The Great Indian Epics

by Unknown

CHAPTER II

THE STORY

The story of the “Ramayana,” in brief outline, is as follows:

In the ancient land of Kosala, watered by the River Surayu, stood the famous Ayodhya,[14] a fortified and impregnable city of matchless beauty, and resplendent with burnished gold, where everyone was virtuous, beautiful, rich and happy. Wide streets traversed this city in every direction, lined with elegant shops and stately palaces glittering all over with gems. There was no lack of food in Ayodhya, for “it abounded in paddy and rice, and its water was as sweet as the juice of the sugar-cane.” Gardens, mango-groves and “theatres for females” were to be found everywhere. Dulcet music from Venas and Panavas resounding on all sides, bore evidence to the taste of the people. Learned and virtuous Brahmans, skilled in sacrificial rites, formed a considerable proportion of the population; which also included a crowd of eulogists and “troops of courtesans.” The pride of ancient families supported a large number of genealogists. Hosts of skilled artisans of every kind contributed to the conveniences and elegancies of life, while an army of doughty warriors protected this magnificent and opulent city from its envious foes. Over this wonderful and prosperous capital of a flourishing kingdom, ruled King Dasahratha, a man some sixty thousand years of age, gifted with every virtue and blessed beyond most mortals. But, as if to prove that human happiness can never exist unalloyed with sorrow, even he had one serious cause for grief; he was childless, although he had three wives and seven hundred and fifty concubines.[15] Acting upon the advice of the priests, the Maharajah determined to offer, with all the complicated but necessary rites, the sacrifice of a horse, as a means of prevailing upon the gods to bless his house with offspring. The accomplishment of such a sacrifice was no easy matter, or to be lightly undertaken, even by a mighty monarch like Dasahratha, since it was an essential condition of success that the sacrifice should be conducted without error or omission in the minutest details of the ritual of an intricate ceremony, extending over three days. Not only would any flaw in the proceedings render the sacrifice nugatory, but it was to be feared that learned demons (Brahma-Rakshasas), ever maliciously on the look-out for shortcomings in the sacrifices attempted by men, might cause the destruction of the unfortunate performer of an imperfect sacrifice of such momentous importance. However, the sacrifice was actually performed on a magnificent scale and most satisfactorily, with the assistance of an army of artisans, astrologers, dancers, conductors of theatres, and persons learned in the ceremonial law. Birds, beasts, reptiles, and aquatic animals were sacrificed by the priests on this auspicious occasion, but the sacred horse itself was despatched, with three strokes, by the hand of Kauçalya, Dasahratha’s queen. When the ceremonies had been conducted to a successful close, Dasahratha showed his piety and generosity by making a free gift of the whole earth to the officiating priests; but they were content to restore the magnificent present, modestly accepting in its stead fabulous quantities of gold and silver and innumerable cows.

The gods, Gandharvas and Siddhas, propitiated by the offerings profusely made to them, assembled, each one for his share,[16] and Dasahratha was promised four sons.[17] While these events were transpiring, a ten-headed Rakshasa named Ravana was making himself the terror of gods and men, under the protection of a boon bestowed upon him by the Creator (Brahma), that neither god nor demon should be able to deprive him of his life. This boon had been obtained by the Rakshasa as the reward of long and painful austerities.[18]

The hierarchy of minor gods, in their own interest and for the sake of the saints who were constantly being disturbed in their devotions by this Ravana and his fellows, appealed to the Supreme Deity to find some remedy for the evil. Brahma, after reflecting on the matter, replied—

“One only way I find
To stay this fiend of evil mind.
He prayed me once his life to guard
From demon, God and heavenly bard,
And spirits of the earth and air,
And I consenting heard his prayer.
But the proud giant in his scorn,
Recked not of man of woman born,
None else may take his life away
But only man the fiend may slay.”

—Griffith.

On receiving this reply the gods petitioned Vishnu to divide himself into four parts and to appear on earth, incarnate as the promised sons of Dasahratha, and thus, in human form, to rid the world of Ravana. Vishnu consented. He proceeded to the earth and appeared amidst the sacrificial flames of Dasahratha’s offering, in an assumed form “of matchless splendour, strength and size”—black, with a red face, and shaggy hair—apparelled in crimson robes, and adorned with celestial ornaments, holding in his hands a vase of gold, containing heavenly nectar, which he handed to the king, with instructions to make his three queens partake of the sacred draught, in order that they might be blessed with sons.

Dasahratha distributed the nectar amongst his wives, though not in equal proportions. In due time the promised sons were born, viz., Rama, Lakshmana, Bharata and Satrughna. Rama possessed the larger share of the divine nature and decidedly excelled his brothers in prowess. To him, especially, was allotted the task of destroying Ravana. And countless hosts of monkeys and bears were begotten by the gods, at Brahma’s[19] suggestion, to aid him in his work.

Whilst yet a mere stripling, Rama was appealed to by the sage Vishwamitra to destroy certain demons who interrupted the religious rites of the hermits.

The boy was only sixteen years of age, and Dasahratha, naturally solicitous for his safety, declined to let him go to fight the dreadful brood of demons, who had an evil reputation for cruelty and ferocity; but the mighty ascetic waxed so wrath at this refusal of his request, that “the entire earth began to tremble and the gods even were inspired with awe.” Vasishta, the king’s spiritual adviser, who had unbounded confidence in Vishwamitra’s power to protect the prince from all harm, strongly advised compliance with the ascetic’s request, and Dasahratha was prevailed upon to allow Rama and Lakshmana to leave Ayodhya with Vishwamitra.

The incidents of the journey reveal a very primitive state of society. The princes and their guide were all of them on foot, apparently quite unattended by servants and unprovided with even the most ordinary necessaries of life. When they reached the River Surayu,[20] Vishwamitra communicated certain mantras or spells to Rama, by the knowledge of which he would be protected from fatigue and fever[21] and from the possibility of being surprised by the Rakshasas against whom he was going to wage war.

The land through which our travellers journeyed was sparsely inhabited. A goodly portion of it seems to have been covered with woods, more or less pleasant, abounding in the hermitages of ascetics, some of whom had been carrying on their austerities for thousands of years. Beside these pleasant woods there were vast, trackless forests, infested by ferocious beasts and grim Rakshasas, and it was not long before the might of the semi-divine stripling, Rama, was tried against one of these terrible creatures, Tarika by name, an ogress of dreadful power, whom Rama undertook to destroy “in the interests of Brahmans, kine and celestials.” When the ascetic and the two princes arrived in the dark forest where the dreaded Tarika ruled supreme, Rama twanged his bowstring loudly, as a haughty challenge to this redoubtable giantess. Incensed at the audacious sound of the bowstring, Tarika uttered terrible roars and rushed out to attack the presumptuous prince. The ascetic raised a defiant roar in response. That was his entire contribution to the combat in which Rama and his adversary were immediately involved, Lakshmana taking part in it also. This, the first conflict in which Rama was engaged, may be taken as a type of all his subsequent battles. Raising clouds of dust, Tarika, “by help of illusion,” poured a shower of huge stones upon the brothers, but these ponderous missiles were met and arrested in mid-air by a volley of arrows. The battle raged fiercely, but the brothers succeeded with their shafts in depriving Tarika of her hands, her nose and her ears. Thus disabled and disfigured, Tarika changed her shape[22] and even concealed herself from view, while still continuing the fight with unabated fury; but Rama, guided by sound alone, assailed his invisible foe with such effect that he eventually laid her dead at his feet, to the joy of Vishwamitra and the relief of the denizens of the great forest over which she had terrorized.

After this successful combat, the ascetic, Vishwamitra, conferred on Rama a gift of strange weapons, which even the celestials were incapable of wielding. How very different the magic weapons received by Rama were from those familiar to the sons of men, will be apparent from the poet’s statement that the weapons themselves made their appearance spontaneously before Rama, “and with clasped hands, they, well-pleased, addressed Rama thus: These, O highly generous one, are thy servants, O Raghava. Whatever thou wishest, good betide thee, shall by all means be accomplished by us.”

Such wonderful and efficient weapons, endowed with a consciousness and individuality of their own, needed, however, to be kept under strict control, lest in their over-zeal or excitement they might effect undesigned and irreparable mischief. The sage accordingly communicated to Rama the various mantras or spells by which they might, on critical occasions, be restrained and regulated in their operations.

In their woodland wanderings amongst the hermitages the brothers and their guide came across many sages whose laborious austerities were constantly being hindered by wicked, flesh-eating Rakshasas. Indeed the world, outside the cities and villages,—which it would seem were very few and far between,—as pictured by Valmiki, is a very strange one, mostly peopled by two sets of beings, hermits striving after supernatural power through the practice of austerities, and demons bent on frustrating their endeavours by unseasonable interruptions of their rites, or impious pollution of their sacrifices. Sometimes, as in the case of Ravana, the demons themselves would practise austerities for the attainment of power.

Very prominent figures in the poem are the great ascetics, like Vishwamitra himself, who, a Kshatriya by caste and a king by lineage, had obtained, through dire austerities prolonged over thousands of years, the exalted rank and power of Brahmanhood. A single example of his self-inflicted hardships and the consequences resulting therefrom may not be out of place. He once restrained his breath for a thousand years, when vapours began to issue from his head, “and at this the three worlds became afflicted with fear.” Like most of his order, he was a very proud and irate personage, ready, upon very slight provocation, to utter a terrible and not-to-be-escaped-from curse.[23] Once, in a fit of rage against the celestials, Vishwamitra created entire systems of stars and even threatened, in his fury, to create another India by “the process of his self-earned asceticism.”

