वाल्मीक्याश्रमे शत्रुघ्नः कल्माषपादकथा च

Having sent the army ahead and stayed a month at Rāma's side, Śatrughna then went on alone, quickly and in haste. After halting two nights on the way, the heroic delight of the Rāghavas came to Vālmīki's holy hermitage, the finest of dwelling-places. He saluted the great-souled Vālmīki, best of sages, and said to him with joined palms, "Lord, I have come here on my elder brother's business, and I would like to stay here tonight; tomorrow at daybreak I shall go on towards the western quarter, Varuṇa's." Śatrughna's arrival at Vālmīki's hermitage is an important thread in the story, for this is where Sītā lives, and where her sons will soon be born; and the poet entering his own story as a character is a special feature of the Uttara Kāṇḍa. Śatrughna's humility is worth noting: though a king, he asked the sage's leave rather than staying by right, and he explained that he travelled on the business of Rāma, his elder and teacher.

Hearing him, Vālmīki, bull among sages, laughed and said to the great-souled prince, "Welcome, illustrious one." His laugh was affectionate and familiar, as if to say, why ask permission? "This hermitage, gentle one, belongs to the Rāghavas' own family. Accept from me without hesitation a seat, water for your feet and the guest-offering," the three honours due to a guest in their proper order. Vālmīki's bond with Raghu's line was close, for he wished the family well, and by calling the hermitage theirs he made Śatrughna feel at home. Śatrughna accepted the honours, ate a meal of fruits and roots, and was fully satisfied. The hospitality of forest sages is simple, fruits and roots, but full of love, so even a prince found it deeply satisfying; to honour a guest is the highest duty of a householder and of a sage alike, a value close to the heart of Indian culture.

When he had eaten, Śatrughna asked the great seer, "Whose were these remains of a splendid sacrifice near the hermitage?" He had seen the marks of an ancient sacrifice nearby, sacrificial posts and altars, and was curious. Vālmīki answered, "Hear, Śatrughna, whose sacrificial ground this was long ago. Among your forebears was a king named Sudāsa, and that king had a son named Vīrasaha, valiant and supremely righteous." This same king is later called Mitrasaha, Saudāsa and Kalmāṣapāda. A story about an ancestor of the Ikṣvākus would have held special interest for Śatrughna, who belonged to the same line, and in telling it Vālmīki showed both the glory and the failings of the family. He said at the outset that the king was supremely righteous, so the listener knows that the suffering to come did not arise from any flaw in his nature, but from an enemy's deceit.

"While he was still a boy," Vālmīki went on, "Saudāsa went out hunting, and in the forest the young hero saw a pair of rākṣasas prowling about. In the form of tigers, those two dreadful creatures were devouring deer by the thousand and still were not satisfied; they never had enough. Seeing the two rākṣasas and the forest emptied of deer, he was filled with great anger and killed one of them with a great arrow. When he had struck that one down, Saudāsa, bull among men, his fever gone and his anger spent, stood looking at the slain rākṣasa. Seeing him look on, the dead rākṣasa's companion was seized with terrible grief and said to Saudāsa, 'Since you have killed my companion, who had done you no wrong, I will pay you back, most wicked one.' With that the rākṣasa vanished on the spot. In the course of time the boy became King Mitrasaha." Here is the seed of the story: a vow of revenge, for a rākṣasa's enmity lasts long, and this one bided his time. The young prince's protection of the forest was right, for guarding the animals and the forest is a king's duty, yet its fruit in later years was painful. Note that once his anger was spent Saudāsa did not pursue the second rākṣasa; that was his mistake, breaking the rule of policy that no remnant of an enemy should be left. And the other rākṣasa's claim that his companion had done no wrong is strange, since the pair were devouring deer by the thousand.

