राक्षसीनां विलापः

Thousands of elephants, thousands of horses with their riders, thousands of fire-coloured chariots with their banners, and thousands of heroic rākṣasas who fought with maces and iron bars, bright with golden banners and able to take any form, all sent out by Rāvaṇa, had been slain by Rāma, to whom the deed cost no strain, with blazing arrows adorned with refined gold. There is a quiet irony in the gold: the golden splendour of the enemy was destroyed by golden arrows, and such wealth was lost in a moment. The first verses make one long sentence, first the list of the slain, then Rāma who slew them, and last what came of seeing and hearing it, so that the very shape of the sentence adds to the weight. Seeing and hearing all this, the night-rangers who had survived were bewildered, and the rākṣasīs gathered, wretched and drowning in anxiety. Widows, women whose sons had been killed, women who had lost their kin, came together wailing and, stricken with grief, lamented. From the battlefield the poet turns to the homes of Laṅkā, where the destruction of the army described in the last sarga is felt: the price of warriors' deaths is the weeping of women, with its threefold sorrow for husbands, sons and kin. In this sarga the speakers are the rākṣasīs, not the men, which gives it its own point of view.

"How did Śūrpaṇakhā, old, hideous and pot-bellied, dare to approach Rāma in the forest, whose beauty equals the god of love's?" they cried. "How could she, ugly and fit to be killed by all, desire him when she saw him, tender, great of spirit, devoted to the good of all beings? How could that ill-faced rākṣasī, without a single virtue, desire Rāma, so virtuous, so vigorous and fair of face? Through the ill fortune of this people, that wrinkled, white-haired creature, so unfit for him, did a thing unfit, laughable and condemned by the whole world: she assaulted Rāghava, and so brought on the destruction of the rākṣasas, of Dūṣaṇa and of Khara. On her account Rāvaṇa began this great feud; the ten-necked rākṣasa brought Sītā here for his own destruction. And still he does not win Sītā, Janaka's daughter, while an undying enmity has been bound with mighty Rāghava." To the rākṣasīs the root of all this calamity is Śūrpaṇakhā, who, old and ugly, lusted after the beautiful Rāma; the reproach is not of her looks alone but of her folly. Her epithets, old, hideous, pot-bellied, ill-faced, wrinkled, white-haired, ugly, are set against Rāma's, lovely as Kandarpa, tender, fair of face, virtuous, vigorous, and the contrast shows how unfitting her desire was. The women even grant their enemy his virtues, which is praise from the other side. They recall the events of the Araṇya Kāṇḍa, Śūrpaṇakhā's coming, the killing of Khara and Dūṣaṇa, and the abduction, tracing the chain of causes plainly. "The ill fortune of this people" acknowledges the fate of their race as destiny's decree. They do not blame Rāvaṇa openly, but by blaming his sister they show his fault indirectly. Sītā's coming had brought destruction on the rākṣasas themselves, and the enmity is "undying": nothing but war would end it.

"When Rāma saw the rākṣasa Virādha lusting after Vaidehī he killed him single-handed; that should have been proof enough. Fourteen thousand rākṣasas of fearsome deeds were slain in Janasthāna with arrows like tongues of fire, and Khara, Dūṣaṇa and Triśiras were slain in battle with arrows bright as the sun; that should have been proof enough. Kabandha, whose arms were a league long, the drinker of blood, was slain even as he roared in rage; that should have been proof enough. Rāma killed mighty Vālī, son of the thousand-eyed Indra, huge as Meru; that should have been proof enough. Sugrīva, who lived on Ṛṣyamūka wretched and with his hopes in ruins, was raised to the kingship; that should have been proof enough. The fitting words that Vibhīṣaṇa spoke, joined with righteousness and advantage, for the good of all the rākṣasas, do not please Rāvaṇa in his delusion. Had the younger brother of the Giver of Wealth acted on Vibhīṣaṇa's advice, this Laṅkā would not now be a cremation ground stricken with grief. He has heard that mighty Kumbhakarṇa was slain by Rāghava, that unbearable Atikāya was slain by Lakṣmaṇa, and that his dear son Indrajit was slain, and still Rāvaṇa does not understand." The refrain "that should have been proof enough," repeated five times, gives their words force: a single proof should have sufficed, yet Rāvaṇa learns nothing from many. The examples follow in order, Virādha, Janasthāna, Kabandha, Vālī, Sugrīva, a summary of Rāma's years in the forest. Vālī is called the son of the thousand-eyed god to show that even Indra's might cannot stand before Rāma, and Kabandha's league-long arms show how fearsome he was. The case of Sugrīva is different: it shows not Rāma's power to destroy but his power to protect, raising a wretched exile to the throne, so that Rāma appears both as slayer of enemies and guardian of friends; Vibhīṣaṇa too had sought refuge with him in just that way. The women clearly thought Vibhīṣaṇa's counsel sound. The root of the trouble is Rāvaṇa's delusion, that he hears good advice and will not take it. That the rākṣasīs know all these stories shows that Rāma's fame had spread even in Laṅkā; only Rāvaṇa refused to acknowledge it.

