The Ramayana · 171 of 493

Ayodhyā Kānda (The Book of Ayodhyā): Canto 96 — The Magic Shaft.(374)

Thus Ráma showed to Janak’s child The varied beauties of the wild, The hill, the brook and each fair spot, Then turned to seek their leafy cot. North of the mountain Ráma found A cavern in the sloping ground, Charming to view, its floor was strown With many a mass of ore and stone, In secret shadow far retired Where gay birds sang with joy inspired, And trees their graceful branches swayed With loads of blossom downward weighed. Soon as he saw the cave which took Each living heart and chained the look, Thus Ráma spoke to Sítá who Gazed wondering on the silvan view: “Does this fair cave beneath the height, Videhan lady, charm thy sight? Then let us resting here a while The languor of the way beguile. That block of stone so smooth and square Was set for thee to rest on there, And like a thriving Keśar tree This flowery shrub o’ershadows thee.” Thus Ráma spoke, and Janak’s child, By nature ever soft and mild, In tender words which love betrayed Her answer to the hero made: “O pride of Raghu’s children, still My pleasure is to do thy will. Enough for me thy wish to know: Far hast thou wandered to and fro.”

Thus Sítá spake in gentle tone, And went obedient to the stone, Of perfect face and faultless limb Prepared to rest a while with him. And Ráma, as she thus replied, Turned to his spouse again and cried: “Thou seest, love, this flowery shade For silvan creatures’ pleasure made, How the gum streams from trees and plants Torn by the tusks of elephants! Through all the forest clear and high Resounds the shrill cicala’s cry. Hark how the kite above us moans, And calls her young in piteous tones; So may my hapless mother be Still mourning in her home for me. There mounted on that lofty Sál The loud Bhringráj(375) repeats his call: How sweetly now he tunes his throat Responsive to the Koïl’s note. Or else the bird that now has sung May be himself the Koïl’s young, Linked with such winning sweetness are The notes he pours irregular. See, round the blooming Mango clings That creeper with her tender rings, So in thy love, when none is near, Thine arms are thrown round me, my dear.”

Thus in his joy he cried; and she, Sweet speaker, on her lover’s knee, Of faultless limb and perfect face, Grew closer to her lord’s embrace. Reclining in her husband’s arms, A goddess in her wealth of charms, She filled his loving breast anew With mighty joy that thrilled him through. His finger on the rock he laid, Which veins of sanguine ore displayed, And painted o’er his darling’s eyes The holy sign in mineral dyes. Bright on her brow the metal lay Like the young sun’s first gleaming ray, And showed her in her beauty fair As the soft light of morning’s air. Then from the Keśar’s laden tree He picked fair blossoms in his glee, And as he decked each lovely tress, His heart o’erflowed with happiness. So resting on that rocky seat A while they spent in pastime sweet, Then onward neath the shady boughs Went Ráma with his Maithil spouse. She roaming in the forest shade Where every kind of creature strayed Observed a monkey wandering near, And clung to Ráma’s arm in fear. The hero Ráma fondly laced His mighty arms around her waist, Consoled his beauty in her dread, And scared the Monkey till he fled. That holy mark of sanguine ore That gleamed on Sítá’s brow before, Shone by that close embrace impressed Upon the hero’s ample chest. Then Sítá, when the beast who led The monkey troop, afar had fled, Laughed loudly in light-hearted glee That mark on Ráma’s chest to see. A clump of bright Aśokas fired The forest in their bloom attired: The restless blossoms as they gleamed A host of threatening monkeys seemed. Then Sítá thus to Ráma cried, As longingly the flowers she eyed: “Pride of thy race, now let us go Where those Aśoka blossoms grow.” He on his darling’s pleasure bent With his fair goddess thither went And roamed delighted through the wood Where blossoming Aśokas stood, As Śiva with Queen Umá roves Through Himaván’s majestic groves. Bright with purpureal glow the pair Of happy lovers sported there, And each upon the other set A flower-inwoven coronet. There many a crown and chain they wove Of blooms from that Aśoka grove, And in their graceful sport the two Fresh beauty o’er the mountain threw. The lover let his love survey Each pleasant spot that round them lay, Then turned they to their green retreat Where all was garnished, gay, and neat. By brotherly affection led, Sumitrá’s son to meet them sped, And showed the labours of the day Done while his brother was away. There lay ten black-deer duly slain With arrows pure of poison stain, Piled in a mighty heap to dry, With many another carcass nigh. And Lakshmaṇ’s brother saw, o’erjoyed, The work that had his hands employed, Then to his consort thus he cried: “Now be the general gifts supplied.” Then Sítá, fairest beauty, placed The food for living things to taste, And set before the brothers meat And honey that the pair might eat. They ate the meal her hands supplied, Their lips with water purified: Then Janak’s daughter sat at last And duly made her own repast. The other venison, to be dried, Piled up in heaps was set aside, And Ráma told his wife to stay And drive the flocking crows away. Her husband saw her much distressed By one more bold than all the rest, Whose wings where’er he chose could fly, Now pierce the earth, now roam the sky. Then Ráma laughed to see her stirred To anger by the plaguing bird: Proud of his love the beauteous dame With burning rage was all aflame. Now here, now there, again, again She chased the crow, but all in vain, Enraging her, so quick to strike With beak and wing and claw alike: Then how the proud lip quivered, how The dark frown marked her angry brow! When Ráma saw her cheek aglow With passion, he rebuked the crow. But bold in impudence the bird, With no respect for Ráma’s word, Fearless again at Sítá flew: Then Ráma’s wrath to fury grew. The hero of the mighty arm Spoke o’er a shaft the mystic charm, Laid the dire weapon on his bow And launched it at the shameless crow. The bird, empowered by Gods to spring Through earth itself on rapid wing, Through the three worlds in terror fled Still followed by that arrow dread. Where’er he flew, now here now there, A cloud of weapons filled the air. Back to the high-souled prince he fled And bent at Ráma’s feet his head, And then, as Sítá looked, began His speech in accents of a man: “O pardon, and for pity’s sake Spare, Ráma, spare my life to take! Where’er I turn, where’er I flee, No shelter from this shaft I see.”

The chieftain heard the crow entreat Helpless and prostrate at his feet, And while soft pity moved his breast, With wisest speech the bird addressed: “I took the troubled Sítá’s part, And furious anger filled my heart. Then on the string my arrow lay Charmed with a spell thy life to slay. Thou seekest now my feet, to crave Forgiveness and thy life to save. So shall thy prayer have due respect: The suppliant I must still protect. But ne’er in vain this dart may flee; Yield for thy life a part of thee, What portion of thy body, say, Shall this mine arrow rend away? Thus far, O bird, thus far alone On thee my pity may be shown. Forfeit a part thy life to buy: ’Tis better so to live than die.” Thus Ráma spoke: the bird of air Pondered his speech with anxious care, And wisely deemed it good to give One of his eyes that he might live. To Raghu’s son he made reply: “O Ráma, I will yield an eye. So let me in thy grace confide And live hereafter single-eyed.” Then Ráma charged the shaft, and lo, Full in the eye it smote the crow. And the Videhan lady gazed Upon the ruined eye amazed. The crow to Ráma humbly bent, Then where his fancy led he went. Ráma with Lakshmaṇ by his side With needful work was occupied.