जटायुषः आत्मपरिचयः

At the end of the previous sarga Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, with Agastya's leave, set out with Sītā for Pañcavaṭī. Now, on the way, Raghunandana came upon a vulture of huge body and fearsome strength — two epithets that describe the bird's outward form and power, and that account for the suspicion that follows. Seeing him there in the forest, the two illustrious brothers took him for a rākṣasa in the shape of a bird and asked, ‘Who are you?’ Their past experience was the reason: in the Daṇḍaka forest everything was open to doubt. Yet they only thought it; outwardly they raised no weapon but merely asked a question, as noble men should. But the bird spoke in a sweet and gentle voice, as though to reassure them: ‘My child, know me for a friend of your father's.’ With that one word ‘my child’ a bond was formed and suspicion vanished. Taking him for his father's friend, Rāghava honoured him and then calmly asked his family and his name — honour first, then questions, as courtesy requires. Hearing Rāma's words, the bird did not simply name his family but told from the very beginning how all creatures came to be; the poet's design is that one bird's introduction is completed only by the story of the whole creation.

Addressing the mighty-armed Rāma, the vulture said: ‘Hear from me, Rāghava, told from the beginning, the names of all those who were the Prajāpatis, the lords of creatures, in ancient times.’ The old bird speaks courteously to the prince, calling him ‘mighty-armed’ and ‘Rāghava’. Then he named them in order: Kardama was the first of them, and after him came Vikṛta, Śeṣa, Saṃśraya, the valiant Bahuputra, Sthāṇu, Marīci, Atri, the mighty Kratu, Pulastya, Aṅgiras, Pracetas, Pulaha, Dakṣa, Vivasvān and Ariṣṭanemi; and last of them all came Kaśyapa of great splendour. This is no mere list of names: by placing Kaśyapa at its end he signals that the whole story of creation to follow flows from him. Some of these — Marīci, Atri, Pulastya, Aṅgiras, Pulaha, Kratu — are famous great seers; the others are counted only as lords of creatures. It is worth remembering that Pulastya, Rāvaṇa's grandfather, is counted here, so the root of the coming enmity lies hidden in this same family tree. Then he said: ‘To Dakṣa Prajāpati, so it is told, sixty daughters were born, Rāma, glorious women of great renown. Of them Kaśyapa took eight slender-waisted ones as wives: Aditi, Diti, Danu and Kālakā,’

‘and Tāmrā, Krodhavaśā, Manu and Analā.’ Pleased with those maidens, Kaśyapa said to them: ‘You shall bear sons equal to me, lords of the three worlds.’ ‘Pleased’ shows that grace was the cause of this boon, and ‘equal to me’ that the father's splendour would pass into his offspring. Aditi, Diti, Danu and Kālakā set their minds on his words, but the rest were indifferent — a subtle principle: the difference in their offspring came from a difference in their desire. Those whose minds held to his words bore children who ruled the three worlds; those who were indifferent bore offspring of lesser power, and so the strength of resolve is shown. In Aditi were born the thirty-three gods, subduer of foes — the Ādityas, the Vasus, the Rudras and the two Aśvins. Diti, my son, gave birth to the glorious Daityas, and in days of old this earth with its forests and its ocean belonged to them — a hint of the ancient dispute between gods and asuras over who should rule, so often told at length. In one word the poet takes in the whole earth with its forests and seas. And Danu bore a son named Aśvagrīva, who later became a famous dānava.

