मारीचेन स्वपूर्ववृत्तान्तकथनम्

Mārīca now began to tell his own past, so that Rāvaṇa might learn from an example he had seen with his own eyes. "Once, my friend, drunk with pride in my strength, I roamed this earth, bearing the might of a thousand elephants and towering like a mountain. I was dark as a blue thundercloud, with earrings of burnished gold, a crown on my head and an iron club in my hand, and I spread terror through the world. I ranged the Daṇḍaka forest eating the flesh of seers, and in my arrogance I wrecked the sages' sacrifices. Then the righteous great sage Viśvāmitra, terrified of me, went himself to Daśaratha, lord of men, and said, 'Let this Rāma stand guard over me with full attention at the time of the sacred rite, for a terrible fear of Mārīca has come upon me, lord of men.' Hearing the sage's words, the righteous King Daśaratha made ready to reply." So in Mārīca's story Rāma's name is first spoken by the sage. In the last sarga Mārīca had counselled Rāvaṇa with maxims of policy; here he offers his own experience as proof, because advice at one remove had not touched Rāvaṇa. The story turns back in time: the protection of Viśvāmitra's sacrifice, told in the Bāla Kāṇḍa, is told again here as Mārīca remembers it. In those days, he says, not even the gods could check his strength, and a boon had made him arrogant.

"Daśaratha answered the illustrious great sage Viśvāmitra: 'This son of Raghu is not yet twelve years old and has no training in weapons.'" His age was young and his training in arms incomplete. "'If you wish, my army will go with me, and I will come myself with my fourfold force and kill the night-rover; I will slay your enemy, best of sages, just as you desire.' At this the sage said to the king, 'There is no power in the world except Rāma that is a match for that rākṣasa.'" And he praised the king: "'You are the protector even of the gods in battle, and what you once did is known through the three worlds. Your great army may well stay here, scorcher of foes. Boy though he is, this radiant one can subdue him. I shall go and take Rāma with me; may all be well with you.'" The sage's resolve proved stronger than the king's hesitation. Mārīca's point is simple: if Rāma was like that as a boy, what must he be now? The sage's words blend two feelings, respect for the king and trust in the boy: his praise soothed the king's reluctance, and his words "boy though he is, he can" revealed what he knew.

"Having said this, the sage took the king's son and went, delighted, to his hermitage. In the Daṇḍaka forest, while the sage was consecrated for the sacrifice, Rāma took his stand to guard him, twanging his wonderful bow." Mārīca remembered with wonder how Rāma looked then. "No sign of manhood had yet appeared on him. He was a handsome boy, dark, with beautiful eyes, wearing a single garment, bow in hand, with a topknot and a golden chain. Lighting up the Daṇḍaka forest with his own blazing splendour, Rāma looked like the young moon newly risen." That image stayed fixed in Mārīca's memory: the one who seemed as gentle as the new moon became in a moment like the fire at the end of time. The description is meant for Rāvaṇa: if the boy was like this, what must the grown man be? The unspoken question rings out. At the heart of Mārīca's picture is a paradox, boyhood and divine splendour in a single body. The single garment, the topknot and the golden chain are the dress of a young student under vows, the bow that of a warrior; he looked like an ascetic but was in truth the sacrifice's guardian.

"Then I, dark as a cloud, with earrings of burnished gold, strong and armed with a boon, came proudly into the hermitage. He saw me come in with my weapon raised, and seeing me he strung his bow without the least alarm." Neither fear nor flurry. "In my folly I despised Rāghava, thinking, 'This is only a boy,' and rushed at Viśvāmitra's altar. Then he loosed a sharp arrow, a destroyer of foes, and struck by it I was flung a hundred leagues out into the sea. He did not wish to kill me then, my friend, and so that hero spared me. Hurled away by the force of Rāma's arrow, my senses reeling, I was cast into the deep waters of the ocean. Only after a long time did I come to myself, and then I went back to the city of Laṅkā." With this one example Mārīca shows that Rāma's arrow could kill or spare, and that it did not kill was an act of grace. He traces three steps: entering in pride, attacking in contempt, being hurled far off by a single arrow. "Without alarm" shows the boy's composure; "in my folly I despised" is Mārīca owning his own fault. The unspoken comparison is plain: what Rāvaṇa was doing now, Mārīca had done then. That he fell a hundred leagues away into the sea and did not die proves Rāma's restraint; had Rāma wished to kill him, he would have perished on the spot.

"So I escaped that day, but my companions were struck down by Rāma, a boy untrained in weapons, whose great deeds cost him no effort." Remembering this, Mārīca warned: "So if, in spite of my holding you back, you make war on Rāma, you will quickly meet dreadful disaster and you will perish." Then he pictured Laṅkā's coming ruin. "You will bring grief and ruin on the rākṣasas, who know only games and the arts of love and care for nothing but gatherings and festivals. You will see the city of Laṅkā, crowded with mansions and palaces and adorned with every kind of jewel, laid waste for Maithilī's sake." He added a maxim: "Even the pure, who commit no sin themselves, perish through the sins of others with whom they live, as fish do in a pool full of snakes. You will see rākṣasas whose limbs were smeared with heavenly sandal and who wore heavenly ornaments struck down on the ground, and through your fault. You will see night-rovers whose wives have been carried off, and others with their wives still, survivors of the slaughter, helpless, fleeing in all ten directions. Beyond all doubt you will see Laṅkā caught in a net of arrows, wrapped in flames, her houses burned to ash." This prophecy comes true to the letter in the Yuddha Kāṇḍa. The words "you will see" come again and again, and the future is painted as if it were already before his eyes. The image of the fish is poignant: innocent fish living in a snakes' pool are killed because of the snakes, and so the whole rākṣasa race would perish through Rāvaṇa's single fault. Mārīca also hints at the rākṣasas' nature: they are not lovers of war but of games, love and pleasure, and it is pitiful that such blameless folk should die for one king's lust. The four phrases, wives carried off, wives still with them, survivors, helpless, build the whole picture of a conquered city, and Laṅkā wrapped in flames, netted with arrows and burned he declares with certainty.

At the last Mārīca touched the root of the matter: "There is no sin greater than laying hands on another man's wife, and you already have thousands of women, O king. Be content with your own wives. Protect your family, protect the rākṣasas, and protect your honour, your prosperity, your kingdom and the life you hold dear. If you want to enjoy for long your gentle wives and the company of your friends, then do nothing to offend Rāma." The final verse, in a weightier metre, is grave: "If, restrained again and again by me who am your friend, you still lay violent hands on Sītā, then with your strength broken and your life taken by Rāma's arrows you will go, you and all your kin, to the realm of Yama." With these plain words the sarga ends, but Mārīca's good counsel does not enter Rāvaṇa's ears. The words "there is no greater sin than touching another's wife" are the moral centre of the sarga. Mārīca shows him not only fear but dharma, and tries to hold him back with both. But for Rāvaṇa, driven on by Time, both would prove useless, as the next sarga will show.