"That king too performed a sacrifice near this hermitage," said Vālmīki, "the great Horse Sacrifice, and Vasiṣṭha watched over it. It was a great sacrifice that lasted many years, rich in the highest splendour, equal to a sacrifice of the gods," and the remains Śatrughna had seen were what was left of it. "At the close of the sacrifice, the rākṣasa, remembering the old enmity, took Vasiṣṭha's form and said to the king, 'Today, now the sacrifice is over, let me be given a meal with meat, at once; there is nothing here to consider.'" That "nothing to consider" was the mark of deceit, meant to forestall questions. "Hearing these words from the rākṣasa in the form of a brahmin, the lord of the earth told his cooks, who were skilled in preparing food, 'Quickly make ready a meal fit for an offering, with meat and well flavoured, so that my teacher may be pleased.'" The king obeyed his teacher's order without suspicion; that was his virtue, but here it became his undoing, for the deceitful enemy put on the teacher's form and made the disciple's devotion his weapon. The time was well chosen too: at the end of a long sacrifice everyone is tired and off guard. A demand for meat was odd, since a seer at the end of a sacrifice usually wants only pure food, yet the king suspected nothing. Devotion to one's teacher and faith are a king's virtues, the poet suggests, but discernment is needed too; and in this tale the fault lay not with the king but with the enemy's deceit.

"At the king's command the cook was bewildered, and the rākṣasa then took the guise of a cook as well." Changing his form twice, first as the teacher to make the request, then as the cook to prepare the food, he completed his deception. "He brought the king human flesh, saying, 'Here is tasty food fit for an offering, a meal with meat, brought for you.' And the king, best of men, together with his wife Madayantī, served to Vasiṣṭha that meal of meat the rākṣasa had brought. The brahmin, knowing that the meat in the dish was human, was filled with great anger and said, 'Since you wish to give me such food, O king, this very food shall be yours; there is no doubt of it.'" He meant that the king would become a rākṣasa who ate human flesh. The seer's anger was swift; he did not stop to find out whether the king was innocent. The story shows that even great souls act without thinking when anger takes hold, and the consequences last long. The curse matched the deed, the food given becoming the giver's food, as curses in Indian stories so often mirror the offence. Note too the mention of Madayantī, the queen, who served the meal with her husband and who will soon hold him back from cursing in return.

"Then Saudāsa in his anger took water in his hand and began to curse Vasiṣṭha in return, but his wife held him back. 'O king,' she said, 'the blessed seer Vasiṣṭha is our master; you cannot curse your family priest, who is like a god.'" Her good sense saved the king from a sin as grave as killing a brahmin. "So the righteous king poured out that water, charged with anger and fierce power, and sprinkled it on his own feet. At once the king's feet became spotted, and from then on the glorious King Saudāsa was known as Kalmāṣapāda, Spotted-foot." Had the water of the curse fallen on the ground it would have burned the crops, so the king took its effect upon himself, proof that he was truly righteous. "Then the king and his wife bowed down again and again and told Vasiṣṭha what had been said by the one in a brahmin's form." Wrongly cursed, the king still bowed to his teacher and told him the truth; the moment of anger had passed and discernment had returned. Vālmīki here explains the origin of the famous Ikṣvāku name Kalmāṣapāda, and the queen's words show how subtle dharma is: even when unjustly cursed, one should not curse one's teacher in return.

"Hearing this from the lord of kings, and learning of the wrong the rākṣasa had done, Vasiṣṭha spoke again to that bull among kings. 'What I said in the grip of rage cannot be made void, but I will grant you a boon. The term shall be twelve years, and then the curse will end; and by my grace, lord of kings, you will not remember what has passed.'" A seer's word never fails, so the curse could not be withdrawn, only limited; and the forgetting was itself a mercy, since memory of what he had done as a rākṣasa would have tormented the king. "So that king, destroyer of foes, lived out the curse, won back his kingdom and protected his people once more. And this fine sacrificial ground you ask me about, Rāghava, near this hermitage, was Kalmāṣapāda's." When he had heard that dreadful tale of the lord of kings, Śatrughna saluted the great seer and went into his leaf hut. For Śatrughna, on his way to kill Lavaṇa, the story carried a lesson: beware a rākṣasa's deceit, and leave no remnant of an enemy. Vasiṣṭha's grace is also worth noting: knowing his mistake, he could not revoke the curse, but he limited its term and spared the king's mind by forgetting. That is the usual pattern of a seer's curse and his grace.