The Rámáyan of Válmíki, translated into English verse cover
Epic poetry, Sanskrit -- Translations into English

The Rámáyan of Válmíki, translated into English verse

Valmiki's *Ramayana* is the foundational Sanskrit epic of Prince Rama, his devoted wife Sita, and his loyal brother Lakshmana as they journey through exile, abduction, and divine war, embodying the eternal struggle between dharma and adharma.

Valmiki · 2008 · 15 min

The Departure and the Grief of Ayodhyá

The departure from Ayodhyá unfolds across cantos that gather communal and private sorrow into one vast lamentation. Sítá, daughter of the king of Videha, refuses to be left behind and entreats her lord with words that pierce the heart; at last he consents, and the royal pair set forth together. The citizens of Ayodhyá stream after the chariot in a tide of grief, and the women of the royal household, abandoned by their lord and betrayed by Queen Kaikeyi, curse her even as they declare they will not remain in her realm. The faithful Sumantra, heartsick at being sent back, pours out a lament that captures the ache of separation between master and servant, his words tumbling forth in torrents of devotion. As night descends upon the stricken city, the noble queen Kauśalyá pours forth her sorrow, which hangs heavy in the air like storm-clouds about to weep.

The Death of Daśaratha

Beneath the heavy curtain of a moonless night in Ayodhyā, King Daśaratha cannot sleep. Though Queen Kauśalyá has offered him words of patient wisdom as darkness falls, grief for his banished son Ráma rises the moment he closes his eyes, and in that dark vigil the aged king expires, his breath failing as his son’s chariot recedes beyond the horizon. The grief that has been building through the canto after canto of exile comes at last to its terrible culmination, and the palace of Ayodhyá transforms into a chamber where sorrow unfurls its dark banners over every soul remaining.

Bharat’s Journey and the Hermitage of Bharadvája

The summons arrives at Bharat’s distant home like the first tremor before an earthquake. Envoys from Ayodhyá, their horses faint and travel-worn, reach the city girdled by its deep protections, and when the prince returns and learns from Kaikeyí herself how she has orchestrated the exile of Ráma and the death of their father, he breaks into one of the epic’s most piercing laments. Refusing the throne as a cursed thing, Bharat rises at the break of dawn and mounts his noble chariot, his heart fixed on a single consuming purpose: to find Ráma in his exile and bring him home. Behind him gathers a host so immense it rivals the ocean itself in scale, and when the great army reaches the hermitage of Sage Bharadvája, the holy man, deep in meditation and radiant with spiritual power, summons the deities themselves to honor the prince’s devotion.

The Meeting at Chitrakúṭa and the Refusal of the Throne

In the shadowed depths of the Daṇḍaka forest, where Chitrakúṭa’s slopes harbor the exiled prince, Bharat arrives at the head of his sorrowful host. The forest exile reveals itself as something other than mere banishment: Ráma descends from the mountain and leads Sítá to the Mandakini, that translucent stream whose winding course he compares to the celestial Nolini. When the brothers meet, Ráma refuses to return before his fourteen years are complete, and Bharat, accepting this sacred vow, carries back Ráma’s sandals to be set upon the throne in his stead. The funeral rites are concluded at the river’s edge, with jujube and Ingudí seed upon sacred grass, and the somber music of mourning gives way at last to the grander harmonies of royal duty.

The Arrival in the Daṇḍaka Forest

The third book of the Rámáyan opens with a luminous arrival. After their exile from Ayodhyá, Ráma, Lakshmaṇ, and Sítá make their way into the vast and ancient Daṇḍaka forest, where they are welcomed by a community of ascetic sages whose hermitage blazes with such Bráhmanic radiance that it is likened to the sun itself, too dazzling for mortal eyes to rest upon. The poet lavishes attention upon the sensory richness of this sacred grove, and the central paradox of the Aranyakáṇḍa emerges with quiet force: how a warrior trained for conquest must learn to wield force only in service of the defenseless. The princes’ journey binds them ever more tightly to the ancient duty of protecting the holy and the helpless, as they make their way through Śarabhanga’s hermitage and the venerable grove of the ascetic Agastya, until at last the dignified passage of autumn into winter ushers in the first stirring of the wilderness’s deeper dangers.

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