In many lands, the monkey-warriors are born by the favour of the gods, vast of limb, solidity of rock, hearts of diamond; some glitter like the noonday sun, their habits becoming their nature; they move as if lords of doom at the world’s ending, skilled in the arts of battle, their might equalling that of elephantine herds.
Dharmaja asked how Rama, the human embodiment of virtue, could be sent by King Dasaratha into exile; Dasaratha, who by the fruit of his piety had begotten four sons, rejoiced as one who had won mastery over the three worlds. In childhood, they were instructed in spiritual discipline and schooled in kingly arts; thereafter, they took wives.
Rama himself showed forth with eyes like a newly opened lotus and a honeyed smile; calm as an elephant, buoyant with youth, shining like the tender dawn, he was luminous and renowned, consummate in the Vedas and their branches, on a level with the foremost of kings, master of his senses, schooled in the path of righteousness, beloved of subjects and kindred, fit to chastise the wicked and succour the distressed, an exemplar who enhanced the glory of the Raghu line — Sri Ramachandra, the cherished son of Dasaratha.
When the king prepared to anoint him heir, having sought the counsel of friends, ministers, citizens and priests and having fixed an auspicious hour, there came to pass the whisperings of a serving-woman of Kaikeyi who, having reared Bharata, returned to her mistress and said: your husband loves you not; be not misled by his smiles; his heart inclines to Kausalya, and therefore he would install her son upon the throne; you have let life’s fairest chance slip away. Struck with such words, Kaikeyi hastened to the king and in private reminded him of a boon he had once granted; she commanded that it now be fulfilled and demanded that Bharata be made crown-prince and that Rama be banished to the forest for fourteen years.
Dasaratha, overborne by his oath and by the memory of his promise, cried that for her he would commit deeds otherwise foul, even slaying the undeserving, protecting the guilty, taking a Brahmin’s store, or giving away what was his; desire me not to hesitate; ask and be satisfied. So, when Kaikeyi named her terms the king sank down, aghast, and fell senseless to the floor. Rama, learning the queen’s demand and his father’s swoon, regarded his sire’s word as sovereign: heedless of all that men call comfort, he went forth to the forest with Sita at his side, and Lakshmana followed. Dasaratha, knowing that Rama had departed and praising the sacrifice while lamenting that life without that son could not be endured, breathed his last and passed to the heavenly abode.
Kaikeyi sent for Bharata and told him that the king was dead and that Rama had gone to the woods, bidding him take upon himself the realm; Bharata, stricken with wrath and shame, reproached his mother: thou hast sullied the line of Surya by driving Rama from his rights and laden me with dishonour; thou art a sinner who has robbed me of my inheritance. After the funeral rites, he summoned neighbouring rulers, Brahmins, village elders, traders, and ministers, and with them went to implore Rama to return and accept the kingdom.
Meeting him at Chitragupta, he found the prince like a blue cloud in matted hair, clothed in deer-skins, his body anointed with sacred dust, the light of Kakustha in his calm eyes, lauded by sages, compassionate and peerless among kings. Bharata, weeping, fell at Rama’s feet and announced their father’s death, begging him to come and reign. Rama, steadfast to the vow, would not be moved; Bharata, taking Rama’s sandals, returned to Ayodhya and kept them on the throne at Nandigrāma, ruling only as the king’s deputy.
Rama, fearing that Bharata’s presence might bring pressure upon him, withdrew farther into the wilds, paying homage to the hermit Sarabhanga and afterwards dwelling in the Dandaka, upon the banks of the Godāvarī, with Lakshmana and Sītā. There, the enmity of the demons arose: Surpanakhā, seeking to harm Sītā, was shamed and mutilated by the brothers; in vengeance, she marshalled throngs of rakshasas who were cut down by Rama’s divine shafts. He routed Khara and Dushana and slew many thousands, freeing the Dandaka from demonic outrage.
Surpanakhā, stricken, fled to her brother Rāvaṇa and related her humiliation; wrath consumed him. “Who is this lowly man who has treated my sister so?” he cried, his countenance flaming; he swore that Rama’s days on earth were numbered, and with roaring fury he set out by the passes of Trikūta and the dark mountains to Gokarna, where he sought out Marīcha, once his trusted minister and now an ascetic, who trembled at the name of Rama and counselled that to meet Rama in battle would be certain death, for Rama’s arrows were of such potency that even Lord Śiva’s endurance would fail.
Yet when Ravana threatened, Marīcha chose the lesser doom and consented to a stratagem: he should take the shape of a golden deer and entice Sītā, whereupon Rama, moved by desire to possess so fair a thing, would pursue and be drawn away while another seized Sītā.
Thus, the deer, subtle and shining, ranged the grove, sometimes near, sometimes afar, capering among the bushes; Rama, perceiving its strangeness and divining a plot, at last smote it with a purposeful shaft; as the beast fell it uttered Rama’s voice in feigned distress, and Sītā, hearing that cry, bade Lakshmana go forth to aid his brother.
Lakshmana, trusting in Rama’s valour and counselled by no fear, bade Sītā be of good heart, for no power could prevail against Rama and soon the solar house would rise in splendour; yet Sītā’s doubts and anger, born of sudden terror, opened the door by which enemies might work their will.
