Canto XII: The Banishment of Râma; the Carrying-away of Sîtâ; her Rescue, and Râvaṇa's Defeat and Death

Now Daçaratha, having known all joys
Of sense, and entering on life's final stage,
Neared his eclipse, as fades before the dawn
The lamplight. Fearing Kaikeyî, Old Age—
Squat at his ear and hidden in grey hairs—
Urged that the Kingdom be to Râma given.
Then rumour spread that Râma should be King,
The people's Darling, gave to every man
His inmost heart's desire, as springs refresh—
Spread through a garden—every tree alike.
But when for his Anointing all was ripe,
Kaikeyî interposed with fell resolve,
Marred all the pomp, and drew hot tears of grief
From her Lord's agèd eyes. In vain he sought
To soothe her rage,—who urged more veh'mently
Two promises erst made, as flooded plains
Drive hissing from their holes two monstrous snakes.
One promise now she used, for fourteen years
To banish Râma,—with the next she claimed
(Though well she knew the cost, her husband's life),
For her own son the Royal throne. With tears,
At bidding of his Father, Râma took
The world-wide Realm, but with all cheerfulness
Received the doom of exile. Sore amazed,
The people marked his aspect all unchanged,
Both when he wore the robes of royal state,
And when the bark-dress. Lakshmaṇ and Sîtâ
He took for his companions, and possessed
Both Daṇḍaka's wide forest and the hearts
Of all who virtue loved: so he discharged
From stain upon his truth his Kingly Sire.
That Sire, heart-broken at his exile, knew
How by rash act of yore he earned the curse;
And, deeming only Death could make him pure,
Forsook the throne and sought for ways to die.
Then foes, that eager watched for wasting flaws,
Pounced on the realm, whose King was now eclipsed,
And Râma banished. Agèd councillors
The people, masterless, sent to recall
Prince Bharata, then with his mother's kin,
And dried their tears. But when that noble Prince
Heard how his Father died, the Kingly state
Grew hateful to him,—and his mother too.
With armèd host he followed Râma's steps,
And marked with many a tear where Hermits showed
The trees 'neath which with Lakshmaṇ he had slept.
When found in Chitrakûṭa's forest, first
He told their Father's passing; next, he urged
Persistent his return, to wed the Realm,
Whose charms now withered unenjoyed. Himself
He deemed a mere supplanter, gathering
The fruits of Earth, while Râma still delayed,
His elder brother, Fortune's hand to claim.
But Râma yielded not; he rather chose
His sainted Father's doom to abide,—and gave,
Long-urged, as pledges of his right as King,
The Royal sandals. Then the Prince went back,
Yet entered not the city; but, encamped
In Nandî, ruled the Kingdom as a trust,
Not as his own: firm in his loyalty,
Not grasping at the crown, pure Bharata
Made expiation for his mother's crime.

But Râma with bright Sîtâ lived content
A forest-life, sustained on forest-food,
And—with his younger brother—while in youth
Took up the life austere and rigid vows
That bind in age Ikshvâku's mighty line.
Now on a day when, wearied with the chase,
His head awhile he laid in Sîtâ's lap,
Beneath a forest-king, whose spreading shade
Was fixed by power divine, great Indra's bird,
As 'twere in scorn of Râma's love-contests,
Scratched with his claws her breasts. She quickly roused
Her mighty Lord, who with a blade of grass
The offender smote, and blinded one rash eye.
But Râma deemed his refuge all too near,
Lest Bharat might return to urge his suit,
And left the glades on Chitrakûṭa's slopes,
Whose deer lamented when he left. He passed
Far to the South, as welcome guest received
In Hermits' huts;—so in the Autumn months
The Sun for southern quarters quits the North.
Him following Videha's Princess shone,
Bright as the Kingdom's Genius, fain to woo
His Royal virtues, by Kaikeyî's wiles
Forbid to wed him. Perfumes strangely sweet,
From Anasûyâ's ointment on her limbs,
She shed around her, luring so the bees
From forest-blossoms. Black as cloud of night,
A Râkshasa, Virâdha named, stood up,
Opposing Râma's march, as Râhu's bulk
Obstructs the moon. Then sudden from between
The guardian Brothers he the Princess tore,
As drought licks up the rain in Autumn months.
But him the Heroes slew, Kâkutstha's sons,
And,—ere the fetid stench from his foul limbs
Could taint the world,—they quickly buried him.
Then at Agastya's bidding Râma fixed,
The bounds of right observing, his abode
In wide Panchâvatî, as Vindhya high
Stands stablished in his might. To Râma there
Came Râvaṇ's sister, faint with love, as seeks
A snake oppressed with heat on Malaya
The forest's grateful shade. Her shameless love
The crook-clawed Demon told, nor shamed to tell
In Sîtâ's very presence: true it is,
That woman's high-strung love respects no bounds.
