विराधवधः

When Sītā saw the two Kākutsthas, the best of Raghu's line, being carried off on the rākṣasa's shoulders, she raised her arms and cried out aloud. Her lament was not for herself but for the brothers: ‘This is Rāma, Daśaratha's son, truthful, virtuous and pure, and a rākṣasa of dreadful shape is carrying him off, and Lakṣmaṇa with him! Bears and tigers and leopards will devour me here, so take me instead and let the two Kākutsthas go. I bow to you, best of rākṣasas.’ That she addressed even her enemy as ‘best of rākṣasas’ and pleaded with him — offering herself to save her husband — is the very height of a wife's devotion. Hearing Vaidehī's words, the heroes Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa made haste to kill the evil-souled creature; her cry gave the fight new strength. For the first time in this sarga Sītā's voice proves more powerful than the voices of the warriors. In the previous sarga she trembled with fear; here she is ready to give herself up as a sacrifice. The poet spends only four verses on this, yet in them her whole character shines out.

Saumitri broke the left arm of that terrible creature, and Rāma forcefully broke the right. Both arms shattered, the rākṣasa was stunned and fell at once to the ground in a faint, like a cloud-dark mountain split by the thunderbolt. Then the two beat him with fists, arms and feet, lifting him again and again and grinding him into the bare earth. Yet pierced with many arrows, gashed by two swords, and ground into the ground over and over, the rākṣasa did not die. Seeing him unkillable and immovable as a mountain, the glorious Rāma, who gives safety in times of fear, said: ‘Tiger among men, by the power of his austerities this rākṣasa cannot be beaten in battle by any weapon. Let us bury him.’ The limits of the boon suggested the way: it forbade death by weapons, not burial in the earth. The breaking of his arms was the turning point of the fight, for so long as he had his arms the brothers were pinned on his shoulders, and with them broken they were free. The image of a mountain split by the thunderbolt continues the image of Meru's rock in the previous sarga: there the pike fell, here the rākṣasa himself. Fighting with fists, arms and feet is a kind of wrestling rarely described in the Rāmāyaṇa, and the brothers turned to it only because their weapons had failed. The poet repeats that he still did not die, to establish how firm the boon was. Rāma's epithet, ‘he who gives safety in times of fear’, is apt here: the one who grants safety to others was not unsettled even by an enemy who could not be killed, but thought out a means. And ‘let us bury him’ is spoken for both of them, making it their shared task.

‘For this rākṣasa, fierce as an elephant, Lakṣmaṇa, let a very great pit be dug in this forest,’ Rāma ordered — a pit such as one would dig for an elephant. Having told Lakṣmaṇa to dig the hole, the valiant Rāma stood with his foot pressing on Virādha's throat, a picture that is itself the emblem of victory. Hearing Rāghava's words, the rākṣasa spoke humbly to Kākutstha, the bull among men: ‘I am slain, tiger among men, by one whose strength equals Śakra's. Out of delusion I did not recognise you before. Blessed in her son is Kausalyā, dear lord. Now I know you are Rāma, this is the noble Vaidehī, and this is the renowned Lakṣmaṇa.’ Here we see understanding dawning at the hour of death, and it is from the enemy's own mouth that Rāma is named. The word ‘delusion’ is important: a delusion born of a curse, not natural wickedness, lay at the root of his offence. ‘Blessed in her son is Kausalyā’ is a famous phrase in the Rāmāyaṇa — Viśvāmitra used it in the Bāla Kāṇḍa to wake Rāma at dawn — and the wonder here is that it comes from a rākṣasa's lips. His humble words show how he had changed: the creature who had been roaring now spoke with courtesy. With this passage the story moves from battle to conversation.

‘Through a curse I entered this dreadful rākṣasa body. I am a gandharva named Tumburu, cursed by Vaiśravaṇa. When I tried to appease him, that illustrious lord said to me: “When Rāma, Daśaratha's son, kills you in battle, you will regain your own nature and go to heaven.” He had spoken in anger because I had failed to attend on him, being infatuated with Rambhā. By your grace I am freed from that terrible curse; I shall go to my own world. May all be well with you, scorcher of foes.’ Then he pointed out the way: ‘A league and a half from here lives the great seer Śarabhaṅga, righteous and mighty, radiant as the sun. Go to him quickly; he will tell you what is for your good. And put me in a pit and go your way in safety. For rākṣasas whose life has left them, this is the ancient custom: those who are laid in a pit win the everlasting worlds.’ Having said this, the mighty Virādha, tormented by the arrows, gave up his body and reached heaven. The strangeness of this passage is that the enemy himself became the guide. Tumburu is a famous singer among the gandharvas; besotted with Rambhā, he had been absent from Vaiśravaṇa's service and was cursed for it. The curse itself fixed its own end — ‘when Rāma kills you, you will be freed’ — so Virādha's death was in truth a kindness to him. The mention of Śarabhaṅga is the bridge to the next sarga: Virādha himself shows Rāma where to go next. His words about the pit reveal what rākṣasas believed of the afterlife: they are not cremated, and burial is their path.

Hearing this, Rāghava gave Lakṣmaṇa his order: ‘For this rākṣasa of savage deeds, fierce as an elephant, let a very great pit be dug in this forest.’ And having said so, the valiant one stood with his foot on Virādha's throat. The command is told twice, once as the means of killing him and again, after his death, as the way to lay him to rest. Then Lakṣmaṇa took a spade — the poet does not say where it came from in the forest — and dug a fine pit beside the huge body of Virādha. Then they lifted Virādha, whose ears stood out like pegs and whose voice was loud, and threw him, bellowing with a fearful cry, into the pit: steady in battle and swift in valour, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa gladly heaved up that creature so savage in combat, still roaring, and hurled him down with all their strength. So the order, the digging, the lifting and the casting down are told one after another.

Seeing that the great asura could not be killed with a sharpened weapon, those two bulls among men, skilled in every way, took counsel and brought about Virādha's death in the pit. The poet then reveals the finer point: it was Virādha himself, the forest-roamer, who had told Rāma that no weapon could bring about his death, and that the death he desired was to come by force at Rāma's hands. Hearing that very speech, Rāma resolved to put him in the pit, and as the mighty rākṣasa was thrust in, the forest rang with his cries. Then Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, as if filled with delight, cast Virādha down into the hole in the earth, and, free of fear, rejoiced in the great forest and covered the rākṣasa over with stones. Their foe slain and Maithilī back with them, the two, with their gold-bright bows, roamed joyfully in the great forest like the moon and the sun set in the sky. In these last verses the poet sums the story up again and gives the reasons: why he was not killed by weapons, and why he was laid in a pit. That the enemy himself supplied the way to kill him is a thread that recurs throughout the story of Rāma: the dying foe speaks the truth. Covering him with stones was a funeral rite, not an insult. The closing image of the moon and the sun hints at the brothers' different natures — Rāma cool, Lakṣmaṇa fiery — both of them fearless, as though set in the sky. The sarga ends with Sītā won back, and the fear of the previous sarga comes to rest.