Stories of the Great Bharata - A Retelling

Arc 8 - Draupadī Haraṇa Parva Chapter 4 - Search for Sītā

Vaiśampāyana said:

Afflicted by Sītā’s abduction, Rāma came at last to Pampā, the lotus-laden lake. The breezes there were cool and fragrant, yet their sweetness only sharpened his sorrow; memory rose like a tide, and he lamented for his fire-born bride. Then Lakṣmaṇa, son of Sumitrā, spoke gently, steadying his brother’s heart toward action.

Grief is a wildering forest, lord—

Turn now to dharma’s guiding flame.

We know the thief, we know the way;

With strength and skill redeem thy name.

Come, seek Sugrīva on the height;

Where hope stands watch, despair takes flight.

Thus recalled to purpose, Rāma bathed in Pampā, made offerings to the fathers, and with Lakṣmaṇa hastened to Ṛśyamūka. There, on the crag, five monkeys kept watch. Sugrīva, their leader, sent mighty Hanumān, wind-born and wise, whose courtesy bridged the space between strangers. Words were exchanged; friendship was offered and received. When Rāma told his grief, Sugrīva showed the yellow cloth Sītā had cast to the winds; token met vow, and vow became deed. Rāma pledged to right Sugrīva’s wrongs; Sugrīva pledged the forests’ strength to Rāma’s cause. Straightway, on that mountain, Rāma set Sugrīva upon the throne of the monkeys and swore to fell Vālī.

They came to Kiṣkindhā. Sugrīva’s roar rose like a cataract, and Vālī, stung by challenge, would have rushed out; but Tārā, moon-faced and far-seeing, stood in his path.

The cry thou hear’st is more than pride—

It carries Rāma’s bowstring’s tone.

Where Lakṣmaṇa stands and Hanumān,

There fall the crowns of kings o’erthrown.

Trust not mere sinew; fate is drawn—

Turn back, O lord, ere hope is gone.

But jealousy clouded judgment. Vālī spurned counsel and strode forth, hurling bitter words at Sugrīva, who answered with the simple truth: “Thou took’st my wife and throne; for that I come.” Then trees became clubs, stones became thunderbolts, and the brothers clashed—nails, teeth, and knotted fists—twin scarlet blossoms of battle, alike in form so that Rāma could not strike. At Hanumān’s wise urging, a garland crowned Sugrīva—sign for the archer’s eye. The bow of Kakutstha sang; Rāma’s shaft struck Vālī’s heart. Blood welled; the forest hushed. Vālī’s gaze met Rāma’s—reproof on his lips—and then the great monkey-lord sank to earth. Thus, Sugrīva regained Kiṣkindhā, and Tārā, moon-faced though widowed, returned to royal care. For four months of rain, Rāma dwelt upon Mālyavān’s green breast, honored by the monkey king.

Meanwhile, Rāvaṇa, not content with theft, caged Sītā in Aśoka-vana—a pleasure-grove turned prison—fair as Nandana yet ringed by terror. There the large-eyed queen wore bark and fasting, day by day growing thin upon roots and fruits, her mind steadfast in her lord. Around her stood Rākṣasī warders of nightmare forms—three eyes, one leg, tongueless mouths, hair like bristles, voices like iron scraping stone. They hissed and howled:

“Let us devour her—she who scorns our lord!”

Sita replied:

Devour me then—my life is naught,

If Rāghava’s dear hand I miss.

I’ll dry to ash like winter grass,

Yet guard his name with deathless kiss.

To none but him my soul shall turn—

Let world and sky together burn.

Their clamor carried to Rāvaṇa. When they were gone, one among them, Trijātā, gentle and wise, drew near and spoke low words of comfort.

“There is an elder Rākṣasa, Avindhya, who loves Rāma’s righteousness; through him I bring you tidings. Your lord lives, guarded by Lakṣmaṇa; he has bound friendship with Sugrīva and prepares for your rescue. Fear not Rāvaṇa; Nalakūbera’s curse—won when this wretch violated his own daughter-in-law Rambhā—binds his lust. He cannot force a woman. Your husband comes, with Sumitrā’s son and armies of the forest at his back.”