The life led by the princely brothers in their pedestrian wanderings with this mighty sage was simplicity itself. They performed their religious rites regularly, adoring the rising sun, the blazing fire or the flowing river, as the case might be. Their sojourn in the forests was enlivened by pleasant communion with the hermits to whose kind hospitality they were usually indebted for a night’s lodging, if such it can be called, and a simple fare of milk and fruits. Vishwamitra added interest to their journeyings by satisfying the curiosity of the brothers in regard to the history of the several places they visited. Here, as he informed them, the god Rudra had performed his austerities—for even the gods were not above the necessity and ambition of ascetic practices—and blasted the impious Kama into nothingness with a breath. There, the great god Vishnu of mighty asceticism, worshipped of all the deities, dwelt during hundreds of Yugas, for the purpose of carrying on his austerities and practising yoga.[24] At one time Vishwamitra would relate the history of the origin of Ganga and of her descent upon the earth, as the mighty and purifying Ganges, chief of rivers. At another time he would himself listen complacently, along with his princely companions, to the history of his own wonderful asceticism and marvellous performances, as the wise Satananda related it for the special edification of Rama.

So passed away the time in the forests, not altogether peacefully, however, for the object of the journey would not have been fulfilled without sundry fierce and entirely successful encounters with the Rakshasas, those fiendish interrupters of sacrifice and persistent enemies of the anchorites. Eventually the wanderers came to the kingdom of Mithila, whose king, Janaka,[25] had a lovely daughter to bestow upon the worthy and fortunate man who should bend a certain formidable bow which had belonged to Siva and which he had once threatened to use in the destruction of the gods.

Janaka’s daughter, the famous Sita, whose matrimonial future was thus connected with Siva’s bow, was of superhuman origin, having sprung from the earth in a mysterious manner; for, while Janaka was ploughing the ground in the course of a child-conferring sacrifice, the lovely maiden had, by the favour of the gods, come to him out of the furrow.

Allured by the fame of Sita’s beauty, suitor after suitor had come to Mithila and tried that tough bow of Siva’s, but without success; and Rama’s curiosity was awakened about both the mighty weapon and the maiden fair.

Having been introduced by Vishwamitra to the King of Mithila, Rama was allowed to essay his strength against the huge bow, and huge it was indeed, for it had to be carried on an eight-wheeled cart which “was with difficulty drawn along by five thousand stalwart persons of well-developed frames.” To Rama, however, the bending of this gigantic bow was an easy matter, and he not only bent but broke it too, at which event all present, overwhelmed by the noise, rolled head over heels, with the exception of Vishwamitra, the “king and the two Raghavas.” The lovely and much-coveted prize was Rama’s of course. Arrangements for the wedding were carried out in grand style. Dasahratha and his two other sons were invited to Mithila and brides were found, in the family of Janaka, for all the four brothers. Upon a daïs covered with a canopy, and decked with flowers, the happy brides and bridegrooms were placed, attended by the king and the priests of the two families. Water-pots, golden ladles, censers, and conches, together with platters containing rice, butter, curds and other things for the Hom sacrifice, were also arranged for use on the platform. The sacrificial fire was lighted, the appropriate mantras repeated, and the four bridegrooms led their brides first round the fire, and then round the king and the priests. At this stage of the proceedings showers of celestial flowers rained down upon the happy couples, now united in the bonds of matrimony.[26] After these marriages the return to Ayodhya was accomplished with rejoicings and in great state; but Vishwamitra took his solitary way to the Northern Mountains.

As the years went by and Rama was grown to man’s estate he was endowed with every princely virtue; the people idolized him, and his father, desirous of retiring from the cares of government, determined to place him upon the throne. But, although apparently simple of execution, this arrangement was beset with difficulties. Rama was the son of the Rajah’s eldest and principal wife; but Bharata was the son of his favourite wife, the slender-waisted Kaikeyi. The suffrages of the people and Dasahratha’s own wishes were entirely in favour of Rama, but, apparently unwilling to face the grief or opposition of his darling Kaikeyi, the king took advantage of Bharata’s absence on a visit to a distant court to carry out the rather sudden preparations for Rama’s installation as Yuva-Rajah, hoping, it would seem, to keep Kaikeyi in complete ignorance of what was being done. The whole city, however, was in a state of bustle and excitement at the approaching event. The streets were being washed and watered, flag-staffs were being erected on every side, gay bunting was floating about and garlands of flowers adorned the houses. Musicians played in the highways and in the temples, and, notwithstanding the seclusion of the women’s apartments, it was impossible to conceal from the inmates of the zenana what was going on in the great world outside. A deformed and cunning slave-girl, named Manthara, found out and revealed the whole plot to Bharata’s mother. At first Kaikeyi received the intelligence with pleasure, for Rama was dear to everybody; but the slave-girl so worked upon her feelings of envy and jealousy, by artfully picturing to her the very inferior position she would hold in the world’s estimation, the painful slights she would have to endure and the humiliation she would have to suffer, once Kauçalya’s son was raised to the throne, that in a passion of rage and grief, she threw away her ornaments and, with dishevelled hair, flew to the “chamber of sorrow” and flung herself down upon the floor, weeping bitterly. Here the old king found her “like a sky enveloped in darkness with the stars hid” and had to endure the angry reproaches of his disconsolate favourite. Acting upon a suggestion of the deformed slave-girl, the queen reminded her husband of a promise made by him long previously, that he would grant her any two requests she might make. She now demanded the fulfilment of the royal promise, her two requests being that Rama should be sent away into banishment in the forests for a period of fourteen years and that her own son Bharata should be elevated to the dignity of Yuva-Rajah. On these terms, and on these only, would the offended and ambitious Kaikeyi be reconciled to her uxorious lord. If these conditions were refused she was resolved to rid the king of her hated presence. Dasahratha, poor old man, was overwhelmed by this unexpected crisis. He fell at his wife’s feet, he explained that preparations for Rama’s installation had already commenced, he besought her not to expose him to ridicule and contempt, he coaxed and flattered her, alluding to her lovely eyes and shapely hips, he extolled Rama’s affectionate devotion to herself. He next heaped bitter reproaches upon Kaikeyi’s unreasonable pride and finally swooned away in despair. But she was firm in her purpose and would not be shaken by anything, kind or unkind, that this “lord of earth” could say to her. The royal word she knew was sacred, and had to be kept at any cost.

As soon as it came to be known what a strange and unforeseen turn events had taken, the female apartments were the scene of loud lamentations, and the entire city was plunged in mourning. Rama, of expansive and coppery eyes,[27] long-armed, dark blue like a lotus, a mighty bowman of matchless strength, with the gait of a mad elephant, brave, truthful, humble-minded, respectful and generous to Brahmans, and having his passions under complete control, was the idol of the zenana, the court, and the populace. The thought of his unmerited banishment to the forests was intolerable to everyone. But he himself, with exemplary filial devotion, prepared to go into exile at once, without a murmur. The poet devotes considerable space to a minute description of the sorrow experienced by the prominent characters in the story on account of Rama’s banishment. Each one indulges in a lengthy lamentation, picturing the privations and sufferings of the ill-fated trio, and nearly everyone protests that it will be impossible to live without Rama. With affectionate regard for Sita’s comfort, and loving apprehension for her safety, Rama resolved to leave her behind with his mother; but no argument, no inducement, could prevail upon the devoted wife to be parted from her beloved husband. What were the terrors of the forest to her, what the discomfort of the wilderness, when shared with Rama? Racked with sorrow at the proposed separation, Sita burst into a flood of tears and became almost insensible with grief. At the sight of her tribulation Rama, overcome with emotion, threw his arms about his dear wife and agreed to take her with him, come what may.

Lakshmana, with devoted loyalty, would also accompany his brother into exile.

Kaikeyi, apprehensive of delays, hurried on their preparations, and herself, unblushingly, provided them with the bark dresses worn by ascetics. The two brothers donned their new vestments in the king’s presence.

“But Sita, in her silks arrayed,
Threw glances, trembling and afraid,
On the bark coat she had to wear
Like a shy doe that eyes the snare.
Ashamed and weeping for distress
From the queen’s hand she took the dress.
The fair one, by her husband’s side,
Who matched heaven’s minstrel monarch, cried:
‘How bind they on their woodland dress,
Those hermits of the wilderness?’
There stood the pride of Janak’s race
Perplexed, with sad appealing face,
One coat the lady’s fingers grasped,
One round her neck she feebly clasped,
But failed again, again, confused
By the wild garb she ne’er had used.
Then quickly hastening Rama, pride
Of all who cherish virtue, tied
The rough bark mantle on her, o’er
The silken raiment that she wore.
Then the sad women when they saw
Rama the choice bark round her draw,
Rained water from each tender eye
And cried aloud with bitter cry.”[28]

—Griffith.

After giving away vast treasures to the Brahmans the ill-fated trio took a pathetic leave of the now miserable old king, of Kauçalya who mourned like a cow deprived of her calf, of Sumitra the mother of Lakshmana, and of their “other three hundred and fifty mothers.” With an exalted sense of filial duty the exiles also bid a respectful and affectionate farewell to Kaikeyi, the cruel author of their unmerited banishment, Rama remarking that it was not her own heart, but “Destiny alone that had made her press for the prevention of his installation.”

When Rama and his companions appeared in the streets of the capital, in the dress of ascetics, the populace loudly deplored their fate, extolling the virtues of Rama while giving vent to their feelings of disapproval at the king’s weak compliance with his favourite’s whim. Sita came in for her share of popular pity and admiration, since she “whom formerly the very rangers of the sky could not see, was to-day beheld by every passer-by.”

