सर्ग ७१

Kabandha saw each chieftain stand Imprisoned by his mighty hand, Which like a snare around him pressed And thus the royal pair addressed: “Why, warriors, are your glances bent On me whom hungry pangs torment? Why stand with wildered senses? Fate Has brought you now my maw to sate.”

When Lakshmaṇ heard, a while appalled, His ancient courage he recalled, And to his brother by his side With seasonable counsel cried:

“This vilest of the giant race Will draw us to his side apace. Come, rouse thee; let the vengeful sword Smite off his arms, my honoured lord. This awful giant, vast of size, On his huge strength of arm relies, And o’er the world victorious, thus With mighty force would slaughter us. But in cold blood to slay, O King, Discredit on the brave would bring, As when some victim in the rite Shuns not the hand upraised to smite.”

The monstrous fiend, to anger stirred, The converse of the brothers heard. His horrid mouth he opened wide And drew the princes to his side. They, skilled due time and place to note Unsheathed their glittering swords and smote, Till from the giant’s shoulders they Had hewn the mighty arms away. His trenchant falchion Ráma plied And smote him on the better side, While valiant Lakshmaṇ on the left The arm that held him prisoned cleft. Then to the earth dismembered fell The monster with a hideous yell, And like a cloud’s his deep roar went Through earth and air and firmament. Then as the giant’s blood flowed fast, On his cleft limbs his eye he cast, And called upon the princely pair Their names and lineage to declare. Him then the noble Lakshmaṇ, blest With fortune’s favouring marks, addressed, And told the fiend his brother’s name And the high blood of which he came: “Ikshváku’s heir here Ráma stands, Illustrious through a hundred lands. I, younger brother of the heir, O fiend, the name of Lakshmaṇ bear. His mother stole his realm away And drove him forth in woods to stray. Thus through the mighty forest he Roamed with his royal wife and me. While glorious as a God he made His dwelling in the greenwood shade, Some giant stole away his dame, And seeking her we hither came. But tell me who thou art, and why With headless trunk that towered so high, With flaming face beneath thy chest, Thou liest crushed in wild unrest.”

He heard the words that Lakshmaṇ spoke, And memory in his breast awoke, Recalling Indra’s words to mind He spoke in gentle tones and kind: “O welcome best of men, are ye Whom, blest by fate, this day I see. A blessing on each trenchant blade That low on earth these arms has laid! Thou, lord of men, incline thine ear The story of my woe to hear, While I the rebel pride declare Which doomed me to the form I wear.”