Last night I saw the Ten-necked fall,

His shaven crown sunk in the mire;

He danced on mules—a doomful sign—

His glory quenched like spent fire.

I saw great Kumbhakarṇa bare,

And council-lords in crimson smeared,

All rushing south to shades of death—

While Vibhīṣaṇa, white-wreathed, appeared,

With parasol and turban bright,

Ascending snowy peaks of light.

I saw the earth with arrows sown,

Fame’s harvest springing at Rāma’s name;

Lakṣmaṇa’s shafts consumed the quarters,

Honeyed rice upon bones like flame.

And thee, O princess, northward borne,

Bloodied yet guarded by a tiger’s might—

A sign of rescue, strength, and dawn:

Thy lord draws near to end this night.

Thus heartened by Trijātā, the gazelle-eyed queen let hope re-enter, like dawn along the rim of storm. Soon the harsh-voiced warders returned and found her seated beside her gentle consoler, silence like armor around them.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then Mārkaṇḍeya, continuing the tale of Rāma, spoke of how the king of the Rākṣasas sought to beguile the queen of Videha with words of passion.

Sītā, lotus-eyed, sat upon a stone in Aśoka-vana, clad in bark and a single jewel, her tears soaking her breast like rain upon a shrine. Around her stood the night-roaming she-demons, grim and monstrous. Into that grove entered Rāvaṇa, adorned with celestial garlands and gems, burning with Kāmadeva’s shafts. Crowned, garlanded, clothed in bright silk, he looked like springtime itself—yet to her gaze he was as ominous as Saturn eclipsing Rohiṇī.

He spoke, his voice honeyed but his intent cruel:

“O Sītā, turn thy gaze to me,

Forsake the exile’s rags of woe.

Queen thou shalt be, enthroned in gold,

While Apsaras before thee bow.

My halls are filled with wine and song,

The daughters of the gods are mine;

Yet none so fair as thee I see—

Be Mandodarī’s equal, shine!”

But Sītā, her face veiled with tears, turned from him as from a burning brand.

“Straw art thou to my steadfast heart,

My lord alone is god to me.

Born of a Brahman’s noble line,

Why scorn the path of dharma free?

Thy brother Kuvera guards the wealth,

A friend of Rudra, pure, revered.

Thou, shaming him, pursue the vile—

What honor in this lust appear’d?”

She wept, her long braid slipping loose, black as a serpent across her garment. Her voice was firm, yet trembled with sorrow.

But Rāvaṇa, still smitten, restrained by Nalakūbera’s curse, muttered with a bitter laugh:

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“Burn me, O Love, with arrows keen,

Yet force I’ll use not, though denied.

Still dost thou pine for mortal man—

A meal for Rākṣasas, thy guide!”

Thus mocked, the Ten-necked vanished from her sight, leaving the Aśoka grove heavy with fear. Around her the hideous Rākṣasīs returned to their watch, but Trijātā, gentle among the grim, comforted her with tender words. And Sītā, bound in grief yet steadfast in vow, endured—her hope fixed on Rāma like the moon upon the sky.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Then the venerable Mārkaṇḍeya, continuing his account of the Rāma-kathā to king Yudhiṣṭhira, spoke of the moment when hope first returned to the grieving prince of Ayodhyā.

Rāghava, though dwelling amidst the fragrant breezes of Mālyavat with Sugrīva, could not forget his beloved Sītā. At night he gazed upon the cool moon, its disk white as sandal, and the breeze, heavy with lotus-scent, pierced his heart with longing. By dawn his sorrow turned to wrath, and he sent Lakṣmaṇa forth to remind the monkey-king of his vow.

Lakṣmaṇa, bow in hand, strode to Kiṣkindhyā with fiery eyes. But Sugrīva, hearing of his coming, came forth humbly with his queen, hands joined, and answered with gentle words:

“Ungrateful am I not, O Rāma’s kin!

In all the quarters my armies run;

But five nights more, and sure success—

Sītā’s place shall be made known.”