‘Kālakā bore Naraka and Kālaka. Tāmrā bore five daughters famous in the world: Krauñcī, Bhāsī, Śyenī, Dhṛtarāṣṭrī and Śukī.’ Their names match their meaning, for the names of the five daughters are the names of the mothers of five kinds of birds. Each of them gave rise to her own race of birds: Krauñcī bore the owls, Bhāsī the bhāsa birds, Śyenī hawks and vultures of great vigour, and Dhṛtarāṣṭrī swans, kalahaṃsas of every kind and ruddy geese. Here the speaker's own kind is counted too, since the vultures come from Śyenī. Śukī bore Natā, and from Natā was born the daughter Vinatā, who would later be the mother of Garuḍa and Aruṇa. In this way the vulture sets his own mother's line within the same sequence, so that his introduction becomes part of the story of creation itself. By telling the birth of the birds the poet brings the clamour of the forest to life; seeing each bird as some mother's child, the wilderness seems like one great family. ‘Then Krodhavaśā, Rāma, bore ten daughters of her own: Mṛgī, Mṛgamandā, Harī, Bhadramadā, Mātaṅgī, Śārdūlī, Śvetā, Surabhī, Surasā who had every auspicious mark, and Kadrukā.’ Their very names point to their offspring — the deer from Mṛgī, the tigers from Śārdūlī, the elephants from Mātaṅgī — and of the ten only Surasā is given an epithet, which sets her apart from the rest. So the poet builds a single family tree for the whole world of beasts and birds, so that before Rāma, living in the forest, every living creature appears as kin.

The vulture went on counting their offspring kind by kind for Rāma, best of men: ‘The children of Mṛgī are all the deer; from Mṛgamandā come the bears, the sṛmaras and the yaks. Bhadramadā bore a daughter named Irāvatī, and her son is Airāvata, the great elephant, lord of the world. From Harī come the tawny monkeys and the apes who live like ascetics in the forest’ — words that point to the root of the monkey race of the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa. ‘Śārdūlī bore the golāṅgūla monkeys and the tigers as her sons; from Mātaṅgī come the elephants; and Śvetā, Kākutstha, bore the elephant who guards a quarter of the sky.’ Calling Airāvata ‘lord of the world’ marks him as one of the elephants of the quarters, and Śvetā's son is another; so the race of the elephants who uphold the directions is named here too. The golāṅgūlas are a kind of monkey, so monkeys and tigers share one mother — a curious order of creation. ‘Surabhi bore two daughters, Rāma, Rohiṇī — may all go well with you — and the glorious Gandharvī. Rohiṇī bore the cattle, and Gandharvī the horses; Surasā bore the nāgas, Rāma, and Kadrū the serpents.’ The birth of cattle, horses, nāgas and serpents is set in a single verse, showing that tame beasts and forest snakes are of one family. ‘Manu bore the human beings of great-souled Kaśyapa — brāhmaṇas, kṣatriyas, vaiśyas and śūdras, best of men. From the mouth the brāhmaṇas were born, from the chest the kṣatriyas, from the thighs the vaiśyas and from the feet the śūdras: so says the sacred word.’ With ‘so says the sacred word’ the speaker cites the well-known hymn of the Veda as his authority rather than his own opinion. ‘Analā bore all the trees that bear wholesome fruit’ — so the account of creation takes in both moving and unmoving things. At the end he recalled the relationships again: Vinatā is Śukī's granddaughter, and Kadrū is Surasā's sister. Showing that gods, daityas, birds, beasts, men and trees all came from the one line of Kaśyapa, the poet establishes the kinship of all beings — and this story is the moral root of the vow to protect Sītā that follows.

‘Kadrū bore a thousand serpents, the bearers of the earth; Vinatā had two sons, Garuḍa and Aruṇa. From that Aruṇa I was born, and Saṃpāti is my elder brother. Know me as Jaṭāyu, son of Śyenī.’ Only at the end of the long account of his lineage does he give his own name — a sign of modesty. Then he made his pledge: ‘If you wish, I will be your companion where you live. This is a hard wilderness, haunted by wild beasts and rākṣasas; when you go out with Lakṣmaṇa, I will guard Sītā.’ The dangers of the forest are the reason for his pledge, since they make a guardian necessary; and in offering to be a companion he asks not merely to be a guard but to share their life — friendship is what he seeks. Rāghava honoured Jaṭāyu, embraced him with joy and bowed low before him, for he had often heard from his father of their friendship; that memory was the ground of his trust. Then, entrusting Sītā of Mithilā to him, he went on to Pañcavaṭī with Lakṣmaṇa and that mighty bird, eager to burn his enemies as a fire longs to burn moths. The image foreshadows the slaying of Khara and Dūṣaṇa, and so at the close of the sarga the shadow of battle falls across the calm account of lineage.