A royal chariot conveyed away to the inhospitable wilderness the two brothers and faithful Sita, torn from stately Ayodhya, their luxurious palaces and the arms of their fond parents. All they carried with them, in the chariot, was their armour and weapons, “a basket bound in hide and a hoe.” Crowds of people, abandoning their homes, followed in the track of the chariot, resolved to share the fate of the exiles. And such was the grief of the people that the dust raised by the wheels of the car occupied by Rama and his companions was laid by the tears of the citizens. They drove at once to the jungles and rested there for the night. During the hours of slumber the exiles considerately gave their followers the slip and hurried off, in the chariot, towards the great forest of Dandhaka. When they arrived at the banks of the sacred and delightful Ganges the charioteer was dismissed with tender messages to the old king from his exiled children. After the departure of the charioteer Rama and his companions began their forest wanderings on foot. Their hermit-life was now to commence in earnest. Before entering the dark forests that lay before them, the brothers resolved to wear “that ornament of ascetics, a head of matted hair,” and, accordingly, produced the desired coiffure with the aid of the glutinous sap of the banyan tree. Thus prepared and clothed in bark like the saints, the brothers, with faithful Sita, entered a boat which chanced to be at the river-side and began the passage of the Ganges. As they crossed the river the pious Sita, with joined hands, addressed the goddess of the sacred stream, praying for a happy return to Ayodhya, when their days of exile should be over. Having arrived on the other bank, the exiles entered the forest in Indian file, Lakshmana leading and Rama bringing up the rear. Passing by Sringavara on the Ganges, they proceeded to Prayaga at the junction of the Ganges and the Jumna. Here they were hospitably entertained by the sage Bharadvaja, who recommended them to seek an asylum on the pleasant slopes of wooded Chitrakuta. On the way thither Sita, ever mindful of her religious duties, adored the Kalindi river—which they crossed on a raft constructed by themselves—and paid her respects to a gigantic banyan tree, near which many ascetics had taken up their abode. On the romantic and picturesque side of Chitrakuta the exiles built themselves a cottage, thatched with leaves, “walled with wood, and furnished with doors.” Game, fruits, and roots abounded in the neighbourhood, so that they need have no anxiety about their supplies. So much did they appreciate the quiet beauties of their sylvan retreat, the cool shade, the perfumed flowers, the sparkling rivulets and the noble river, that they became almost reconciled to their separation from their friends and the lordly palaces of Ayodhya, in which city important things were happening.

The exile of Rama had been too much for the doting old Maharajah.[29] Weighed down by sorrow, he soon succumbed to his troubles, and Bharata, who was still absent at Giri-braja, was hastily summoned to take up the regal office. He, accompanied by his brother Satrughna, hurried to the capital, and finding, on his arrival, how matters really stood, heaped reproaches upon his wicked, ambitious mother, indignantly refusing to benefit by her artful machinations. In a transport of grief Bharata “fell to the earth sighing like an enraged snake,” while Satrughna, on his part, seized the deformed slave-girl Manthara, and literally shook the senses out of her. In Rama’s absence, Bharata performed his father’s obsequies with great pomp. The dead body of the late king, which had been preserved in oil, was carried in procession to the river side and there burnt, together with heaps of boiled rice and sacrificed animals. A few days later the sraddha ceremonies for the welfare of the spirit of the departed king were performed, and, as usual, costly presents,—money, lands, houses, goats and kine, also servant-men and servant-maids were bestowed upon the fortunate Brahmans.

When this pious duty, which occupied thirteen days, had been fulfilled, affairs of State demanded attention. Bharata, although pressed to do so, resolutely declined to accept the sceptre, and resolved to set out, with a vast following, on a visit to Rama in his retreat, hoping to persuade him to abandon his hermit-life and undertake the government of the realm. Great preparations had to be made for this visit to Rama, which was a sort of wholesale exodus of the people of Ayodhya of all ranks and occupations. A grand army was to accompany Bharata, and the court, with all the ladies of the royal family, including the no-doubt-reluctant Kaikeyi, were to swell the procession. A road had to be made for the projected march of this host; streams had to be bridged, ferries provided at the larger rivers, and able guides secured. When the road was ready and the preparations for the journey completed, chariots and horsemen in thousands crowded the way, mingled with a vast multitude of citizens riding in carts. Artificers of every kind attended the royal camp. Armourers, weavers, tailors, potters, glass-makers, goldsmiths and gem-cutters, were there; so also were physicians, actors and shampooers, peacock-dancers and men whose profession it was to provide warm baths for their customers. Of course the Brahman element was strongly represented in this great procession from the flourishing city to the solitudes of the forest. Bharata’s march is described at great length by the poet; but only one incident need be mentioned here. On the way the hermit Bharadvaja, desirous of doing Bharata honour, and probably not unwilling to display his power, invited him and his followers, of whom, as we have seen, there were many thousands, to a feast at his hermitage. At the command of the saint the forest became transformed into lovely gardens, abounding in flowers and fruit. Palaces of matchless beauty sprang into existence. Music filled the cool and perfumed air. Food and drink, including meat and wine, appeared in profusion:—soups and curries are especially mentioned, and the flesh of goats and bears, deer, peacocks and cocks; also rice, milk and sugar. In addition to all this, a host of heavenly nymphs from Swarga descended to indulge in soft dalliance with the ravished warriors of Bharata’s army.

“Then beauteous women, seven or eight,
Stood ready by each man to wait.
Beside the stream his limbs they stripped,
And in the cooling water dipped,
And then the fair ones, sparkling-eyed,
With soft hands rubbed his limbs and dried,
And sitting on the lovely bank
Held up the wine-cup as he drank.”

—Griffith.

For one day and one night the intoxicating enjoyment continued; and then, at the word of command, all the creations of the sage’s power vanished, leaving the forest in its wonted gloom.

Having taken a respectful leave of the mighty ascetic, Bharata and his followers threaded their way through the dense forests towards the Mountain Chitrakuta and the River Mandakini. After a long march they at last found the object of their desire, the high-souled Rama, “seated in a cottage, bearing a head of matted locks, clad in black deerskin and having tattered cloth and bark for his garment.” When Rama heard of his father’s death he was deeply moved and fell insensible upon the ground, “like a blooming tree that hath been hewn by an axe.” The loving Vaidehi (Sita) and the brothers Lakshmana and Bharata sprinkled water on the face of the prostrate man and restored him to animation, when he at once burst into loud and prolonged lamentations. Presently Rama pulled himself together and duly performed the funeral rites, pouring out libations of water and making an offering of ingudi fruits to the spirit of his departed father. These offerings were not worthy of being presented to the manes of so great a man as Dasahratha; but were justifiable, under the circumstances of the case, on the accepted principle that “that which is the fare of an individual is also the fare of his divinities.”[30] Bharata and the rest, respectfully sitting before Rama with joined hands, entreated him, with the greatest humility, to undertake the reins of government; but he was not to be persuaded to do so. He would not break the resolution he had made, nor would he be disloyal to his dead father’s commands. Then Javali, a Brahman atheist, insisting that there was and could be no hereafter, that Dasahratha, once his sire, was now mere nothing, advised the prince to yield to the reasonable wishes of the living and return with them to rule over the kingdom of his ancestors. Rama, however, warmly rebuked the atheist for his impiety, and all that Bharata could accomplish was merely to induce him to put off from his feet a pair of sandals adorned with gold, which he (Bharata) carried back with him in great state to the deserted Ayodhya—now inhabited only by cats and owls—as a visible symbol of his brother Rama, in whose name he undertook to carry on the affairs of the State until the appointed fourteen years of exile should have run their course.

The incidents connected with Rama’s exile to the forests, his life and rambles at Chitrakuta, Bharata’s imposing march through the same wooded country which the exiles had traversed, affords the poet of the “Ramayana” rare opportunities of displaying his love for the picturesque and his strong natural leaning towards the serene, if uneventful, life of the hermit. Often in these early forest rovings, and indeed throughout the fourteen years of exile, does Rama, or some other one, linger to note and admire the beauties of woodland and landscape, and to hold loving communion with the fair things of field and forest. Though he praises the cities, and pictures their grandeur of gold and gems, it is plain throughout that the poet’s heart is in the woods, displaying on his part an appreciation of the charms of nature and scenery, very remarkable, indeed, when we consider how slowly the taste for the beauties of inanimate nature was developed in Europe. After Bharata’s return to Ayodhya, Rama and his companions moved further southwards, in the direction of the great forest of Dandhaka, which extended indeed as far as the Godavari. In their wanderings they came to the abode of a certain ascetic whose wife, having performed severe austerities for ten thousand years, was privileged, during ten years of drought, to create fruits and roots for the sustenance of the people and to divert the course of the river Jumna, so that its waters should flow by the thirsty asylum of the hermits. This ancient dame took a great fancy to Vaidehi, and, woman-like, gave her fair disciple a worthy gift, consisting of fine apparel, of beautiful ornaments, a precious cosmetic for the beautification of her person, and a rare garland of flowers. Nor was the old lady contented until she had seen the effect of her present on Janaka’s charming daughter, who had pleased her much by her good sense in affirming that “the asceticism of woman is ministering unto her husband.”

