शूर्पणखायाः प्रणययाचनम्

In the previous sarga, after the description of winter, Rāma, Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa bathed on the bank of the Godāvarī, offered water to the gods and ancestors, and praised the rising sun. Now they went back from that riverbank to their own hermitage. There Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa performed the morning rites, and Rāma entered the leaf hut. He lived there in comfort, honoured by the great sages; exile is pictured here not as hardship but as a calm life of austerity, and the poet conveys his state in two words — ‘in comfort’ for his inner condition, ‘honoured’ for his standing in the world. Seated in the leaf hut with Sītā, mighty-armed Rāma shone like the moon joined with the star Citrā, an image of the couple's beauty, their perfect match and their gentleness, as close together as the moon and Citrā. And with his brother Lakṣmaṇa he talked of many things; even in the grove of austerity a brother's love had not faded. So the poet sets up a peaceful, happy picture, into which Śūrpaṇakhā's coming will soon bring great turmoil. Calamity placed right after a picture of happiness is a familiar pattern of the Rāmāyaṇa, and from this sarga the main story of the Araṇya Kāṇḍa begins.

As Rāma sat with his mind absorbed in conversation, a rākṣasī came to that place by chance. The words ‘by chance’ weigh heavily: great calamities usually arrive unannounced. And ‘absorbed in conversation’ shows that Rāma was at that moment unsuspecting — misfortune enters a trusting heart. She was Śūrpaṇakhā, the sister of ten-necked Rāvaṇa. Coming near Rāma, she saw him, godlike: bright-faced, mighty-armed, his eyes long as lotus petals, walking with an elephant's stride, wearing a crown of matted hair; delicate yet immensely strong, bearing the marks of royalty, dark as a blue lotus, radiant as the god of love, a match for Indra. Seeing him, she was at once overcome with desire. Here the poet builds a long run of contrasts in which, phrase by phrase, a virtue of Rāma's is set against a defect of hers: he was fair of face, she foul; his waist was trim, her belly huge; his eyes were wide, hers misshapen; his hair was beautiful, hers coppery; his form was lovely, she was deformed; his voice was sweet, hers a shriek; he was young, she a hideous old crone; he was straightforward, she crooked of speech; his conduct was just, hers utterly depraved; he was pleasing, she repulsive to look at. In these ten pairs the poet shows how utterly unlike they were, and so prepares for the refusal that follows: the reader knows in advance that what she will ask is impossible by its very nature. The description provokes laughter and pity at once. And there is a subtle touch here: though the rākṣasī may put on a charming outward form, the poet shows the reader her true nature — a hint that illusion is powerless.

Possessed by desire born of the body, the rākṣasī asked Rāma: ‘You wear matted hair and an ascetic's dress, yet you have a wife and carry bow and arrows. How have you come to this region, which the rākṣasas haunt? What business brings you here, and what is your purpose? Tell me truly.’ In a single sentence the poet sets up the contradiction that aroused her curiosity: matted hair and ascetic's dress belong to a hermit, but bow and arrows to a warrior. And by calling the region ‘haunted by rākṣasas’ she asserts her people's ownership: this forest is ours, and you are an outsider. So addressed, Rāma, scorcher of foes, being straightforward of mind, began to tell her everything; trickery, deceit and concealment were not in his nature — and that very candour becomes the seed of the calamity to come. He said: ‘There was a king named Daśaratha, valorous as the gods. I am his eldest son, known in the world as Rāma. This is my younger brother Lakṣmaṇa, always devoted to me, and this is my wife, the princess of Videha, known as Sītā. Bound by the command of my father and my mother, and seeking only dharma, I have come to live in this forest for dharma's sake.’ In four sentences he gave his family, his brother, his wife and the reason for his exile — nothing more and nothing hidden. His answer reveals his candour, his faithfulness to his father's word and his devotion to dharma.

Then Rāma asked in return: ‘But I wish to know about you. Whose daughter are you, who are you, and whose wife? Your limbs are lovely, yet you look to me like a rākṣasī. Tell me truly why you have come here.’ Rāma's keen perception shows here: a beautiful form made by magic could not deceive him; though the limbs looked lovely, he knew the rākṣasa nature within. Tormented by love, she heard him and replied: ‘Listen, Rāma, I will tell you the truth. I am Śūrpaṇakhā, a rākṣasī who can take any form she pleases. I roam this forest alone, a terror to all. I have a brother named Rāvaṇa — if his name has ever reached your ears — the heroic son of Viśravas; and my brother too is the mighty Kumbhakarṇa, whose sleep never ends. Vibhīṣaṇa is my brother as well, but he is righteous and does not behave as rākṣasas do; and Khara and Dūṣaṇa, famed for their valour in battle, are my brothers too.’ By parading the strength of her family and the fame of her brothers she hoped to impress Rāma. But this very list of brothers reminds the reader of the war to come: Khara and Dūṣaṇa will give battle from sarga 25 on, and Rāvaṇa will be the centre of the whole story. Vibhīṣaṇa's righteousness is hinted at here for the first time, and it will bear great fruit in the Yuddha Kāṇḍa. And in calling herself a rākṣasī who can take any form, she confirms Rāma's guess at once, out of her own mouth.

Then she revealed her intent: ‘I surpass them all in strength. From the moment I first saw you, Rāma, I have come to you in love, taking you, best of men, for my husband. I am full of power and can go wherever I please by my own strength. Be my husband for ever — what will you do with Sītā?’ Her argument has two parts: on one side the lure of her own power, on the other the disparagement of her rival. Then she launched into abuse of Sītā: ‘She is misshapen and ugly and no match for you. I alone am worthy of you, so look on me as your wife. This ugly, unchaste, hideous human woman with her shrunken belly I will eat, and this brother of yours with her. Then, as my lover, you will roam the Daṇḍaka forest with me, gazing at mountain peaks and woods of every kind.’ The very words she hurls at Sītā Lakṣmaṇa will throw back at her in the next sarga — this returning of words is a particular beauty of the story. And with her talk of devouring them her rākṣasa nature suddenly shows through and her magic loveliness melts away. Addressed in this way, Kākutstha, skilled in speech, laughed at the wine-eyed creature and began to answer. ‘Laughed’ tells us that Rāma would refuse her not in anger but in jest — and that very jest would lead to great harm. The sarga breaks off just as Rāma begins to speak; his answer comes in the next, and the poet leaves the reader in suspense.