"'My son is slain in battle, my brother, my husband': that is the cry heard from the rākṣasīs in every household." The threefold "my" shows personal grief, each woman remembering her own. "Chariots, horses and elephants have been slain by the thousand, and foot-soldiers too, by the hero Rāma in battle. Whether it is Rudra, or Viṣṇu, or great Indra of the hundred sacrifices, or the Ender himself, it is he who is killing us in the form of Rāma. Our heroes killed by Rāma, we despair of life; we see no end to our terror, and we wail like women without a protector." They had never seen Rāma, yet hearing of his deeds they take him for a god in human shape; and they call themselves unprotected even while Rāvaṇa lives, because they have lost faith in his power to protect them, with all Laṅkā's leading heroes dead. "The ten-necked hero, granted his great boon, does not see this dreadful terror that has sprung from Rāma's hand." There is irony in the "great boon," for it was the source of his arrogance. "Neither gods nor gandharvas nor piśācas nor rākṣasas can save one whom Rāma has attacked in battle, and so Rāvaṇa too is beyond saving. Portents are seen in every battle Rāvaṇa fights, and they foretell his destruction at Rāma's hands. When the Grandfather was pleased with him he granted Rāvaṇa safety from gods, dānavas and rākṣasas, but safety from men he did not ask. So I think this dreadful danger from a man has surely come, to end the lives of the rākṣasas and of Rāvaṇa." The women see plainly the gap in Brahmā's boon: in his pride Rāvaṇa had not counted men at all, thinking of them as food rather than foes, and now that despised man is his death, a poetic justice.

"When the gods were oppressed by the mighty rākṣasa through the power of his boon, they worshipped the Grandfather with blazing austerities. Pleased, the great Grandfather spoke weighty words to all the gods for their good: 'From this day on, all the dānavas and rākṣasas will roam the three worlds for ever in fear.' Then all the gods, led by Indra, came together and propitiated the great god Mahādeva, destroyer of the three cities, whose banner bears the bull. Pleased, the great god said to the gods, 'For your good a woman will be born who will bring about the destruction of the rākṣasas.' This Sītā is that woman, sent by the gods, and as hunger devoured the dānavas of old, she, the slayer of rākṣasas, will devour us all, Rāvaṇa with us." Here the rākṣasīs recall an ancient story not told at length elsewhere. The gods go first to Brahmā, who only foretells what will be, that the rākṣasas will live in fear, and then to Śiva, who provides the means: a woman. In their belief Sītā is a divine power who came into the world at the gods' prayer, her coming was ordained by the gods, and Rāvaṇa's abduction of her was not his own free act but part of fate's design. The image of hunger devouring the dānavas also recalls an old tale. Sītā is "slayer of rākṣasas" though she does not fight herself; it is on her account that they perish. So even in the lament of the rākṣasīs the certain victory of dharma can be seen.

"Through the misconduct of Rāvaṇa, ill-disciplined and evil-minded, this dreadful ruin and wailing has come upon us, and we are drowned in grief. We see no one in the world who could give us refuge now that Rāghava has fallen upon us like Time at the end of an age," they said, an image of how inescapable Rāma was. "There is no refuge anywhere for us in our great terror; we are like she-elephants in a forest ringed by fire. The great-souled son of Pulastya, Vibhīṣaṇa, did what the moment demanded: he sought refuge with the very one in whom he saw the danger." The rākṣasīs praise Vibhīṣaṇa's choice as timely, and the contrast is worth noticing: the brother Rāvaṇa calls a traitor, his own people call wise. Helpless as elephants in a forest fire, all the women of the night-rangers clasped one another in their arms and sank down in anguish, tormented by utter terror, and then cried aloud most dreadfully. Their common grief mirrors the sorrow of all Laṅkā; in the next sarga Rāvaṇa hears this wailing and goes out to battle.