Wheresoever the exiles turned their steps, in these almost trackless forests, they were told of the evil doings of the Rakshasas, who not only interrupted the sacrifices, but actually carried off and devoured the anchorites. Very curious, too, were the ways in which some of these Rakshasas compassed the destruction of the saints. One of them, the wily Ilwala, well acquainted with Sanskrit, would assume the form of a Brahman and invite the hermits to a sraddha feast. His brother, in the assumed form of a sheep, would be slaughtered and cooked for his guests. When they had enjoyed their repast the cruel Ilwala would command his brother Vatapi to “come forth,” which he would do unreluctantly, and with a vengeance, bleating loudly and rending the bodies of the unhappy guests, of whom thousands were disposed of in this truly Rakshasa fashion. It is noteworthy that those ascetics who had, by long and severe austerities, acquired a goodly store of merit, might easily have made short work of the Rakshasas; but, on the other hand, if they allowed their angry passions to rise, even against such impious beings, they would, while punishing their tormentors, have inevitably lost the entire advantage of their long and painful labours. Hence many of the hermits made a direct appeal to Rama for protection.

Entering the forest of Dandhaka the exiles encountered a huge, terrible and misshapen monster, besmeared with fat and covered with blood, who was roaring horribly with his widely distended mouth, while with his single spear he held transfixed before him quite a menagerie of lions, tigers, leopards and other wild animals. This awful being rushed towards the trio, and, quick as thought, snatched up the gentle Vaidehi in his arms, bellowing out “I am a Rakshasa, Viradha by name. This forest is my fortress. Accoutred in arms I range (here), feeding on the flesh of ascetics. This transcendantly beauteous one shall be my wife. And in battle I shall drink your blood, wretches that ye are.” At this juncture, Rama, as on some other trying occasions, gave way to unseasonable lamentations and tears; but Lakshmana, always practical, bravely recalled him to the necessity of immediate action. The Rakshasa, having ascertained who his opponents were, vauntingly assured them that, having gratified Brahma by his asceticism, he had obtained this boon from him, that no one in the world could slay him with weapons; and he mockingly advised the princes to renounce Sita and go their way. But Rama’s wrath was now kindled, and he began a vigorous attack upon the monster, piercing him with many arrows. A short, though fierce, combat ensued, the result being that the Rakshasa seized and carried off both Rama and Lakshmana on his ample shoulders. His victory now seemed complete, and Sita,—who had apparently been dropped during the combat,—dreading to be left alone in the terrible wilderness, piteously implored the monster (whom she insinuatingly addressed as the “best of Rakshasas”) to take her and to release the noble princes. The sound of her dear voice acted like a charm upon the brothers, and, with a vigorous and simultaneous effort, they broke both the monster’s arms at once, and then attacked him with their fists. They brought him to the ground exhausted, and Rama, planting his foot upon the throat of his prostrate foe, directed Lakshmana to dig a deep pit for his reception, and when it was ready, they flung him into it. The dying monster, thus overcome, though not with weapons, explained that he had been imprisoned in that dreadful form of his by the curse of a famous ascetic, and was destined to be freed from it only by the hand of Rama. With this explanation the spirit of the departed Viradha passed into the celestial regions.

Rama, with his wife and brother, now sought the hermitage of the sage Sarabhanga, and on approaching it, a strange, unexpected and imposing sight presented itself to Rama’s view:—Indra, attended by his court, in conversation with the forest sage! The god of heaven, in clean apparel and adorned with celestial jewels, was seated in a wondrous car drawn by green horses up in the sky. Over him was expanded a spotless umbrella, and two lovely damsels waved gold-handled chowrees above his head. About him were bands of resplendent celestials hymning his praises.

At Rama’s approach the god withdrew and the sage advised the prince to seek the guidance of another ascetic named Sutikshna, adding, “This is thy course, thou best of men. Do thou now, my child, for a space look at me while I leave off my limbs, even as a serpent renounces its slough.” Then kindling a sacrificial fire, and making oblations to it with the appropriate mantras, Sarabhanga entered the flames himself. The fire consumed his old decrepit body, and he was gradually transformed, in the midst of the flames, into a splendid youth of dazzling brightness, and, mounting upwards, ascended to the heaven of Brahma. After Sarabhanga had left the earth in this striking manner, bands of ascetics waited on Rama, reminded him of his duty as a king, and solicited his protection against the Rakshasas. As Rama and his companions wandered on through the forests another wonder soon engaged their attention. Sweet music reached them from beneath the waters of a charming lake covered with lotuses, and on inquiring about the strange phenomenon, a hermit told them that a great ascetic had formed that lake. By his fierce austerities, extending over ten thousand years, he had acquired such a store of merit that the gods, with Agni at their head, began to fear that he desired a position of equality with themselves. To lure him away from such ideas they sent him five lovely Apsaras to try the power of their charms upon him. Sage though he was, he succumbed to their allurements, and now, weaned from his old ambitions, he passed his time in youth and happiness—the reward of his austerities and yoga practices—in the company of the seductive sirens whose sweet voices, blending with the tinklings of their instruments, came softly to the ears of the wandering princes.

Sita, who had confidently followed her husband, like his very shadow, through all these adventurous years in the forest, seems at length to have been somewhat shaken by the very risky encounter with Viradha, of which she had been an unwilling and terrified eye-witness, in which her own person had been the object of contention, and which had threatened, at one critical moment, to end very tragically for her and her loved ones. Under the influence of these recent and impressive experiences, Sita ventured, in her gentle, womanly way, to suggest to her husband the advisability of avoiding all semblance of hostility towards the Rakshasas. There were, she timidly assured her husband, three sins to which desire gave rise: untruthfulness, the coveting of other men’s wives, and the wish to indulge in unnecessary hostilities. Of untruthfulness, and of allowing his thoughts to stray towards other women, Sita unhesitatingly exonerated her lord; but she artfully insinuated that, in his dealings with the Rakshasas, he was giving way to the sin of provoking hostilities without adequate cause, and she advised his laying aside his arms during his wanderings in the forest; since the mere carrying of bows and arrows was enough to kindle the wish to use them. To give point to this contention, Vaidehi related how, in the olden time, there lived in the woods a truthful ascetic whose incessant austerities Indra desired, for some reason or other, to frustrate. For the attainment of his end the king of heaven visited the hermit in the guise of a warrior, and left his sword with him as a trust. Scrupulously regardful of his obligation to his visitor, the ascetic carried the sword with him wherever duty or necessity directed his footsteps, till constant association with the weapon began to engender fierce sentiments, leading eventually to the spiritual downfall of the poor ascetic, whose ultimate portion was hell. Rama received Sita’s advice in the loving spirit in which it was offered, and thanking her for it, explained that it was his duty to protect the saints from the oppression of the evil Rakshasas, and that Kshatriyas carried bows in order that the word “distressed” might not be known on this earth.

Several years of exile slipped away, not unpleasantly, in the shady forests through which the royal brothers roamed from hermitage to hermitage, always accompanied by the lovely and faithful Sita, whose part throughout is one of affectionate, unfaltering and unselfish devotion to her husband. On the banks of the Godavari, Lakshmana, who has to do all the hard work for the party, built them a spacious hut of clay, leaves and bamboos, propped with pillars and furnished with a fine level floor, and there they lived happily near the rushing river. At length the brothers got involved in a contest with a brood of giants who roved about the woods of Dandhaka, delighting, as usual, in the flesh of hermits and the interruption of sacred rites. This time it was a woman who was at the bottom of their troubles. Surpanakha, an ugly giantess and sister of Ravana, charmed with the beauty and grace of Rama, came to him, and, madly in love, offered to be his wife. But Rama in flattering terms put her off, saying he was already married. In sport, apparently, he bid her try her luck with Lakshmana. She took his advice, but Lakshmana does not seem to have been tempted by the offer, and, while artfully addressing her as “supremely charming and superbly beautiful lady,” advised her to become the younger wife of Rama, to whom he referred her again. Enraged by this double rejection, the giantess attempted to kill Sita, as the hated obstacle to the fulfilment of her desires. The brothers, of course, interposed, and Lakshmana, always impetuous, punished the monster by cutting off her nose. Surpanakha fled away to her brother Khara, and roused the giant Rakshasas to avenge her wounds. These terrible giants possessed the power of changing their forms at will; but their numbers and their prowess were alike of little avail against the valour and skill of Rama, who, alone and unaided,—for he sent Lakshmana away with Sita into an inaccessible cave,—destroyed fourteen thousand of them in a single day. The combat, which was witnessed by the gods and Gandharvas, Siddhas and Charanas, is described at great length, and the narrative is copiously interspersed with the boastful speeches of the rival chiefs. In the bewildering conflict of that day his fourteen thousand assailants poured upon Rama showers of arrows, rocks, and trees. Coming to close quarters they attacked him vigorously with clubs, darts, and nooses. Although hard pressed and sorely wounded, the hero maintained the conflict with undaunted courage, sending such thousands of wonderful arrows from his bow that the sun was darkened and the missiles of his enemies warded off by them. Finally Rama succeeded in laying dead upon that awful field of carnage nearly the entire number of his fierce assailants. Khara, the leader of the opposing host, a worthy adversary and possessed of wondrous weapons, still lived. Enraged at, but undaunted by, the wholesale destruction of his followers, Khara boldly continued the fight. In his war-chariot, bright as the sun, he seemed to be the Destroyer himself, as he fiercely assailed the victorious Rama. With one arrow he severed the hero’s bow in his hand; with seven other shafts like thunder-bolts he severed his armour joints, so that the glittering mail fell from his body. He next wounded the prince with a thousand darts. Not yet overcome, however, Rama strung another bow, the mighty bow of Vishnu, and discharging shafts with golden feathers, brought Khara’s standard to the ground. Transported with wrath at this ill-omened event, Khara poured five arrows into Rama’s bosom. The prince responded with six terrible bolts, some of them crescent-headed. One struck the chief in the head, two of the others entered his arms, and the remaining three his chest. Following these up with thirteen of the same kind, Rama destroyed his enemy’s chariot, killed his horses, decapitated his charioteer, and shattered his bow in his grasp. Khara jumped to the ground armed with a mace, ready to renew the conflict. At this juncture Rama paused a moment to read the Rakshasa a homily on his evil doings; the latter replied with fierce boasts, and hurled his mace at Rama, who cut it into two fragments with his arrows as it sped through the air. Khara now uprooted a lofty tree and hurled it at his foe; but, as before, Rama cut it into pieces with his arrow ere it reached him, and with a shaft resembling fire put a period to the life of the gallant Rakshasa. At this conclusion of the conflict the celestials sounded their kettle-drums, and showered down flowers upon the victorious son of Dasahratha. Thus perished the Rakshasa army and its mighty leader:

“But of the host of giants one,
Akampan, from the field had run,
And sped to Lanka to relate
In Ravana’s ear the demon’s fate.”