She told her lineage too:—but he replied,—
"Ah, Maiden, I am wedded! seek the love
Of my young brother!"—so the love-sick maid
Bull-shouldered Râma counselled. She forsooth
Had sought out Lakshmaṇ first, and so returned
Again to Râma, as alternately
A stream sweeps either bank. Her Sîtâ's laugh
From momentary softness roused to rage,
As Ocean's waves that sleep 'neath windless skies
Are swollen by the Moon. "Beware!" she cried,
"This scorn thou'lt dearly rue! Thou, timid roe,
Hast dared a tiger's fury! Look, and fear!"
So spake the Demon threatening: Sîtâ shrank
Against her husband's breast, dismayed to see
The foe resume her hideous shape, and spread
Her murderous claws. Heroic Lakshmaṇ too,
Who heard a gentle, dove-like cooing first,
Then wolfish howlings, knew her for transformed,—
He drew his sword, swift burst into the hut,
And hacked with blow on blow that awful shape.
She flying upward shook a threatening hand,
With fingers crooked, thick as knotted reeds,
Then flew to Janasthân, and told her wrongs
To Khara and his peers,—new insult heaped
By Râma on the Demon-host. In wrath
They made her wrongs their own, whose lips and mouth
Were scored and scarred, and courted foul defeat,
Attacking Râma. On they boldly came,
With arms uplifted, whom when Râma saw,—
His hope of victory laying on his bow,—
His Spouse he left to Lakshmaṇ's guard. The foes
Were full a thousand, Râma only one,—
Yet in the fight each several Demon found
A foe to meet him. Dûshana he smote,
Sent as their champion, as pure-living men
Smite fleshly lusts:—him first, and Khara next,
And Triçiras so swift he slew the three,
They seemed to fall together. His bright darts
Pierced through them, and—unstained—drank their foul lives,
The birds their blood. Soon of that Demon-host,
By Râma's arrows quelled, save headless trunks
Nought on the plain stood up; beneath the rain
He showered on them all that dread array
Lay lapt in endless slumber, while foul wings
Of filthy vultures hovered o'er their heads.
Alone escaping, Sûrpanakhâ bore
The news of foul defeat at Râma's hands
To mighty Râvaṇ, sore dismayed, who deemed
That by his sister's maiming, then defeat
And slaughter of his kinsmen, his ten heads
Lay trampled in the dust by Râma's heel.
By magic art a Demon at his word
Took form of deer, and Raghu's sons deceived
By futile chase, and—though a while delayed
By staunch Jatâyû—Sîtâ bore away.
The brothers seeking her the Vulture found
With mangled pinions, who with failing breath
Love's final debt to Daçaratha paid.
In faltering words he told how Râvaṇ fell
The Princess tore away: his wounds declared
His brave resistance: then he died. The twain,
Who late, had mourned a Father's loss, renewed
For him as for a parent funeral rites,
And reared a lofty pyre. Bold Râma then,
Kabandha's counsel following, who by death
Escaped from lifelong curse, made treaty firm
And strong alliance with the Monkey-King,
Sugrîva, mourning like himself a bride
Late torn away. The Hero quick discrowned
Usurping Bâli, and his friend restored—
Sugrîva—to his throne, as fitter word
Displaces one less fit. The Monkey-hosts
At Râma's bidding sped to every clime,
And like his own sad thoughts searched through the world.
Sampâtî meeting, Hanumân at length,
The Wind-god's son, had news where Sîtâ dwelt,
And crossed the Ocean,—as a happy soul
The stream of Death. Last, searching Lankâ through,
He found the fair Princess, but compassed round
By Demon-guards,—a fair mimosa clasped
By poisonous creepers. Râma's token first,
The ring, he gave, which she with joyful tears
Bedewed,—then with her husband's love-words cheered.
Stout Aksha next he slew, and—high of heart—
Set Lankâ all in flames, then for brief space
Sustained unequal fight. His work so done,
He hied him back to Râma, and the ring—
His Sîtâ's token—showed, as 'twere the heart
She fain had sent. As Râma touched the gem,
He closed his eyes in rapture, and in thought
Felt her heart beating on his own: so keen
His longing was to meet his prisoned Love,
That Ocean circling Lankâ round appeared
A narrow moat, no more. At once he marched,
The Demon-foes to quell,—while Monkey-hosts
Behind him swarmed, careering through the air
Not less than on the earth. On Ocean's shore
He fixed his camp; to whom Vibhîshaṇ came,
His brother's side deserting, sage advice
In love to Râma offering,—wise in time.
To him did Râma give the Demon-realm
In recompense: so ever counsel sage
And timely bears rich fruit. Across the sea
The Hero laid a bridge, resembling much
That mighty Serpent which for Vishṇu's sleep
Above the waters rises. So he crossed,
And Lankâ close besieged with tawny Apes,
That like a doubled golden rampart showed.
Then Demons joined in deadly strife with Apes,
And Heaven resounded with their battle-cries,—
For Râvaṇ or for Râma. Steel-bound clubs
By trees were shattered, maces split on rocks,
And claws gave wounds more terrible than steel,
While elephants dashed rocks in splinters small.
