of might, sons of mine.

Let them be fierce, with forms at will,

With strength that splits the mountain’s frame,

With stones and trees for weapons vast,

And speed of wind, and fiery flame.”

Mārkaṇḍeya continued:

Hearing these words, the gods, Gandharvas, and even some Dānavas took counsel together, and according to their parts, resolved to be born upon the earth. Each, entering into the wombs of she-monkeys and she-bears, begot heroic sons, mighty as their sires, equal to a thousand elephants in strength, quick as the storm-wind in speed, bodies adamantine, skilled in war, and able to assume any shape at will. Some roamed forests, others dwelt in mountains, all awaiting the call of destiny.

And the boon-giving Creator also summoned a Gandharvī named Dundubhī, and commanded her:

‘Go, and play thy part in this design.’

Obeying, she was born among mortals as the hunchbacked Mantharā, quick of thought, destined to sow discord. Taught by the Grandsire himself, she went hither and thither, skilled in stirring quarrels, the unseen hand of fate working through her crooked form.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then the holy Mārkaṇḍeya continued:

“When Rāma, son of Daśaratha, had grown into youth and virtue, beloved by all, Daśaratha, deeming himself aged, resolved to install him as regent. Auspicious was the hour beneath the Pushya constellation, and the king ordered all preparations.

But Mantharā, crooked of form and mind, whispered poison into Kaikeyī’s ear: ‘Kausalyā is blessed, her son shall be king! Where is thy fortune, O Kaikeyī, if thy Bharata gains nothing?’

Thus inflamed, Kaikeyī bound Daśaratha by the promise of old boons and demanded: ‘Let Bharata be king, and let Rāma be exiled for fourteen years, clothed in bark and deer-skin, dwelling in Dandaka’s forest.’

The king, stricken like one pierced by lightning, could not speak. Yet Rāma, learning of it, bowed to fate and said:

“If truth of father be at stake,

Then joyfully to woods I go.

Let Bharata reign, and dharma live—

My exile is my gift, not woe.

For word once given must not fail,

Though it should cost both life and breath.

I guard the law, I guard my sire—

Truth is greater far than death.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Thus Rāma, with Sītā of Videha and Lakṣmaṇa at his side, departed for the forest. Soon after, Daśaratha, his heart broken, yielded to Time and left his body.

Kaikeyī then sought Bharata, saying: “Rule the earth, for thy father is gone and Rāma is exiled.” But Bharata, filled with grief, rebuked her:

“O mother, thy greed hath slain thy lord,

And cast this house to infamy!

Wouldst thou heap shame upon my head,

And crown me king by treachery?

Not wealth, not throne, not power I seek,

But only Rāma’s feet I crave.

Thou hast destroyed our noble line—

For greed alone, thy hands enslave.”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Bharata then journeyed with ministers, sages, and the people of Ayodhyā to Chitrakūṭa, entreating Rāma to return. But Rāma, bound by dharma, refused, and gave instead his sandals to rule in his stead. Bharata, placing them upon the throne at Nandigrāma, governed as regent, awaiting Rāma’s return.

Rāma then moved deeper into the forests, visiting the sage Śarabhaṅga and dwelling by the Godāvarī amidst the Dandaka wilderness.

There, Śūrpaṇakhā, the Rākṣasī, approached, filled with lust and rage. Repelled and mutilated, she fled to her brothers. Rāma, for the protection of the sages, slew Khara, Dūṣaṇa, and fourteen thousand Rākṣasas, purging Janasthāna of terror.

Bloodied and shorn of her nose and lips, Śūrpaṇakhā fled to Laṅkā. She cast herself at Rāvaṇa’s feet, weeping. The Ten-headed king, seeing his sister thus disfigured, blazed with fury. His body quivered, his teeth ground, flames of wrath burst from his form.

“Who dares insult my house, my kin?

Who leaves a fire beside his head?

Who grasps the lion’s gaping jaws,

And sleeps secure upon his bed?