—Griffith.

This fugitive made his way to the court of Ravana, the king of the giants, and related to him the sad fate of his followers. Close on the heels of Akampan came Surpanakha herself, with her cruelly mutilated face. Transported with rage at the destruction of his armies and at sight of the disfigured countenance of his sister, the terrible Rakshasa chief vowed vengeance on Rama and Lakshmana. But the necessity for great caution in dealing with such valorous foes was apparent, and Ravana did not seem over-anxious to leave his comfortable capital, Lanka, in order to seek out the formidable brothers in the woods of Dandhaka. But Surpanakha, scorned and mutilated, was thirsting for an early and bitter revenge. Reproaching her brother for his unkingly supineness, she artfully gave him a description of Sita’s beauty, far superior to that of any goddess, which served to kindle unlawful desires in his heart. She referred to Vaidehi’s golden complexion, her moon-like face, her lotus eyes, her slender waist, her taper fingers, her swelling bosom, her ample hips and lovely thighs, till the giant was only too willing to assent to her suggestion, that the most effectual and agreeable revenge he could take for the destruction of his hosts, and the cruel insults to his sister, would be to carry off the fair Sita, by stratagem, from the arms of her devoted husband, and thus add the lovely daughter of Janaka to the number, not very small, of the beauties who adorned his palace at Lanka. We shall presently see that the plot was ingeniously contrived and too successfully carried out.

How conveniently the race of Rakshasas could assume at will the forms in which they chose to appear, we know already. Taking advantage of this faculty of metamorphosis, a Rakshasa named Maricha, in obedience to Ravana’s orders, showed himself near Rama’s hermitage, in the shape of a wonderful golden deer, spotted with silver, having horns resembling jewels, a belly like a sapphire, and sides like madbuka flowers. The strange creature captivated the fancy of Sita, and she was so eager to possess it, alive or dead, that Rama was induced to go in pursuit of it. Suspecting mischief from this unusual appearance, Rama left his brother with Sita, commanding him on no account to quit her side until he returned from his pursuit of the jewelled deer. The chase led him to a considerable distance from the hermitage. Weary of his endeavours to secure the deer, Rama grew angry, and, with one of his flaming arrows, pierced it in the breast. It bounded off the ground to the height of a palm tree and, in the act of dying, began to cry, exactly in the voice of Rama, “Ah! Sita; Ah! Lakshmana.” The words reached the hermitage, as they were intended to do, and Sita, in an agony of terror, implored Lakshmana to go to the aid of his brother, who seemed to be in some dire trouble. Lakshmana, however, protested that it was all illusion, and refused to believe that Rama could be in any real danger; for, as he assured the trembling wife, “even the Almighty Himself with the celestials and the three worlds cannot defeat him” (Dutt, 609). But Vaidehi took another view of the matter, and turning sharply upon her brother-in-law accused him roundly of desiring the destruction of Rama in order that he might gratify an improper wish to possess her himself. This, indeed, she said, must have been the reason that brought him all the way from Ayodhya. What, if any, grounds the charming lady may have had for this accusation does not appear. They could have been known only to herself and to Lakshmana, who, with joined hands, humbly reproached her for her cruel words, and bending low before her went off, with a heavy heart, in search of his brother.

In a garment (probably a saree) of yellow silk, Sita sat alone at the door of her thatched cottage, weeping bitterly, when Ravana presented himself before her, in the guise of a pious medicant. Ravished by her beauty, this pious medicant began, without ceremony, to praise the various charms of Sita’s person with the most reprehensible license of detail. Nor did he stop there, but telling her that she had carried away his heart, as a stream carries away its banks, invited her to accompany him out of the gloomy forest, tenanted by Rakshasas and wild beasts, and quite unfit for the abode of a goddess like herself.

As her visitor was in appearance a Brahman, she dutifully attended to him, bringing him water to wash his feet with, and food to eat, while her eyes were straining through the forest for her absent lord. Dreading that her Brahman guest might curse her if she did not speak to him, Vaidehi began to relate the history of her exile, addressing the seeming medicant in such flattering terms as “thou best of twice born ones.” After listening to her story, Ravana revealed himself to her, and again declaring his love, invited her to become his wife in the great city of Lanka, where she should live in luxury, attended by five thousand maid-servants. Sita indignantly spurned the offer, threatening the Rakshasa with the consequences of her husband’s anger. While indulging in boastful speeches regarding his own prowess, Ravana assumed his natural form, with ten heads and twenty arms. As he stood there before Vaidehi, “his eyes were bloody,” and he appeared beautiful like unto blue clouds, being dressed in gold-hued apparel (Dutt). Approaching the adorable Sita, the enamoured giant caught her hair with one hand and her legs with another and carried her off, through the air, in his golden car drawn by asses. As she was being borne away, the fair lady cried aloud for help, invoking the sylvan deities to tell her husband whither, and by whom, she had been carried off. Her voice reached the virtuous Jatayus, the king of birds, who, though sixty thousand years old, immediately interposed to rescue her.

A furious and picturesque battle ensued, in which the huge vulture-king, with his formidable beak, talons, and wings, made a gallant stand against Ravana, in the cause of virtue and his friend Rama, but eventually lost his noble life in the struggle, and left his huge bones to mark, to this day, the scene of his terrible aërial conflict with the demon.[31] The victorious Ravana carried Sita away through the air in his arms. Some of her ornaments fell to the ground as the two sped along in their journey towards Lanka, and showers of blossoms, falling from her head, were scattered around. At this sorrowful event the sun hid his face and all nature was oppressed with grief. Not yet despairing of succour, the brave-hearted Sita observed, as she passed along in mid-air, five monkey-chiefs seated on the summit of a hill, and, unnoticed by Ravana, dropped amongst them her gold-coloured sheet and some glittering ornaments, in the hope that they might convey to Rama the intelligence of her abduction by the giant. But Fate had more sorrow in store for her. Over mountain peaks, over rivers, over the sea, Ravana conveyed his prize without meeting with further opposition, and lodged her safely in his magnificent palace in Lanka, where he treated her with the greatest consideration, and wooed her like a youthful lover, placing her tender feet upon his heads and professing himself her obedient slave.

The Abduction of Sita.

(From an illustrated Urdu version of the “Ramayana.”)

Rama, on discovering the loss he had suffered, was in despair. Sometimes he would indulge in excessive lamentations, wildly calling upon the trees and streams, the deer of the forest and the birds of the air, to tell him where his love had gone. At other times, assuming a different tone, he would petulantly threaten to destroy “the three worlds,” if the celestials did not restore Vaidehi to his arms. At such moments Lakshmana would address his brother in the most abject terms of flattery, and gently remind him of the necessity of doing his duty and preserving his dignity.

Roaming about in search of the lost Sita, the brothers came across Jatayus lying, in mortal agony, amidst the fragments of Ravana’s wonderful car and his shattered umbrella. All that Rama could learn from the dying king of the vultures was the name and rank of the Rakshasa who had carried off his wife, and in a frenzy of grief he rolled upon the ground, uttering vain lamentations. Presently the brothers piously erected a funeral pile for the dead bird, and having cremated the body, proceeded in their search for Sita, when they encountered a horrid deformed monster, named Kabandha; thus described by the poet:

“There stood before their wondering eyes
A fiend, broad-chested, huge of size;
A vast misshapen trunk they saw
In height surpassing nature’s law.
It stood before them dire and dread,
Without a neck, without a head,
Tall as some hill aloft in air,
Its limbs were clothed with bristling hair,
And deep below the monster’s waist
His vast misshapen mouth was placed.
His form was huge, his voice was loud
As some dark-tinted thunder-cloud.
A brilliance as of gushing flame
Beneath long lashes dark and keen
The monster’s single eye was seen.”[32]

In the battle which ensued the terrible monster had his two arms cut off by Rama and Lakshmana respectively, and in this helpless condition he explained that, though naturally endowed with a surpassingly beautiful form, he used to assume this monstrous one in order to frighten the ascetics in the forests; but one of these saints, in a moment of anger, invoked this curse upon him, that he should retain the disgusting form he had adopted, at least till, in course of time, Rama should in person deliver him from its repulsive deformity. The brothers placed the giant’s bulky body on a funeral pyre, and from the ashes arose a beautiful being, clad in celestial raiment, at whose suggestion Rama sought the friendship and aid of Sugriva, King of the Vanaras, by whose assistance he hoped to find out to what particular spot his beloved wife had been conveyed by Ravana. Rama, in due course, found Sugriva and made the acquaintance of his chief councillor the famous Hanuman, a son of the god of the winds. When Rama met Sugriva, the latter was, like himself, an exile from his native land, having been expelled from it by his elder brother, King Bali, who had also taken unto himself Ruma, Sugriva’s wife. The deposed monarch was wandering, with a few faithful monkey companions, in the forest, and it was amongst them, resting together on a mountain peak, that Sita had dropped her yellow robe and golden ornaments. A sort of offensive and defensive alliance was formed between the two banished princes, who were, moreover, drawn towards one another by the fact that each had been forcibly deprived of his consort. Rama was to help Sugriva to overthrow Bali, secure the Vanar sceptre and recover his wife Ruma; while Sugriva, on his part, was to assist Rama to discover Sita’s whereabouts and to destroy her abductor. So great was the dread Sugriva entertained of the prowess of his warlike brother Bali, that, before committing himself to this alliance with Rama, he desired that prince to give him some practical illustration of what he could do as a wielder of warlike weapons; whereupon Rama shot from his mighty bow a wondrous arrow, which, after passing through the stems of seven palm trees, traversed a hill which stood behind them, then flew through six subterranean realms and finally returned to the hands of the bowman. Before this feat all Sugriva’s doubts vanished and he was ready for action.

