Markandeya, the sage of divine sight, narrated unto Dharmaraja the tale of Rama, the virtuous scion of Raghu, who bore hardships greater than any born of man. When the deceitful Maricha, mortally wounded by Rama’s arrow, uttered in dying agony a false cry in the voice of Rama himself, the cry reached Sita’s tender ears. Trembling, she urged Lakshmana to hasten to Rama’s aid. But Lakshmana, steadfast in reason, assured her that no power in the three worlds could harm Rama and that he would soon return.
Yet Sita, frail in heart though firm in virtue, misjudged his restraint and, blinded by fear, accused him of harbouring ill intent toward her. Lakshmana, unable to bear such reproach, departed in grief to seek Rama. Then, at that fateful hour, Ravana, the ten-headed lord of Lanka, came disguised as a hermit—bearing the sacred thread, matted locks, linen robes, a staff and water-pot, as if wearied from penance.
Sita, faithful to her wifely duty, offered him water and fruit, greeting him with reverence. But the demon cast aside disguise and revealed his dread form. “O gentle lady,” he said, “I am Ravana, king of the demon world. My city, Lanka, is famed through the three realms. Be my consort and enjoy all the treasures of earth. Why endure the miseries of this forest, wedded to one who lives in want? Abandon this hardship and reign beside me.”
Then Sita, daughter of Janaka, rising like lightning against a storm, spoke: “O Ravana, your words are base. Where you stand and where I stand—between them lies an abyss no power can cross. You speak as your vile tongue allows. The heavens may crumble, the earth may rend, the oceans dry, and the sun and moon lose their path—yet my mind cannot turn from Rama. O fool, restrain thy thought, for even imagining me is sin.”
Thus rebuked, she turned away. Ravana seized her, mounted his chariot of the sky, and fled toward Lanka. Sita cried aloud: “O Brahmins, O gods, hear me! I am Sita, wife of Sri Rama, daughter of Janaka! This demon drags me by force—restrain him, save me, and earn immortal merit!” Her wail reached the ears of Jatayu, the aged king of birds, dwelling in the forest caverns. Like a mountain in flight, he rose roaring to bar Ravana’s path. “O wicked one,” he cried, “release this gentle lady! You shall not escape me; I am Jatayu, terror of foes!”
A mighty battle ensued. Ravana hurled weapons; Jatayu tore his flesh and pecked his chest. Blood streamed from Ravana like lava from a crimson peak. Then the demon, finding an opening, drew his sword and severed the bird’s wings. Jatayu fell earthward, and Ravana, speeding away, carried the weeping Sita, who cast her jewels upon the mountains below, praying that they might bear witness to her path. In Lanka he placed her within the Ashoka grove, guarded by demonesses.
When Rama and Lakshmana returned, they found Maricha slain and learned from Lakshmana of Sita’s harsh words. Rama’s heart trembled with dread, foreseeing some demon’s deceit. Reaching the hermitage, they found it empty—a lifeless shell. Rama fainted in anguish; Lakshmana revived him with care. As they roamed in search of Sita, they beheld Jatayu, breathing his last. At first, they feared it was a demon’s trick, but the dying bird spoke: “O noble princes, I am Jatayu, son of Aruna, friend of your father Dasaratha.
Ravana has borne Sita southward. I fought him, but he struck me down. Pursue him swiftly.” With these words, the bird expired, and Rama, moved to tears, performed his rites. Proceeding southward, they came upon the dreadful Kabandha—a monster with eyes upon his chest and arms like serpents. Seizing Lakshmana, he laughed horribly. “See, brother,” said Lakshmana, “how fate strikes again. We lost a kingdom, we lost our beloved, and now even the forest devours us. Is there misery greater than mine?” Rama, resolute, said, “Fear not, dear brother; no harm shall touch you while I live.” With his sword, he smote off the monster’s arms. From the cleft body rose a celestial being, radiant in form. “I am the Gandharva Visvavasu,” he said.
“By Brahma’s curse I became this demon, but your touch has freed me. Hear my counsel—Ravana has taken Sita to Lanka. Go hence to the lake Pampa. Near it stands the mountain Rishyamuka, where dwells Sugriva, brother of Vali. Form an alliance with him, and your purpose shall prosper.” Thus, blessing them, he vanished. Journeying onward, Rama and Lakshmana reached Pampa, fair and serene. The water gleamed like crystal, adorned with lotus and swan; the waves caressed the shore as if washing a sage’s feet.
The birds sang as though welcoming divine guests, and creepers clasped the trees like hermitages of nature. Rama, beholding its beauty, was overcome with sorrow, thinking of Sita. Lakshmana spoke gently: “O noble one, affliction may shake the weak, but not a mind like yours. Endure, for endurance is the crown of virtue. Let us seek Sita first; all else may wait. I am your servant, your disciple, your companion in sorrow. Why, then, should grief dwell in your heart?” Consoled, Rama bathed, offered oblations to his ancestors, and beheld afar the heights of Rishyamuka, wreathed in cloud.
There they rested, and Sugriva, lord of the forest tribes, seeing their royal bearing, sent Hanuman to learn their nature. Hanuman, wise, eloquent, and valiant, approached them, spoke with reverence, and soon forged a friendship between Rama and Sugriva. Sugriva then brought forth the bundle of jewels cast by Sita in her flight. Rama, beholding them, wept, recognizing her ornaments, and vowed to aid Sugriva in return to slay Vali and restore to him his throne.
Together they went to Kishkindha, Vali’s city. Sugriva called out his brother to battle, though Vali’s wife Tara warned him: “O lord, beware. This challenge is not as before. Sugriva is aided by Rama, son of Dasaratha, whose wife Ravana stole. Beware, for with Rama stands Hanuman, the mighty, and Jambavan, the wise. Do not fight rashly.” But Vali, proud of his might, laughed her counsel aside, accusing her of tenderness toward Sugriva.
He strode forth, radiant with strength. Meeting Sugriva, he mocked him: “O coward, how dare you challenge me again, whom you have fled so often?” Sugriva answered boldly: “Vali, I have lost wife, throne, and peace through you. A man with nothing left to lose fears not defeat. Fight me now, for this Sugriva is not the one you knew.”
Then began the terrible duel—trees torn, stones hurled, fists crashing like thunder. The sons of the Sun and of Indra clashed like mountains in tempest, their blows shaking the earth. Rama, watching, could not distinguish them, for they seemed alike. Then Hanuman, discerning the confusion, marked Sugriva with a garland of tender leaves. As Vali pressed his brother, Rama lost his arrow; it struck Vali through the heart.
The mighty vanara fell, accusing Rama of unjust warfare, and breathed his last. Thus, Rama fulfilled his oath—restored Sugriva to the throne and joined Tara to her lord. From that moment, destiny set its wheel in motion, and the fabric of the worlds began to change—woven by the deeds of Rama, who bore the weight of dharma upon his soul.