Who tramples on the vengeful snake,

Whose fangs with venom overflow?

Speak, O sister, tell me all—

What hand hath struck this deadly blow?”

Vaiśampāyana said:

Śūrpaṇakhā recounted Rāma’s might, Lakṣmaṇa’s swiftness, and the slaughter of Khara and Dūṣaṇa. Hearing it, Rāvaṇa, impelled by fate, resolved upon abduction. Remembering his old ally Mārīca, he set out across mountain and sea, his wrath swelling like a storm-cloud. Crossing Trikūṭa and Kāla, beholding the vast ocean filled with makaras, he came to Gokarṇa, the haunt of Rudra, and there found Mārīca in ascetic garb.

Mārkaṇḍeya said:

When Rāvaṇa reached the hermitage of Mārīca, the ascetic welcomed him with fruits and roots. Yet the Ten-headed king, restless with wrath, spoke of Rāma’s slaying of his kin and of his desire for vengeance.

Mārīca, once struck down by Rāma and living now in penance, warned him:

“None can withstand the bow of Rāma,

Sharp are his shafts as Death’s own breath.

Whoever rouses him to anger,

Seeks but his ruin, certain death.”

But Rāvaṇa, scornful, threatened him with instant destruction if he disobeyed. And Mārīca thought: “Better to die by Rāma’s hand than be struck down by this tyrant.” Resigned, he agreed.

So the plan was set. Rāvaṇa disguised himself as an ascetic with staff and water-pot, while Mārīca took the form of a golden deer, its skin glittering like the morning sun, its horns flashing like fire.

When Sītā beheld the deer, her heart was ensnared by its beauty, and she said to Rāma:

“O Lord of mine, whose arm is strength,

This golden deer is wondrous fair.

If caught alive, it shall delight me,

If slain, its skin my hermitage adorns with rare.”

Rāma, desiring only her joy, took up his bow and set off, leaving Lakṣmaṇa to guard her. Long he chased the fleeing Mārīca, who darted and vanished like a phantom. At last, perceiving the demon’s true form, Rāma loosed a fatal arrow. As the shaft struck, Mārīca, recalling his master’s command, cried out in Rāma’s voice: “Ah, Sītā! Ah, Lakṣmaṇa!”

Hearing this, the princess of Videha trembled, her heart seized with dread. She implored Lakṣmaṇa to go to Rāma’s aid.

Lakṣmaṇa said gently:

“O timid lady, none can harm Rāma. The heavens may fall, the oceans may dry, yet Rāma is unconquered. Fear not—he shall return anon.”

But suspicion clouded her mind. Overcome by anguish, she rebuked him harshly, accusing him of base desire.

“Wouldst thou betray thy brother’s trust?

Wouldst thou, vile one, seek me for thy own?

Better I perish by fire, by fall, by steel,

Than live dishonoured, forsaking him alone!”

Struck by her words like poisoned arrows, Lakṣmaṇa shut his ears in grief and departed after Rāma, leaving her alone.

Then the moment came. Rāvaṇa, wearing the guise of a gentle hermit, entered. Sītā welcomed him with fruits and words of courtesy. But soon, casting off disguise, he revealed his dreadful form: ten heads flaming with fury, twenty arms adorned with jewels, and eyes red as molten copper.

He spoke:

“I am Rāvaṇa, lord of Laṅkā. Come with me, O fair one. My palace, rich with gold and gems, awaits thy beauty. Forsake the forest exile of Rāma and reign by my side.”

Sītā shuddered, covering her ears.

“The sky with stars may tumble down,

The solid earth may break in two.

The fire may turn to cooling snow—

Yet never shall I turn from Rāghava true!

Shall a she-elephant leave her tusked lord,

And mate with a rooting boar in shame?

Shall nectar-drinkers turn to dregs,

And leave immortal bliss for arrak’s flame?”

