The Ramayana by Valmiki (ink book reader TXT) 📕

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glory undefiled,
When Nandi(455) stands beside his lord,
And King Himálaya's child.(456)

Canto XVII. Súrpanakhá.

The bathing and the prayer were o'er;
He turned him from the grassy shore,
And with his brother and his spouse
Sought his fair home beneath the boughs.
Sítá and Lakshman by his side,
On to his cot the hero hied,
And after rites at morning due
Within the leafy shade withdrew.
Then, honoured by the devotees,
As royal Ráma sat at ease,
With Sítá near him, o'er his head
A canopy of green boughs spread,
He shone as shines the Lord of Night
By Chitrá's(457) side, his dear delight.

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soul detest

The shameful life your words suggest.

Eat, if you will, this mortal frame:

My soul rejects the sin and shame.

A homeless wanderer though he be,

In him my lord, my life I see,

And, till my earthly days be done,

Will cling to great Ikshváku's son.”

Then with fierce eyes on Sítá set

They cried again with taunt and threat:

Each licking with her fiery tongue

The lip that to her bosom hung,

And menacing the lady's life

With axe, or spear or murderous knife:

“Hear, Sítá, and our words obey,

Or perish by our hands to-day.

Thy love for Raghu's son forsake,

And Rávaṇ for thy husband take,

Or we will rend thy limbs apart

And banquet on thy quivering heart.

Now from her body strike the head,

And tell the king the dame is dead.

Then by our lord's commandment she

A banquet for our band shall be.

Come, let the wine be quickly brought

That frees each heart from saddening thought.

Then to the western gate repair,

And we will dance and revel there.”

Canto XXV. Sítá's Lament.

On the bare earth the lady sank,

And trembling from their presence shrank

Like a strayed fawn, when night is dark,

And hungry wolves around her bark. [pg 410]

Then to a shady tree she crept,

And thought upon her lord and wept.

By fear and bitter woe oppressed

She bathed the beauties of her breast

With her hot tears' incessant flow,

And found no respite from her woe.

As shakes a plantain in the breeze

She shook, and fell on trembling knees;

While at each demon's furious look

Her cheek its native hue forsook.

She lay and wept and made her moan

In sorrow's saddest undertone,

And, wild with grief, with fear appalled,

On Ráma and his brother called:

“O dear Kauśalyá,842 hear me cry!

Sweet Queen Sumitrá,843 list my sigh!

True is the saw the wise declare:

Death comes not to relieve despair.

'Tis vain for dame or man to pray;

Death will not hear before his day;

Since I, from Ráma's sight debarred,

And tortured by my cruel guard,

Still live in hopeless woe to grieve

And loathe the life I may not leave,

Here, like a poor deserted thing,

My limbs upon the ground I fling,

And, like a bark beneath the blast,

Shall sink oppressed with woes at last.

Ah, blest are they, supremely blest,

Whose eyes upon my lord may rest;

Who mark his lion port, and hear

His gentle speech that charms the ear.

Alas, what antenatal crime,

What trespass of forgotten time

Weighs on my soul, and bids me bow

Beneath this load of misery now?”

Canto XXVI. Sítá's Lament.

“I Ráma's wife, on that sad day,

By Rávaṇ's arm was borne away,

Seized, while I sat and feared no ill,

By him who wears each form at will.

A helpless captive, left forlorn

To demons' threats and taunts and scorn,

Here for my lord I weep and sigh,

And worn with woe would gladly die.

For what is life to me afar

From Ráma of the mighty car?

The robber in his fruitless sin

Would hope his captive's love to win.

My meaner foot shall never touch

The demon whom I loathe so much.

The senseless fool! he knows me not,

Nor the proud soul his love would blot.

Yea, limb from limb will I be rent,

But never to his prayer consent;

Be burnt and perish in the fire,

But never meet his base desire.

My lord was grateful, true and wise,

And looked on woe with pitying eyes;

But now, recoiling from the strife

He pities not his captive wife.

Alone in Janasthán he slew

The thousands of the Rákshas crew.

His arm was strong, his heart was brave,

Why comes he not to free and save?

Why blame my lord in vain surmise?

He knows not where his lady lies.

O, if he knew, o'er land and sea

His feet were swift to set me free;

This Lanká, girdled by the deep,

Would fall consumed, a shapeless heap,

And from each ruined home would rise

A Rákshas widow's groans and cries.”

Canto XXVII. Trijatá's Dream.

Their threats unfeared, their counsel spurned,

The demons' breasts with fury burned.

Some sought the giant king to bear

The tale of Sítá's fixt despair.

With threats and taunts renewed the rest

Around the weeping lady pressed.

But Trijaṭá, of softer mould,

A Rákshas matron wise and old,

With pity for the captive moved,

In words like these the fiends reproved:

“Me, me,” she cried, “eat me, but spare

The spouse of Daśaratha's heir.

Last night I dreamt a dream; and still

The fear and awe my bosom chill;

For in that dream I saw foreshown

Our race by Ráma's hand o'erthrown.

I saw a chariot high in air,

Of ivory exceeding fair.

A hundred steeds that chariot drew

As swiftly through the clouds it flew,

And, clothed in white, with wreaths that shone,

The sons of Raghu rode thereon.

I looked and saw this lady here,

Clad in the purest white, appear

High on the snow white hill whose feet

The angry waves of ocean beat.

And she and Ráma met at last

Like light and sun when night is past.

Again I saw them side by side.

On Rávaṇ's car they seemed to ride,

And with the princely Lakshmaṇ flee

To northern realms beyond the sea. [pg 411]

Then Rávaṇ, shaved and shorn, besmeared

With oil from head to foot, appeared.

He quaffed, he raved: his robes were red:

Fierce was his eye, and bare his head.

I saw him from his chariot thrust;

I saw him rolling in the dust.

A woman came and dragged away

The stricken giant where he lay,

And on a car which asses drew

The monarch of our race she threw.

He rose erect, he danced and laughed,

With thirsty lips the oil he quaffed,

Then with wild eyes and streaming mouth

Sped on the chariot to the south.844

Then, dropping oil from every limb,

His sons the princes followed him,

And Kumbhakarṇa,845 shaved and shorn,

Was southward on a camel borne.

Then royal Lanká reeled and fell

With gate and tower and citadel.

This ancient city, far-renowned:

All life within her walls was drowned;

And the wild waves of ocean rolled

O'er Lanká and her streets of gold.

Warned by these signs I bid you fly;

Or by the hand of Ráma die,

Whose vengeance will not spare the life

Of one who vexed his faithful wife.

Your bitter taunts and threats forgo:

Comfort the lady in her woe,

And humbly pray her to forgive;

For so you may be spared and live.”

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

Canto XXX. Hanumán's Deliberation.

The Vánar watched concealed: each word

Of Sítá and the fiends he heard,

And in a maze of anxious thought

His quick-conceiving bosom wrought.

“At length my watchful eyes have seen,

Pursued so long, the Maithil queen,