At Rama’s suggestion he proceeded to the great Vanar city Kishkindha, and, in a voice of thunder, dared Bali to single combat. The impetuous and passionate King of the Vanars accepted the challenge at once, and an exceedingly fierce encounter took place between the brothers outside the walls of the city. At length Sugriva seemed to be failing, when Rama, who was standing by in ambush, pierced Bali in the breast with one of those fatal arrows of his. As might have been expected, Bali, with the life-blood welling from his wounds, reproached Rama bitterly for his base, unfair, and cowardly interposition in the battle between himself and Sugriva; but Rama justified his action by saying that he was lord paramount of the whole country, that Kishkindha came within the realm of Dasahratha, and that Bali had justly forfeited his life by his misconduct in appropriating his brother’s wife. Rama further remarked, contemptuously, that the lives of mere Vanars or monkeys, as of other animals, were of little account in the eyes of men; a remark which seems strange, indeed, when we reflect that Bali was the king of a magnificent city decorated with gold, silver and ivory, and that Bali’s brother was Rama’s much desired ally.[33]

As Bali lay prostrate on the ground his disconsolate queen, Tara, hastened to the fatal spot, with her little son Angad, and, in a passion of grief, threw herself upon the body of her husband. She gave way to the most touching sorrow and lamentation over the dying warrior and seemed inconsolable, both then and later on when performing the last rites for the deceased king. Had we seen no more of Tara she would have lived as a tender and pleasant memory in our minds; but, unfortunately, she reappears a very short time after as Sugriva’s much loved and ardent consort, and actually appears grateful to Rama for the benefit his deed had conferred upon the new king and herself.

By the time Sugriva was formerly installed in the government of Kishkindha, the rainy season came round,—a time of the year when, in a roadless country, all military or other movements were impossible. Rama, faithful to the conditions of his exile, would not enter the city, and easily contented himself with a life in the woodland, which, with its glittering fountains and laughing streams, its stately trees, sweet-throated birds and odorous flowers, he was never tired of admiring.

In return for the service rendered him by Rama, his ally Sugriva, now King of the Vanars, assembled countless numbers (hundreds of hundreds of millions!) of Vanars (monkeys and bears of different colours—white, yellow and green) and sent them forth to search for Sita. North, south, east and west, these Vanars traversed every land and searched every possible retreat. From north, east and west, were received reports of want of success; but from the south came welcome tidings of the discovery of Sita by Hanuman, one of the chief captains of the Vanar host, a son of the wind-god by a nymph of paradise. The discovery of Sita’s place of captivity was made in this way. In their active search for traces of her whereabouts, some captains of the Vanar army of the south came across Sampati, the huge brother of Jatayus, the king of the vultures, lying upon the top of a high mountain. Bulky and powerful, the bird was yet quite disabled and helpless, having had his wings scorched and destroyed in a too adventurous flight towards the sun, which he had once undertaken in a spirit of vanity and boastfulness. But even in this unhappy state, dependent for his daily food upon the filial devotion of his son, the old bird could, with his penetrating eye, see clearly to enormous distances. He had witnessed Ravana’s hurried flight through the air, with his beautiful prize, and had noted also that she had been conveyed by the Rakshasa to Lanka beyond the sea. This information he now communicated to the inquiring Vanars, and having thereby performed a signal service to the son of Dasahratha, his feathers sprouted again and he joyfully mounted once more into his native element on new and lusty pinions.

Sita’s place of captivity was thus known to the Vanar; but how to reach Lanka—separated as it was from the mainland by an arm of the sea—became the urgent problem of the hour to the Vanar commanders of the army of the south. If Sita was to be restored to the arms of Rama, it was absolutely necessary that some one should get to Lanka as a spy, in order to ascertain the facts in regard to Sita’s captivity there, and to discover the strength of Ravana’s army and his means of resisting an attack from without. Ships or even boats were, in those primitive times, not to be thought of; but the monkey could leap, and so it was proposed that some leader of the race should essay the rather long jump across the strait which separated Lanka from the continent. Who was so fitted for this undertaking as the son of the wind-god, the redoubtable Hanuman? Accordingly, after a great deal of boasting, Hanuman, assuming a gigantic size, took the flying leap. The gods were well disposed towards his brave venture, but there were also enemies on the path, who endeavoured to stop him on his way. One of these was Surasa, the mother of the Nagas, who, rushing upon him with wide-extended jaws, mockingly told him that he must pass through her mouth before proceeding any further on his journey. Hanuman dilated his person till his stature attained many leagues, but the monster’s mouth grew larger still. The cunning monkey now suddenly contracted his dimensions to the size of a man’s thumb and jumped airily into and out of Surasa’s gaping mouth. He had fulfilled his enemy’s conditions and she good-naturedly acknowledged her defeat. His next opponent, a terrific she-dragon, the fierce Sinhika, marvellously caught his shadow as it glided over the sea, and in some mysterious way retarded his progress thereby. With open mouth she made a furious onslaught upon the wind-god’s son. Hanuman, equal to the occasion, craftily contracted his dimensions, and jumping into Sinhika’s cavern-like mouth, inflicted so much injury upon her that she died. After this interruption he continued his aërial journey to Lanka, probably making Sinhika’s carcass the base of a fresh leap towards the island, though this is not expressly mentioned by the poet.

When he had reached the island-kingdom of Ravana, the Vanar spy, contracting his dimensions to those of an ordinary cat, found his way by moonlight within the golden walls of the city, and, lost in admiration, wandered about the wonderful streets of Ravana’s capital, where tonsured priests and mail-clad warriors mingled freely with bands of ascetics in deerskins, and fiends both foul and fair. Eluding the guards, Hanuman crept into the palace. Here everything was on a scale to astonish even the wind-god’s son, familiar with the glories of Kishkindha; but most of all did he find food for admiration in Ravana’s enchanted car, avowedly the most perfect work that had been produced by Visvakarma, the architect of the gods.

“There shone with gems that flashed afar,
The marvel of the Flower-named car,
’Mid wondrous dwellings still confessed
Supreme and nobler than the rest.
Thereon with wondrous art designed
Were turkis birds of varied kind,
And many a sculptured serpent rolled
His twisted coil in burnished gold.
And steeds were there of noblest form,
With flying feet as fleet as storm;
And elephants with deftest skill
Stood sculptured by a silver rill,
Each bearing on his trunk a wreath
Of lilies from the flood beneath.
There Lakshmi, beauty’s heavenly queen,
Wrought by the artist’s skill was seen
Beside a flower-clad pool to stand,
Holding a lotus in her hand.”[34]

—Griffith (bk. v., canto vii.).

The zenana or women’s apartment, guarded by she-demons,[35] which Hanuman next entered in the still hours of the night, when the feast was over, the music had ceased and all the inmates were hushed in slumber, affords the poet the opportunity of painting a charming picture, which the reader will, I am sure, thank me for reproducing here in Mr. Griffith’s agreeable version:

“He stood within a spacious hall
With fretted roof and painted wall,
The giant Ravan’s boast and pride,
Loved even as a lovely bride.
’Twere long to tell each marvel there,
The crystal floor, the jewelled stair,
The gold, the silver, and the shine
Of crysolite and almandine.
There breathed the fairest blooms of spring;
There flashed the proud swan’s silver wing,
The splendour of whose feathers broke
Through fragrant wreaths of aloe smoke.
‘’Tis Indra’s heaven,’ the Vanar cried,
Gazing in joy from side to side;
‘The home of all the gods is this,
The mansion of eternal bliss!’
There were the softest carpets spread,
Delightful to the sight and tread,
Where many a lovely woman lay
O’ercome by sleep, fatigued with play.
The wine no longer cheered the feast,
The sound of revelry had ceased.
The tinkling feet no longer stirred,
No chiming of a zone was heard.
So, when each bird has sought her nest,
And swans are mute and wild bees rest,
Sleep the fair lilies on the lake
Till the sun’s kiss shall bid them wake.
Like the calm field of winter’s sky
Which stars unnumbered glorify,
So shone and glowed the sumptuous room
With living stars that chased the gloom.
'These are the stars,’ the chieftain cried,
'In autumn nights that earthward glide,
In brighter forms to reappear
And shine in matchless lustre here.’
With wondering eyes awhile he viewed
Each graceful form and attitude.
One lady’s head was backward thrown,
Bare was her arm and loose her zone.
The garland that her brow had graced
Hung closely round another’s waist.
Here gleamed two little feet all bare
Of anklets that had sparkled there.
Here lay a queenly dame at rest
In all her glorious garments dressed.
There slept another whose small hand
Had loosened every tie and band.
In careless grace another lay,
With gems and jewels cast away,
Like a young creeper when the tread
Of the wild elephant had spread
Confusion and destruction round,
And cast it flowerless to the ground.
Here lay a slumberer still as death,
Save only that her balmy breath
Raised ever and anon the lace
That floated o’er her sleeping face.
There, sunk in sleep, an amorous maid
Her sweet head on a mirror laid,
Like a fair lily bending till
Her petals rest upon the rill.
Another black-eyed damsel pressed
Her lute upon her heaving breast,
As though her loving arms were twined
Round him for whom her bosom pined.
Another pretty sleeper round
A silver vase her arms had wound,
That seemed, so fresh and fair and young,
A wreath of flowers that o’er it hung.
In sweet disorder lay a throng
Weary of dance and play and song,
Where heedless girls had sunk to rest,
One pillowed on another’s breast,
Her tender cheek half seen beneath
Red roses of the falling wreath,
The while her long soft hair concealed
The beauties that her friend revealed.
With limbs at random interlaced
Round arm and leg and throat and waist,
That wreath of women lay asleep
Like blossoms in a careless heap.”[36]

—Griffith (bk. v., canto ix.).