Appeased, Lakṣmaṇa embraced him, and together they returned to Rāma. Soon, monkey hosts came back from every direction, weary and empty-handed, save only those who had gone to the South. Their delay weighed upon Rāma like a mountain.

But then came the joyous news: the southern party, led by Hanumān and Aṅgada, had returned and, drunk with delight, were despoiling the guarded groves of Madhuvana. Sugrīva knew at once: success brings such boldness.

When Hanumān appeared before Rāma, his face shone like the rising sun. Rāghava, clasping bow and quiver, asked in trembling hope:

“Life or death now rests in thee,

Hast thou seen my Maithilī?

Say but the word, and hope shall rise—

Else I perish ‘neath the skies.”

Then Hanumān, son of Pavana, bowed and replied:

“O Rāma, joy to thee! I have seen the daughter of Janaka. We searched long and far until despair fell upon us. Then we encountered Sampāti, brother of Jatāyu. From him we learnt that Sītā is indeed in Laṅkā, within the vale of Trikūṭa. To prove his words I leapt the ocean itself, a hundred yojanas wide, borne by the wind’s might.

There I found her in Aśoka-vana, pale, ascetic in her garb, guarded by Rākṣasīs, yet steadfast in vow. To her I revealed myself: ‘I am Hanumān, envoy of Rāma and Sugrīva.’ At first she doubted, but then she recalled the tale of the crow smitten by a blade of grass at Citrakūṭa—a secret known only to you both. With tears she gave me this jewel, once her ornament, as token.

She bade me tell thee: ‘Rāma will slay the foe, and with Lakṣmaṇa at his side, shall bring me home.’

Then, seized by Rāvaṇa’s guards, I burst their bonds, scorched his city with fire, and returned. This, O son of Raghu, is the truth.”

Hearing these words, Rāma’s eyes filled with tears—this time not of grief, but of hope reborn. He clasped Hanumān to his breast as the saviour of his soul.

Vaiśampāyana said:

When Hanumān had delivered tidings of Sītā, the great work of war was begun. Upon the slopes of Mālyavat, where Rāma abode with Lakṣmaṇa, Sugrīva summoned forth his chiefs. Then from mountains, forests, and caves came countless hosts of vānaras and bears, each led by mighty captains, eager for the battle that should shake the three worlds.

Sushena came, Vāli’s sire by marriage bound,

With myriad apes that made the hills resound.

Gaya and Gavākṣa, with their roaring bands,

Shook earth and sky as they obeyed commands.

Gandhamādana came, with legions vast,

Dark as storm-clouds, like mountains cast.

Dadhimukha, fierce, with strength untold,

And Jāmbavān, the ancient bear, more bold.

By tens of thousands, crores beyond the eye,

They filled the earth, they filled the sky.

Their roars like thunder, their forms like peaks,

With tawny manes and crimson cheeks.

That ocean of troops, endless as the tide, arrayed itself before Rāghava. Stones, sala and tāla trees were their weapons. The noise of their mustering was like Indra’s storm-clouds bursting.

On an auspicious day beneath a fair constellation, Rāma set forth at Sugrīva’s side. In front marched Hanumān, son of Vāyu, like the breath of the world itself; behind stood Lakṣmaṇa, guarding the rear. Thus, like sun and moon amidst the planets, the sons of Daśaratha shone amidst their allies.

Encamping upon fertile tracts and valleys abounding with roots, fruits, and honey, they came at last to the shore of the boundless salt sea. There Rāma gazed upon the waves and spoke:

“The army vast, the ocean wide,

How shall my legions cross this tide?

Not boats nor rafts can bear such weight—

The sea itself must ope its gate.”

So saying, he laid aside food and, with Lakṣmaṇa, reclined upon kuśa grass at the shore, resolved to win the ocean’s favour or else to dry it with his shafts. Then Varuṇa, lord of rivers, appeared in vision, his form encircled with gems, and said:

Varuṇa’s said:

“O son of Ikṣvāku, I am thy kin. I bear thee no enmity. Yet if I yield at thy command, all others will demand the same. But in thy host dwells Nala, son of Viśvakarmā, master of crafts. Whatever wood or stone he casts upon me, that shall I uphold. Thus let a bridge be made, and thy legions shall pass!”