Burning with wrath, she fled into her cottage. But Rāvaṇa blocked her path, seized her by the hair, and, despite her cries, rose into the air.

As she wept and called upon Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, a mighty vulture beheld the scene. It was Jatāyu, king of birds, ancient friend of Daśaratha. From his mountain perch he swooped, his wings like storm-clouds, his talons sharp as spears, determined to rescue the helpless queen.

Mārkaṇḍeya said:

Jatāyu, the king of vultures, son of Aruṇa and brother of Sampāti, friend to Daśaratha himself, beheld Sītā struggling in Rāvaṇa’s grasp. With fury and devotion he swooped like a thunderbolt, his talons outspread, and cried:

“Hold, O Rākṣasa! Leave the princess of Mithilā!

While I yet breathe, thou shalt not prevail!

How darest thou seize the daughter of Janaka,

The bride of Rāma, the lion of kings?”

So saying, the aged bird struck at Rāvaṇa with wings and beak, tearing his flesh, spilling torrents of blood. The Rākṣasa roared, raising his sword, and with one cruel stroke cut off the vulture’s wings. The mountain-sized hero fell earthward, gasping, yet steadfast in heart. Rāvaṇa, leaving him mortally wounded, soared on with Sītā.

The princess, in her wisdom, cast down ornaments and garments wherever she saw hermitages or peaks—tokens for her lord’s search. A yellow cloth, broad as a banner, fell among five great monkeys upon a mountain, shining like lightning among clouds.

Thus, carrying her, Rāvaṇa crossed ocean and mountain until Lanka, the city built by Viśvakarman, of golden walls and many gates, came into view. Entering his palace with captive Sītā, the Ten-headed king rejoiced in triumph.

Meanwhile, Rāma, having slain the golden deer and discovering the deceit, returned with Lakṣmaṇa. Seeing his brother, Rāma reproved him bitterly:

“How couldst thou leave her, O Lakṣmaṇa,

Alone in a haunted wood?

Is Sītā safe? Or has Fate’s hand

Snatched her beyond our reach for good?”

Lakṣmaṇa told him of Sītā’s harsh words, spoken in fear and suspicion. Stricken with torment, Rāma rushed back, and on the way they found a vulture, vast as a hill, writhing in agony. Taking him for a Rākṣasa, they drew their bows—but the bird cried out:

“I am Jatāyu, friend of Daśaratha! Rāvaṇa has smitten me, and Sītā he has borne southward.”

Hearing this, Rāma laid aside his bow, wept, and cradled the dying king of birds. With a final nod southwards, Jatāyu breathed his last. Revering him as his father’s friend, Rāma performed the rites with fire and water, his heart heavy with grief.

Then the brothers pressed south through the Dandaka, passing broken hermitages, ruined seats of kuśa-grass, and howling jackals. In that haunted forest they met a monstrous being: a headless Rākṣasa, dark as storm-cloud, with eyes upon his breast and mouth upon his belly. He seized Lakṣmaṇa in his mighty arms, dragging him towards his gaping maw.

“Alas, misfortune dogs our steps—

The kingdom lost, our father gone,

Sītā stolen, now death awaits me—

O Rāma, glory shall be thine alone!”

But Rāma, firm in valor, commanded:

“Fear not, brother. Sever his arms, and I shall strike him down!”

Together they hewed off his limbs, and the monster fell. From his broken form arose a radiant being, shining like the sun.

“I am Viśvāvasu, a Gandharva cursed by a Brāhmaṇa. By your hands I am freed. Know, O Rāma, that Sītā has been borne to Lanka by Rāvaṇa. Seek the aid of Sugrīva, dwelling by Lake Pampā near the peak of Ṛṣyamūka. Wronged by his brother Vālī, he yearns for alliance. With him and his hosts of monkeys thou shalt recover Sītā. Without doubt, the daughter of Janaka shall be found.”

Thus speaking, the celestial vanished. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, filled with wonder, pressed onward, hope rekindled amidst their grief.