Still in eager quest of Sita the Vanar roamed stealthily from place to place within the spacious bounds of the royal palace, and, as day was breaking, entered the enchanting ashoka grove, a sort of ideal retreat in fairyland. Here Rama’s messenger discovered the weeping, but still peerless, captive, guarded by fierce she-demons of monstrous shapes—a weird, frightful troupe—some earless, some with ears hanging down to their feet, some one-eyed, some long-necked and covered with hair, some huge, some dwarfish, some with faces of buffaloes, others with the heads of dogs and swine. Perched upon a bough, and concealed by its foliage, Hanuman watched his opportunity to open communication with the object of his search. Presently Ravana, in great state, heralded by music and attended by a crowd of ravishing beauties, with tinkling zones, entered the grove. Sita, in utter despair, fell upon the ground

“Like Hope when all her dreams are o’er.”

Approaching her kindly, the King of Lanka, who was passionately enamoured of her beauty, endeavoured to reassure her, and wooed her softly with all the arts of flattery, with offers of boundless wealth, and with protestations of deep affection.

“Methinks when thy sweet form was made
His hand the wise Creator stayed;
For never more could he design
A beauty meet to rival thine.
Come let us love while yet we may,
For youth will fly and charms decay.”

—Griffith.

Sita, ever faithful to her lord, treated his suit with scorn; whereupon the demon king, waxing wrath, threatened to have her killed and served up at his table if she persisted in rejecting his advances. Turning to leave the palace in high dudgeon, he directed the demon guards to bend the fair captive to his will by threats and blandishments of every kind. Their persuasions being unsuccessful, these horrid monsters assailed the unfortunate princess with threatening weapons; but even in this critical moment the pure, chaste wife of Rama preferred death to dishonour.[37]

Amidst the persecutions of the luckless Sita an old Rakshasa matron, named Trajata, raised a warning voice; for she had dreamed a dream which foreboded the destruction of Lanka by Rama, and she counselled the demons to deal kindly by Sita, if they hoped for mercy from the conquerors.

It seems necessary to explain now that it was not a sense of honour or a feeling of chivalry that had restrained the unscrupulous King of Lanka from the gratification of his passion. It was fear only that kept him back; for, as he confidentially explained to his assembled lords, having once, under the influence of ungovernable desire, dishonoured one of the nymphs of Indra’s heaven, fair Punjikashthala, Brahma had decreed that if Ravana committed the same offence again his head should be rent in pieces. Of course this fact and the protection thus enjoyed by Sita, through dread of Brahma’s decree, were quite unknown to Rama, whose knowledge was merely human.

At length the Vanar found the long wished-for opportunity of communicating with Sita and of consoling her with the hope of an early rescue. He even offered to carry her off, there and then, on his shoulders, but her modesty shrank from the mere thought of voluntarily touching the body of any male person beside Rama. The monkey-god then set about committing as much destruction as he could in the city of Lanka, which, built by Visvakarma, the architect of the gods, is described as surpassingly beautiful and encircled by a golden wall. After a succession of fierce and successful battles with the giants—thousands at the time with their most famous captains—Hanuman, covered from head to foot with wounds, was noosed by means of a magic shaft from the bow of Ravana’s son, Indrajit, overpowered and taken prisoner. Exceedingly incensed, Ravana ordered the destructive and formidable Vanar to be put to death at once. One of his counsellors, however, suggesting that Hanuman might be regarded in the light of an envoy from Rama, it was decided to spare his life, but, at the same time, to treat him with the greatest indignity before releasing him. In pursuance of this determination his tail was wrapped round with cloth dipped in oil, which was then set on fire; but at the prayer of Sita, who came to know what was going on in the city, the flames abstained from harming her friend. By contracting his dimensions, Hanuman easily freed himself from his bonds, and now, by means of his blazing tail, carried fire and destruction through the beautiful city; after which he once more performed his perilous journey through the air, back to the mainland of India, bearing tidings of his doings to his master and Rama.

When the place of Sita’s captivity became known, the Vanar armies were rapidly advanced southward, and encamped on the border of the strait which separates Lanka from the mainland of India. Here they were joined by Vibhishana, Ravana’s brother, who, with four attendants, had fled through the air from Lanka, in dread of the consequences of the offence he had given his king, by counselling conciliatory proceedings towards Rama, of whose formidable prowess he seems to have formed a just estimate.

Vibhishana, on account of his local knowledge and great wisdom, was of much service to the Vanar host.

The sea, although it could be crossed by the Rakshasas and by the wind-god’s son, Hanuman, was a serious impediment to Rama and his Vanar allies. Standing on the margin of the trackless ocean which barred his march, the chief vented his impatience in a shower of his wonderful arrows, which he angrily shot into the wide bosom of the deep. His attack stirred the waters to their very depths and terrified its strange denizens out of their wits. As the hero laid against his bow a more formidable arrow than the rest (a fiery dart of mystic power), by means of which he threatened to dry up the waters of the sea and pass his legions over on dry land, all Nature was horrified, darkness fell upon land and sea, bright meteors flashed across the murky sky, red lightning struck the trembling earth, and the firm mountains began to break and crumble away. At this critical moment of universal terror the grand form of the king of the ocean, attended by glittering sea-serpents, rose majestically above the seething billows of his watery realm.[38] Addressing Rama with great reverence, the ocean-king protested that it was impossible to make a dry pathway through the sea.

“Air, ether, fire, earth, water, true
To Nature’s will, their course pursue;
And I, as ancient laws ordain,
Unfordable must still remain.”

—Griffith.

But he advised that Nala, a Vanar chief, who was the son of the architect of the gods (Visvakarma) should be requested to bridge the strait that intervened between Rama and the object of his expedition. Nala undertook the work, and, under his direction, the bridge was successfully completed. The construction of the bridge was not opposed, nor the passage disputed, so the countless hosts[39] of Vanars passed over to the island, with Rama mounted on Hanuman’s back, Lakshmana on Angad’s back, and camped[40] near Ravana’s capital. Even at this stage of events Ravana, still under the spell of his passion for the lovely Sita, resorted to a stratagem to obtain her consent to his wishes. He got a magician of his court to prepare a head exactly resembling Rama’s, and also a bow and arrows such as the hero usually carried, and had them brought into Sita’s presence, with the tale that her lord had been killed while asleep in his camp. Sita, completely deceived by the wizard’s art, was lamenting her bitter loss, when a messenger hurriedly summoned Ravana away to see to the defence of his capital, and a female attendant took advantage of the moment to relieve the fair captive’s mind, by explaining the deception that had been practised upon her.

The attack that shortly followed and the defence made by the giants are described by Valmiki in considerable detail, and with much monotonous repetition. The Vanars had, for arms, uprooted trees, rocks, and mountain peaks; while the Rakshasas fought with bows and arrows, swords and spears. Many single combats are described. Indrajit, the redoubtable son of Ravana, in a desperate encounter, concealed himself in a magic mist. Under this protection he fired some wondrous serpent-arrows at Rama and Lakshmana, which bound the royal brothers in a noose. He then, with a storm of missiles, laid them prostrate and apparently dying. But it was not thus that the contest was to end. From their helpless condition Rama and Lakshmana were freed by Garuda, who, as the king of birds, possessed a special power over the serpent-arrows.

On another occasion Rama with his brother Lakshmana, both sorely wounded, and ever so many of their Vanar allies, were restored to life and vigour, by the scent of some healing herbs brought by the swift-footed Hanuman from the distant Himalayas. In the combats around the walls of Lanka, as in other contests narrated in the “Ramayana,” the poet describes the power of the various archers to interrupt with their arrows the shafts of their adversaries, or even the most ponderous missiles hurled at them, such as trees and rocks.

With varying success the fierce contest raged round the walls of Lanka, when at length the giants, sorely pressed, called upon Kumbhakarna to assist them. This dreadful monster was Ravana’s brother and a terror to men and gods. At his birth, or shortly after it, he devoured a thousand men. Indra interposed to save the human race from his ravages, but only to be himself discomfited and driven to seek the protection of Brahma, who decreed that Kumbhakarna should sleep for six months at a time, and then only wake for a single day. The mere appearance of the monstrous giant caused a panic in the Vanar army. Multitudes perished under Kumbhakarna’s arm and were devoured by him; but such was his voracity that he captured and flung thousands of living Vanars into his mouth, out of which some fortunate ones managed to escape, through his nostrils and ears. But formidable as he was, Kumbhakarna at length fell by a crescent-headed arrow from Rama’s bow.

