सर्ग ६५

With piteous voice, by woe subdued, Thus Raghu’s son his speech renewed:

“Thy steps, my brother, quickly turn To bright Godávarí and learn If Sítá to the stream have hied To cull the lilies on its side.”

Obedient to the words he said, His brother to the river sped. The shelving banks he searched in vain, And then to Ráma turned again.

“I searched, but found her not,” he cried; “I called aloud, but none replied. Where can the Maithil lady stray, Whose sight would chase our cares away? I know not where, her steps untraced, Roams Sítá of the dainty waist.”

When Ráma heard the words he spoke Again he sank beneath the stroke, And with a bosom anguish-fraught Himself the lovely river sought. There standing on the shelving side, “O Sítá, where art thou?” he cried. No spirit voice an answer gave, No murmur from the trembling wave Of sweet Godávarí declared The outrage which the fiend had dared. “O speak!” the pitying spirits cried, But yet the stream their prayer denied, Nor dared she, coldly mute, relate To the sad chief his darling’s fate Of Rávaṇ’s awful form she thought, And the dire deed his arm had wrought, And still withheld by fear dismayed, The tale for which the mourner prayed. When hope was none, his heart to cheer, That the bright stream his cry would hear While sorrow for his darling tore His longing soul he spake once more: “Though I have sought with tears and sighs Godárvarí no word replies, O say, what answer can I frame To Janak, father of my dame? Or how before her mother stand Leading no Sítá by the hand? Where is my loyal love who went Forth with her lord to banishment? Her faith to me she nobly held Though from my realm and home expelled,— A hermit, nursed on woodland fare,— She followed still and soothed my care. Of all my friends am I bereft, Nor is my faithful consort left. How slowly will the long nights creep While comfortless I wake and weep! O, if my wife may yet be found, With humble love I’ll wander round This Janasthán, Praśravaṇ’s hill, Mandákiní’s delightful rill. See how the deer with gentle eyes Look on my face and sympathize. I mark their soft expression: each Would soothe me, if it could, with speech.”

A while the anxious throng he eyed. And “Where is Sítá, where?” he cried. Thus while hot tears his utterance broke The mourning son of Raghu spoke. The deer in pity for his woes Obeyed the summons and arose. Upon his right thy stood, and raised Their sad eyes up to heaven and gazed Each to that quarter bent her look Which Rávaṇ with his captive took. Then Raghu’s son again they viewed, And toward that point their way pursued. Then Lakshmaṇ watched their looks intent As moaning on their way they went, And marked each sign which struck his sense With mute expressive influence, Then as again his sorrow woke Thus to his brother chief he spoke: “Those deer thy eager question heard And rose at once by pity stirred: See, in thy search their aid they lend, See, to the south their looks they bend. Arise, dear brother, let us go The way their eager glances show, If haply sign or trace descried Our footsteps in the search may guide.”

The son of Raghu gave assent, And quickly to the south they went; With eager eyes the earth he scanned, And Lakshmaṇ followed close at hand. As each to other spake his thought, And round with anxious glances sought, Scattered before them in the way, Blooms of a fallen garland lay. When Ráma saw that flowery rain He spoke once more with bitterest pain: “O Lakshmaṇ every flower that lies Here on the ground I recognize. I culled them in the grove, and there My darling twined them in her hair. The sun, the earth, the genial breeze Have spared these flowers my soul to please.”

Then to that woody hill he prayed, Whence flashed afar each wild cascade: “O best of mountains, hast thou seen A dame of perfect form and mien In some sweet spot with trees o’ergrown,— My darling whom I left alone?” Then as a lion threats a deer He thundered with a voice of fear: “Reveal her, mountain, to my view With golden limbs and golden hue. Where is my darling Sítá? speak Before I rend thee peak from peak.”

The mountain seemed her track to show, But told not all he sought to know. Then Daśaratha’s son renewed His summons as the mount he viewed: “Soon as my flaming arrows fly, Consumed to ashes shall thou lie Without a herb or bud or tree, And birds no more shall dwell in thee. And if this stream my prayer deny, My wrath this day her flood shall dry, Because she lends no aid to trace My darling of the lotus face.”