Fair Sîtâ watched the fight: and swooned at sight
Of Râma's head struck off, but soon revived
When good Trijâta told that Râma lived,
And 'twas but glamour. At this healing word,
Her sorrow turned to joy; yet loving shame
Still ruled her as she thought,—"I yet could live,
While thinking He was dead!" Now in the fight
Bold Meghanâda's noose one moment bound
The mighty Brethren, whom the Bird of Heaven
Loosed, swooping down; so soon that peril passed,
It seemed a dream, no more. The Demon-King
Pierced Lakshman's breast with deadly spear,—whereat
The heart of Râma, though himself unharmed,
Was cleft in twain by sorrow. Healing herbs
The Monkey-monarch brought, and salved the wound,—
And Lakshmaṇ swift reviving with keen shafts
Again taught Lanka's wives to weep. No more
He suffered Meghanâda's shout, but snapped
His bow that rivalled Indra's,—Autumn so
Dissolves a cloud. Stout Kumbhakarṇa next,
By Hanumân to woeful straits reduced,
Like his fell sister, Râma's self assailed,—
Wide-gaping like a rocky cave. Him soon
The Hero's arrows sent to sleep in death:
And Râma mused,—"Much lovedst thou sleep, my foe!
And wert untimely roused in evil hour."
The Brethren many a famous Râkshas more
Smote with their arrows till the battle-dust
Was smothered with their blood in copious streams.
At length came Râvaṇ forth again to fight,
His palace leaving, well resolved that now
The Worlds that day should either Râma lose
Or Râvaṇ. On he drove his fencèd car
To where the Hero stood,—till Indra sent
His chariot and bay steeds to Râma's help.
That car auspicious, leaning on the arm
Of Mâthalî, He mounted,—while its flag
Waved in the breeze, cool from the waters pure
Of Heaven's own river. Indra's mail he donned,
Helped by the charioteer,—that mail from which
Repelled the Daityas' arrows fell to earth,
Soft as frail lotus-stems. Fierce battle raged
Between the mighty foes, who found at last,
So meeting, scope to show their matchless might.
Fell Râvaṇ fought alone, his hosts withdrawn,
But by his many necks, and heads, and arms,
Appeared encircled by his mother's kin.
The Demon-foe, whose might prevailed of yore
Against the world's great Guardians, who had won
His boon from Brahmâ—offering up his heads,
Who poised aloft Kailâsa, Râma held
A worthy foeman. Râvaṇ, fiercely wroth,
Drove deep his arrow in that strong right arm,
Which, wildly-throbbing, told he should redeem
His fair Princess. Then Râma loosed a shaft
Which, piercing Râvaṇ's breast, lodged in the ground,
Glad tidings bearing to the Serpent-world.
The fight grew stern; each hero matched his foe,
With sword for sword, and taunt for taunt, as when
Two rival speakers strive for mastery.
Swayed by their equal valour Victory
Long wavered, as a rampart set between
Two raging elephants. The showers of shafts
That either poured on other stayed the fall
Of flowers rained down by Gods and Demons, keen
To mark the rapid interchange of blows.
Then Râvaṇ dashed an iron-studded mace,
Fell as the club of Death, of silkwood formed,
Full at his foe. But Râma with keen shafts,
Curved-headed, cut the mace in twain or e'er
It reached the chariot,—like a slender twig,—
Thus shattering the Demons' soaring hopes.
Then did the matchless archer to his string
Lay that unerring arrow, Brahmâ named,
A simple meet to heal the stinging pain
That gnawed his Sîtâ's heart. With flaming points,
Split in a hundred parts, resembling most
The Serpent-King's huge frame, when baleful gleams
His awful hood, it hurtled through the air.
Then in a moment, winged with spells, the shaft
Smote off,—the wound unfelt,—the whole ten heads
Of Râvaṇ. But the line of headless necks
Shone, as the body fell, with fitful gleams,
Like morning sunbeams sparkling on a lake,
By wavelets broken. Even then the Gods,
Though all the heads had fallen, scarce rejoiced
With full rejoicing; for they feared those heads
(As erst befell) might join the trunk once more.
Then fell on Râma's head, which soon should wear
The Kingly crown, a rain of fragrant flowers,
Poured by the joyful Gods,—while on them swarmed
(Their wings with honey laden) bees that late
Forsook the perfumed streams which from the brows
Distilled of Elephants that guard the Worlds.
Now Râma soon unbent his mighty Bow,
The Gods' high mandate well fulfilled; and now
The Charioteer of Indra bade farewell,
And drove to Heaven his car with thousand bays,
While waved aloft the flags which Râvaṇ's shafts
Pierced through and through. The Lord of Raghu's line
Took back his well-loved Bride from purging fires,
And to his loyal friend Vibhîshaṇ gave
The crown he tore from Râvaṇ. Then by him
Followed, by Lakshmaṇ, and by Hanumân,—
King o'er the Monkey-host,—the radiant Car
Won by his valour from proud Râvaṇa
He mounted joyfully, and homeward sped.