The Ramayana · 238 of 493

Araṇya Kānda (The Forest Book): Canto 44 — Márícha’s Death

Thus having warned his brother bold He grasped his sword with haft of gold, And bow with triple flexure bent, His own delight and ornament; Then bound two quivers to his side, And hurried forth with eager stride. Soon as the antlered monarch saw The lord of monarchs near him draw, A while with trembling heart he fled, Then turned and showed his stately head. With sword and bow the chief pursued Where’er the fleeing deer he viewed Sending from dell and lone recess The splendour of his loveliness. Now full in view the creature stood Now vanished in the depth of wood; Now running with a languid flight, Now like a meteor lost to sight. With trembling limbs away he sped; Then like the moon with clouds o’erspread Gleamed for a moment bright between The trees, and was again unseen. Thus in the magic deer’s disguise Márícha lured him to the prize, And seen a while, then lost to view, Far from his cot the hero drew. Still by the flying game deceived The hunter’s heart was wroth and grieved, And wearied with the fruitless chase He stayed him in a shady place. Again the rover of the night Enraged the chieftain, full in sight, Slow moving in the coppice near, Surrounded by the woodland deer. Again the hunter sought the game That seemed a while to court his aim: But seized again with sudden dread, Beyond his sight the creature fled. Again the hero left the shade, Again the deer before him strayed. With surer hope and stronger will The hunter longed his prey to kill. Then as his soul impatient grew, An arrow from his side he drew, Resplendent at the sunbeam’s glow, The crusher of the smitten foe. With skillful heed the mighty lord Fixed well shaft and strained the cord. Upon the deer his eyes he bent, And like a fiery serpent went The arrow Brahma’s self had framed, Alive with sparks that hissed and flamed, Like Indra’s flashing levin, true To the false deer the missile flew Cleaving his flesh that wonderous dart Stood quivering in Márícha’s heart. Scarce from the ground one foot he sprang, Then stricken fell with deadly pang. Half lifeless, as he pressed the ground, He gave a roar of awful sound And ere the wounded giant died He threw his borrowed form aside Remembering still his lord’s behest He pondered in his heart how best Sítá might send her guard away, And Rávaṇ seize the helpless prey. The monster knew the time was nigh, And called aloud with eager cry, “Ho, Sítá, Lakshmaṇ” and the tone He borrowed was like Ráma’s own.

So by that matchless arrow cleft, The deer’s bright form Márícha left, Resumed his giant shape and size And closed in death his languid eyes. When Ráma saw his awful foe Gasp, smeared with blood, in deadly throe, His anxious thoughts to Sítá sped, And the wise words that Lakshmaṇ said, That this was false Márícha’s art, Returned again upon his heart. He knew the foe he triumphed o’er The name of great Márícha bore. “The fiend,” he pondered, ’ere he died, “Ho, Lakshmaṇ! ho, my Sítá!” cried Ah, if that cry has reached her ear, How dire must be my darling’s fear! And Lakshmaṇ of the mighty arm, What thinks he in his wild alarm? As thus he thought in sad surmise, Each startled hair began to rise, And when he saw the giant slain And thought upon that cry again, His spirit sank and terror pressed Full sorely on the hero’s breast. Another deer he chased and struck, He bore away the the fallen buck, To Janasthán then turned his face And hastened to his dwelling place.