Thus Ráma spake as though his ire Would scorch them with his glance of fire; Then searching farther on the ground The footprint of a fiend he found, And small light traces here and there, Where Sítá in her great despair, Shrieking for Ráma’s help, had fled Before the giant’s mighty tread. His careful eye each trace surveyed Which Sítá and the fiend had made,— The quivers and the broken bow And ruined chariot of the foe,— And told, distraught by fear and grief, His tidings to his brother chief: “O Lakshmaṇ, here,” he cried “behold My Sítá’s earrings dropped with gold. Here lie her garlands torn and rent, Here lies each glittering ornament. O look, the ground on every side With blood-like drops of gold is dyed. The fiends who wear each strange disguise Have seized, I ween, the helpless prize. My lady, by their hands o’erpowered, Is slaughtered, mangled, and devoured. Methinks two fearful giants came And waged fierce battle for the dame. Whose, Lakshmaṇ, was this mighty bow With pearls and gems in glittering row? Cast to the ground the fragments lie, And still their glory charms the eye. A bow so mighty sure was planned For heavenly God or giant’s hand. Whose was this coat of golden mail Which, though its lustre now is pale, Shone like the sun of morning, bright With studs of glittering lazulite? Whose, Lakshmaṇ, was this bloom-wreathed shade With all its hundred ribs displayed? This screen, most meet for royal brow, With broken staff lies useless now. And these tall asses, goblin-faced, With plates of golden harness graced, Whose hideous forms are stained with gore Who is the lord whose yoke they bore? Whose was this pierced and broken car That shoots a flame-like blaze afar? Whose these spent shafts at random spread, Each fearful with its iron head,— With golden mountings fair to see, Long as a chariot’s axle-tree? These quivers see, which, rent in twain, Their sheaves of arrows still contain. Whose was this driver? Dead and cold, His hands the whip and reins still hold. See, Lakshmaṇ, here the foot I trace Of man, nay, one of giant race. The hatred that I nursed of old Grows mightier now a hundred fold Against these giants, fierce of heart, Who change their forms by magic art. Slain, eaten by the giant press, Or stolen is the votaress, Nor could her virtue bring defence To Sítá seized and hurried hence. O, if my love be slain or lost All hope of bliss for me is crossed. The power of all the worlds were vain To bring one joy to soothe my pain. The spirits with their blinded eyes Would look in wonder, and despise The Lord who made the worlds, the great Creator when compassionate. And so, I ween, the Immortals turn Cold eyes upon me now, and spurn The weakling prompt at pity’s call, Devoted to the good of all. But from this day behold me changed, From every gentle grace estranged. Now be it mine all life to slay, And sweep these cursed fiends away. As the great sun leaps up the sky, And the cold moonbeams fade and die, So vengeance rises in my breast, One passion conquering all the rest. Gandharvas in their radiant place, The Yakshas, and the giant race, Kinnars and men shall look in vain For joy they ne’er shall see again. The anguish of my great despair, O Lakshmaṇ, fills the heaven and air; And I in wrath all life will slay Within the triple world to-day. Unless the Gods in heaven who dwell Restore my Sítá safe and well, I armed with all the fires of Fate, The triple world will devastate. The troubled stars from heaven shall fall, The moon be wrapped in gloomy pall, The fire be quenched, the wind be stilled, The radiant sun grow dark and chilled; Crushed every mountain’s towering pride, And every lake and river dried, Dead every creeper, plant, and tree, And lost for aye the mighty sea. Thou shalt the world this day behold In wild disorder uncontrolled, With dying life which naught defends From the fierce storm my bowstring sends. My shafts this day, for Sítá’s sake, The life of every fiend shall take. The Gods this day shall see the force That wings my arrows on their course, And mark how far that course is held, By my unsparing wrath impelled. No God, not one of Daitya strain, Goblin or Rákshas shall remain. My wrath shall end the worlds, and all Demons and Gods therewith shall fall. Each world which Gods, the Dánav race, And giants make their dwelling place, Shall fall beneath my arrows sent In fury when my bow is bent. The arrows loosened from my string Confusion on the worlds shall bring. For she is lost or breathes no more, Nor will the Gods my love restore. Hence all on earth with life and breath This day I dedicate to death. All, till my darling they reveal, The fury of my shafts shall feel.”

Thus as he spake by rage impelled, Red grew his eyes, his fierce lips swelled. His bark coat round his form he drew And coiled his hermit braids anew, Like Rudra when he yearned to slay The demon Tripur(509) in the fray. So looked the hero brave and wise, The fury flashing from his eyes. Then Ráma, conqueror of the foe, From Lakshmaṇ’s hand received his bow, Strained the great string, and laid thereon A deadly dart that flashed and shone, And spake these words as fierce in ire As He who ends the worlds with fire:

“As age and time and death and fate All life with checkless power await, So Lakshmaṇ in my wrath to-day My vengeful might shall brook no stay, Unless this day I see my dame In whose sweet form is naught to blame,— Yea, as before, my love behold Fair with bright teeth and perfect mould, This world shall feel a deadly blow Destroyed with ruthless overthrow, And serpent lords and Gods of air, Gandharvas, men, the doom shall share.”