Awaking, Rāma summoned Nala. And under his guidance the vānaras hurled mountains, rocks, trees into the waters. Supported by the Ocean’s vow, they stood unmoved. Thus in one month arose a causeway ten yojanas broad and a hundred long—Nala’s Bridge, famed in all the world to this day.

While the hosts prepared, Vibhīṣaṇa, noble brother of Rāvaṇa, came with four counsellors, shining with dharma. Sugrīva mistrusted him, fearing a spy. But Rāma, discerning truth in his words and seeing the righteousness of his heart, embraced him as friend, counsellor, and ally. He even installed him as heir to Laṅkā, saying:

“True dharma shines in thee, O friend,

With me thy fortunes shall ascend.

By Rāghava’s hand thy throne is won,

For Laṅkā’s crown is Rāvaṇa’s son.”

So with Vibhīṣaṇa’s guidance, the army crossed the sea by the great bridge. And reaching Laṅkā, the vānaras laid waste its orchards, tearing up groves and gardens. Then two spies of Rāvaṇa—Śuka and Sāraṇa—entered the camp in the guise of monkeys. Vibhīṣaṇa seized them, but Rāma, desiring open battle, dismissed them after showing the immeasurable might of his host.

Then, encamped in the forests that skirted Laṅkā, Rāma sent Aṅgada, Vāli’s noble son, as envoy to Rāvaṇa.

Vaiśampāyana said:

Having encamped his vast army in the groves along the ocean’s edge, rich in fruits, roots, and cool water, Rāma of the race of Raghu began to direct the siege with careful foresight. But within Laṅkā, Rāvaṇa too was vigilant. He fortified the city with every device of war:

Seven deep trenches filled with crocodiles, sharks, and serpents, guarded by stakes of iron-hard khadira wood.

Ramparts crowned with boulders and fitted with catapults.

Warriors bearing pots of serpents, resinous powders for flame, clubs, lances, swords, battle-axes, and sataghnis steeped in wax.

Camps, movable and fixed, filled with elephants, steeds, and hosts of infantry stationed at each gate.

Thus was Laṅkā made a fortress, terrible and secure.

Then Aṅgada, son of mighty Vāli, strode boldly to the gates. Fearless among foes, he entered Laṅkā and came into the presence of the Ten-headed king. His splendour among the gathered rākṣasas was like the sun among storm-clouds.

Aṅgada’s message:

“O Rāvaṇa, hear the words of Rāma,

Scion of Raghu, lord of Kosala.

By thy sin this land is stained,

By Sītā’s theft thy doom is gained.

Release the princess, daughter of Janaka,

Pure as the flame, beyond reproach!

If not, behold my arrows fall,

And Laṅkā perish in the blaze of war.

Thy pride hath slain kings, saints, and gods,

Thy violence shakes the worlds abroad.

Now shall retribution descend—

Face me in battle, or meet thy end!”

At these words, Rāvaṇa’s eyes flamed red with rage. Four fierce rākṣasas seized Aṅgada like hawks seizing a lion-cub. But the mighty vāṇara leapt high with them clinging fast. When he struck the palace terrace, they fell shattered to earth, ribs broken. Then, bounding beyond the golden walls, Aṅgada returned to the vāṇara host and reported all to Rāma, who honoured him and bade him rest.

At Rāma’s command, the vāṇaras attacked the ramparts with a storm of might. Stones and trees in countless showers thundered against the walls. Lakṣmaṇa, with Vibhīṣaṇa and Jāmbavān leading, burst the southern gate. Rāma loosed forth a hundred thousand crores of monkeys, tawny as young camels, and grey bears with mighty limbs, all roaring for battle.

So vast was their charge that dust veiled the sun itself. To the eyes of Laṅkā’s citizens, the walls seemed draped in vāṇaras of every hue—golden as ripened grain, grey as śirīṣa blooms, red as dawn, white as flax.