“Through skin and flesh and bone it smote,
And rent asunder head and throat.
Down, with the sound of thunder, rolled
The head adorned with rings of gold,
And crushed to pieces in its fall
A gate, a tower, a massive wall.
Hurled to the sea the body fell,
Terrific was the ocean’s swell,
Nor could swift fin and nimble leap
Save the crushed creatures of the deep.”

—Griffith (bk. vi., canto lxvii.).

One memorable episode in this siege of Lanka was a night attack, planned and successfully carried out by Sugriva. Overpowering the guards, the Vanars entered the city, and, amidst the most terrible carnage, gave beautiful and stately Lanka over to the flames:

“As earth with fervent head will glow
When comes her final overthrow;
From gate to gate, from court to spire,
Proud Lanka was one blaze of fire,
And every headland, rock and bay
Shone bright a hundred leagues away!”

—Griffith.

Succeeding this night attack came the final struggle. Ravana sallied forth from Lanka with a marvellous array of chariots,[41] elephants, horses, and men. He himself was the most formidable adversary yet encountered by Rama, having in his time subjugated the Nagas, defeated the gods of heaven, and even successfully invaded the land of departed spirits, ruled over by the dreaded Yama. During the battle that ensued, Indra, anxious, no doubt, to pay off old scores, sent his own chariot to Rama, who, mounted on it, encountered Ravana in single combat, and after a long contest killed his adversary with an arrow which had been made by Brahma himself. As the giant fell, celestial music filled the air, perfumed breezes wandered pleasantly over the field, and heavenly blossoms were rained down upon the conquering hero, the champion of the gods.

With the death of Ravana the war was at an end, and Vibhishana was installed king in his place. Sita, so long and so ardently sought, was now brought forth in state from Lanka, borne in a screened litter on the shoulders of sturdy Rakshasas, to meet her victorious lord. The inquisitive Vanars pressed round to see Vaidehi, on whose account they had so often risked their lives; but the attendants rudely drove them back. Rama, however, interposing, commanded that the lady should descend from the litter and proceed on foot, unveiled, so that his Vanar friends might have a good look at her; for, as he said:

“At holy rites, in war and woe
Her face unveiled a dame may show;
When at the maiden’s choice they meet,
When marriage troops parade the street.
And she, my queen, who long has lain
In prison, racked with care and pain,
May cease awhile her face to hide,
For is not Rama by her side?”

The meeting between Rama and his long-lost queen is a highly dramatic and unexpected scene. Instead of Rama folding his darling in his arms, as one might have expected he would have done, after all his piteous laments about her loss and his often expressed desire to possess his peerless wife once more, we find him coldly repulsing her, on the ground of her long captivity in Ravana’s power. More than that, he cruelly tells her that it was not love for her, but a desire to vindicate his outraged honour, that had brought him to Lanka. Quite unprepared for this undeserved and heartless reception, poor Vaidehi asks her husband most touchingly if the past is all forgotten, if her love and unfaltering devotion have quite faded from his memory? And, waxing sadly indignant, she requests Lakshmana, in a voice broken with sobs, to prepare a funeral pile for her, the only refuge she had left to her in her dark despair. With Rama’s tacit consent the pyre was erected and ignited. Boldly did the virtuous queen enter the flames, and as she fell overpowered by them a cry of grief rose from the bystanders. At this important moment a band of celestial beings, headed by Brahma himself, appeared before the assembled multitude and revealed to Rama his true nature, that he was Vishnu and no mortal man, while the god of fire raised Sita out of the flames, and, publicly attesting her purity, restored her to Rama, who now joyfully received her back to his heart and home. Before the gods departed to their celestial abodes, Indra, at Rama’s considerate request, restored to life all the Vanars who had fallen in his cause. Thus was the great war brought to a conclusion.

Rama now proceeded to Ayodhya, carried aloft through the clouds, over sea and land, in the famous magic car Pushpak, already referred to. With the returning hero went Sita and Lakshmana, the Vanar chiefs and Vibhishana too. After a meeting with his brother Bharata, who came forth with joy to welcome him back, Rama assumed the government of Dasahratha’s kingdom, and reigned over it for ten thousand years.[42]

But his life and Sita’s had still more trouble in them. The people of Ayodhya mocked at Rama for taking back his wife, after she had been so long in the giant’s power. They even attributed a famine which desolated the land to the anger of the gods on account of Rama’s conduct. About to become a mother, Sita expressed a great desire to visit the forest hermitages of the saints. Her husband accorded his consent to her wishes, and directed Lakshmana to conduct her thither. Unable to endure the jibes of his people, Rama resolved to abandon his innocent, unsuspecting wife, alone and unprotected, in the immense forests of Dandhaka, near the sources of the Godavari. The bitter duty was intrusted to Lakshmana, who, ever obedient, carried it out to the letter. Alas! poor Vaidehi, such was the reward of her pure, unselfish love and devotion through many trying years of hardship and sorrow! Cast adrift, alone in the pathless wilderness, Sita was found by the saint Valmiki himself, and tenderly entertained by the holy women of the hermitage. Shortly after this she gave birth to twin sons, who were named Kusa and Lava. In his forest-home, Valmiki, under divine inspiration, composed the “Ramayana,” and taught the sons of Sita to recite the immortal epic. On the occasion of a grand ceremony at Ayodhya, Kusa and Lava had the honour of reciting the great poem in the presence of their father, who, after inquiry, acknowledged them as his sons, and invited Sita to come forward and assert her innocence publicly.

HANUMAN AND THE VANARS REJOICING AT THE RESTORATION OF SITA.

(Reduced from Moor’s “Hindu Pantheon.”)

“But Sita’s heart was too full, this second ordeal was beyond even her power to submit to, and the poet rose above the ordinary Hindu level of women when he ventured to paint her conscious purity as rebelling. Beholding all the spectators, and clothed in red garments, Sita, clasping her hands, and bending low her face, spoke thus in a voice choked with tears: ‘As I, even in mind, have never thought of any other person than Rama, so may Madhavi, the goddess of earth, grant me a hiding-place.’ As Sita made the oath, lo! a marvel appeared. Suddenly cleaving the earth, a divine throne of marvellous beauty rose up, borne by resplendent dragons on their heads, and seated on it the goddess of earth, raising Sita with her arm, said to her, ‘Welcome to thee,’ and placed her by her side. And as the queen, seated on the throne, slowly descended to Hades, a continuous shower of flowers fell down from Heaven on her head.”[43]

Thus in sadness, and with the sting of injustice rankling in her heart, does the gentle Sita disappear for ever.

In bidding farewell to Vaidehi we would notice that throughout this epic all the female characters are much more human than those of the opposite sex, and, in their genuine womanhood, they naturally interest us in a far greater degree than the heroes of the story, be they lofty demigods, cruel Rakshasas, volatile Vanars, or Rishis endowed with superhuman powers.

We have yet to trace the further fortunes of the sons of Dasahratha. When Rama had reigned for a long period at Ayodhya, Time, as an ascetic, sought an interview with him, at which no one might intrude on pain of certain death. As messenger from Brahma, Time explained to Rama his real nature and position, leaving it to him to continue longer on earth or to return to heaven. During the interview an impatient Rishi desired immediate audience of Rama. Lakshmana, who knew the penalty of intruding upon him at this moment, raised some difficulties; but the irate saint threatened to launch a curse against Rama and all his kinsfolk if he were not admitted to his presence forthwith. Lakshmana, dreading, for Rama’s sake, the Rishi’s curse, interrupted his interview with Time and thereby incurred the penalty of death. Lakshmana accordingly went to the river Surayu and was thence conveyed bodily to heaven. Rama, accompanied by his brothers Bharata and Satrughna, and attended by the goddess of earth, also by all his weapons in human shapes, the Vedas in the form of Brahmans, and his women and servants, proceeded to the Surayu and entered its waters. As he did so the voice of Brahma was heard from the sky, saying: “Approach, Vishnu, Raghav, thou hast happily arrived with thy godlike brothers. Enter thine own body as Vishnu or the eternal ether.” He and his followers were then all of them translated to heaven.[44]

Such is the famous story of Rama and Sita. Ordinary men and women are of little account and scarcely figure at all amongst the poet’s creations. Nearly everything in the “Ramayana” is superhuman. The dire conflicts which occupy so large a part of the epic are waged between demigods and fiends, or giants. The weapons employed are celestial, or perhaps only charmed. Mystic spells are of the greatest efficacy, and the results are proportionally great.

In the war that raged around the walls of Ilium the gods did, certainly, interfere in the combats, and sometimes unfairly too; they even attacked each other occasionally; but, notwithstanding the supernatural element, the Trojan war was still a war of men and heroes. Not so that which ensanguined the hills and plains of Lanka.

The India of the “Ramayana” was covered with forests, and it is noteworthy that Rama’s progress is traced rather from forest to forest than from city to city, which last were very few and far between.

The hero of the tale is a very different one from those who figure in the Homeric poems. As a son he is most dutiful, pushing the idea of filial respect and obedience to the extreme, bearing no enmity even towards his designing stepmother. As a layman he is religious and unfeignedly respectful to Brahmans and saints. As a prince he is patriotic and benign; as a warrior, skilful and fearless in the fight. As an elder brother, however, he is often somewhat exacting and inconsiderate, and as a husband his behaviour is, to say the least, disappointing. On the whole the prominent characteristic of this hero, limned by Brahman artists, is a spirit of mild self-sacrifice, as distinguished from bold self-assertion.

The reader who has glanced through even the brief epitome of Valmiki’s poem now presented will not have omitted to note the wealth of imagination displayed by the author or authors, nor will he have failed to be charmed by many a beautiful picture and many an interesting situation.