The Rámáyan of Válmíki, translated into English verse

The Slaying of Virádha and the Demons of Janasthán

In the depths of the Daṇḍaka forest the princely wanderers encounter the demon Virádha, whose towering arms blot out the sky, and after a fierce encounter the monster is subdued and cremated with Vedic rites, his spirit released to attain the heaven he had long sought. Then comes the fateful encounter with Shurpanakhá, whose humiliation becomes the fuse for a far greater catastrophe. Pressed by her tears and wounded pride, her brothers Khara and Dúshan dispatch an army of fourteen thousand rákhsasas against the exile, and the great combat that follows is one of the epic’s most thunderous set-pieces, with Ráma, single-handed and on foot, facing the full weight of the demon host. The tide of battle turns decisively in the twenty-eighth canto, as the combatants move from mounted archery to close, ruinous combat, and the dread that seizes the celestial spectators gives way at last to wonder at the prince’s prowess.

Ravana’s Vow and the Theft of Sita

In the brooding heart of the Forest Book the narrative pivots from heroic triumph to the gathering of doom. The fourteen thousand slain at Janasthán lie upon the earth, and from that crimson field rises a chain of counsel and consequence that reaches even to the throne of Lanká. The demon king Rávana, the ten-necked sovereign, absorbs the tale of his brothers’ deaths and broods upon it until pride and vengeance interweave into a single consuming purpose. Across five cantos the poet stages a confrontation that is at once political, prophetic, and tragically inevitable, as Maricha assumes the form of a golden deer whose flanks gleam with supernatural beauty, and the moment of captivation draws Ráma from Sítá’s side. In a quiet glade of the Daṇḍaka forest, a moment of unsuspecting hospitality becomes the pivot upon which the entire epic turns, and Rávana, disguised as a wandering mendicant, seizes the goddess-blessed queen and bears her through the upper air toward Lanká.

The Lament of Sita and the Death of Jatayus

In the upper reaches of the sky the captive Sítá sends forth her final lament before the heavens themselves, her piteous voice reaching the ears of the aged vulture Jaṭáyus perched upon a lofty tree. The great bird descends in righteous fury, but Rávana strikes him down, and the wounded king of birds falls to the earth with a cry that will not be silenced. Rávana, ascendant in his cruelty, threatens to mince Sítá’s flesh for his morning meal should another year pass without her submission, but the captive queen answers with a defiance that burns like sacred fire.

Rama’s Anguish and the Encounter with Kabandha

The chapter opens on Ráma at the moment of catastrophe, his body betraying him through a sudden throbbing in his left eye, a portent he interprets with dread even before he crosses the threshold of his forest cottage. Standing on the banks of the Godávarí, the prince calls to his lost beloved with a cry that reverberates through water and wood alike, his anguish transforming the wilderness into a sounding chamber for grief. The brothers learn of Sítá’s abduction from the dying lips of the great vulture Jaṭáyus, and after the ritual lamentation they encounter Kabandha, a being of astonishing dread whose gaping mouth yawns in a chest without head or proper limbs. The monstrous creature, subdued by Ráma’s valor, is cremated with due rites, and from the pyre arises a luminous spirit who directs the princes toward the slopes of Rishyamúka, where a Vánar king in hiding might become their steadfast ally.

The Springs of Anguish and the Alliance with Sugriva

By the banks of the river Pampá, where spring’s cruel renewal deepens the exile’s despair, the fourth book opens upon a scene of sustained meditation, the more radiant the natural world becomes, the deeper the prince’s grief cuts. The exiled prince, broken by the abduction of his beloved wife, stands beside his devoted brother Lakshmaṇ, and from grief’s depths he is carried at last to the threshold of hope. By the river’s edge a hallowed rite transforms fugitive wanderers into sworn brothers, and with Sugríva’s hand pressed in his own, Ráma, no longer cloaked in exile but radiant with resolve, feels joy kindle like the fire Hanúmán will one day bring forth. The Vánar king unfolds the bitter tale of his own wrongful exile at the hands of his terrible brother Báli, and on the slopes of Rishyamúka doubt still gnaws at his heart until Ráma’s pledge of aid dispels it.