They tore down pillars of crystal and mansions of gold, hurled broken catapults and sataghnis upon the rākṣasas. The guards upon the walls fled by hundreds, overwhelmed by the storm.

But soon from within poured forth Rāvaṇa’s hosts, countless and terrible, masters of illusion. They loosed arrows like torrents, forcing the vāṇaras from the battlements. Blood mingled with dust as monkey and rākṣasa grappled with nails and teeth, tearing hair, rending flesh, devouring the slain.

All the while, Rāma rained arrows in unceasing streams, darkening the sky and filling Laṅkā with the cries of the stricken. His shafts, keen as Death, cut down rākṣasas by thousands.

Lakṣmaṇa, tireless as Yama’s rod, marked out captains upon the walls, and each with a single clothyard shaft he struck down.

So the fortifications of Laṅkā were shattered, its ramparts leveled, its gates broken, its treasures laid bare to the besiegers’ sight. Then, at Rāma’s command, the vāṇara host withdrew to their encampments, having humbled the first defense of the city.

Markandeya continued:

And while the vānaras rested after their first assault, darkness fell upon their camp—not by nightfall, but by the sorceries of Rāvaṇa’s brood. Many rākṣasas and piśācas, subtle in guile and terrible in form, crept unseen among the ranks of Sugrīva’s host.

Their names were Parvāṇa and Pātana, Jambha and Khara, Kroḍhavāsa, Hari, Praruja, Aruja, and Praghasa—fiends born of deceit and night. Cloaked in invisibility, they struck terror like shadows moving in a storm.

But Vibhīṣaṇa, ever watchful, master of occult lore, pierced their veil of illusion. With his mantra-sight he revealed them to the vānaras. Then the forest warriors, seeing them, leapt in fury. Stones, trees, and teeth rained down—till every phantom lay shattered upon the earth, life cut short by Rāma’s allies.

Enraged at this slaughter, Rāvaṇa himself strode forth.

The Ten-headed, master of a thousand stratagems, arrayed his legions in the dread formation taught by Uśanas Śukra himself—serried ranks of rākṣasas, piśācas, and night-walkers, roaring and brandishing weapons like a moving forest of steel.

Rāma, discerning the array, countered in the manner ordained by Bṛhaspati. His host of vānaras and bears fell into ordered ranks, their strength gathered like storm-clouds massing before the lightning breaks.

Then the earth shook with the meeting of the two armies.

Rāvaṇa rushed upon Rāma, loosing darts, lances, and swords in a storm of flame.

Rāma answered with arrows winged like death, each iron-shaft piercing armour and striking with the force of thunder.

Lakṣmaṇa met Indrajit in duel, their showers of arrows crossing like serpents in the sky.

Sugrīva grappled with Virūpākṣa, each hurling mountain-crests and trees.

Nikharvata closed with Tārā; Nala with Tuṇḍa; Patuṣa with Pānasa—each warrior seeking his equal foe.

The sky darkened beneath the storm of weapons. Darts and arrows shrieked like meteors falling. Steel clashed with steel, trees splintered against maces, blood fell in torrents upon the earth.

Rāvaṇa, ten-faced and roaring, hemmed Rāma round with shafts, seeking to overwhelm him. But Rāma, calm as the ocean, loosed arrows keen as the crescent moon. They flashed like lightning, burning through rākṣasa ranks, driving the Ten-headed back step by step.

Lakṣmaṇa, his wrath blazing, struck Indrajit with shafts that pierced even enchanted armour. Indrajit, child of sorcery, answered with arrows steeped in illusion, darkening the quarters with his art. The air trembled with their contest.

Meanwhile, Vibhīṣaṇa faced Prahasta, Ravana’s mighty general. Brother against brother’s chief they fought, loosing ceaseless showers of arrows tipped with fire and venom. Their weapons blazed across the field like the meeting of Agni and Varuṇa.

So fierce was the clash that the three worlds quaked—earth, sky, and sea trembling as though creation itself recoiled. Gods and sages, nāgas and yakṣas, looked on in dread, knowing that fate itself was moving through this battle.