Chapter 1 — The First Hermitage

Before stepping into the first hermitage in the Dandaka forest, Rama unstrung his bow.

Sita heard the bowstring whisper free of the notched tip. Her husband coiled the cord neatly, tucked it into his bark-cloth girdle, and slung the straightened stave over his left shoulder. Behind them Lakshmana did the same without being told.

The hermitage courtyard had just been swept. Kusha grass lay spread before the huts, bark garments hung drying on lines, and firewood stood stacked beside the fire altars. Several deer lay beneath the trees and did not rise as they walked past. From inside one of the huts came the sound of men chanting the Vedas.

The ascetics came out to meet them. They were old, wearing matted hair and bark cloth, their bodies lean from living on fruit and roots alone. They spoke blessings, then stood gazing at their guests, and Sita noticed that their eyes did not blink.

One ascetic brought water and washed Rama’s feet. Others came bearing forest fruit, blossoms, and roots still dark with earth. The three travelers were invited to sit inside a thatch-roofed hut, and afterward an ascetic pointed to an empty cottage at the far end of the courtyard.

“That one is for you,” he said.

The oldest ascetic sat down before Rama.

“In the city or in the woods, you are our king, Prince,” he said. “A king holds the rod of punishment. Because of that all men bow to him, and he receives a fourth part of the merit of Indra himself. We have renounced punishment. We have subdued our anger. We can no longer defend ourselves. Guard us, Rama, as a mother guards the child still in her womb.”

Rama bowed his head to them. The ascetics smiled, and pushed the basket of fruit closer to his knees.

That night Sita lay inside the empty cottage looking at her husband’s bow leaning against the thatched wall. Its string still lay coiled near Rama’s head. Outside, the Dandaka forest stood black.

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Early the next morning, as the sun was just rising, they took leave of the ascetics and walked into the heart of the forest.

Sita walked between the two brothers, Rama in front and Lakshmana behind. At first the footpath could still be seen, and then it vanished beneath the brush. Young saplings had been snapped and trampled flat into the dirt. In the mud beside a pool lay the tracks of a bear, and next to them larger prints with deep claw marks. The water of the pool was turbid and foul-smelling. Birds did not perch on the branches. They wheeled above the treetops screeching.

Lakshmana spoke softly behind her. “Sister-in-law, do not stray far from us.”

They came out into a clearing, and there Rama stopped.

Across the clearing stood a rakshasa as tall as a hilltop. His eyes were sunken, his face broad, his belly swollen. He wore a tiger skin smeared with fat and blood. In his hand he held a long iron pike, and impaled upon that pike were the carcasses of three lions, four tigers, two leopards, four deer, and the tusked head of an elephant still dripping grease. His mouth gaped wide, and he let out a roar that made the leaves tremble.

The rakshasa saw the three of them. He charged.

Sita had no time to step back. An arm as thick as a tree trunk closed around her waist, and the ground dropped away beneath her feet. She was hoisted up and pinned against the rakshasa’s hip, her cheek pressed against the wet, rank tiger skin. The rakshasa ran a few paces, then turned to face the two princes.

“You wear bark cloth and matted hair,” he bellowed. “You call yourselves ascetics, so why do you bring a woman along? What sort of ascetics share a single woman between them while carrying bows, arrows, and swords? You disgrace the name of ascetics. I am Viradha. This forest is my stronghold. I eat the flesh of ascetics. This woman shall be my wife, and I shall drink your blood.”

Sita turned her face away from the reek of grease, and all she could see was Rama.

Her husband’s face had gone blank. The bow on his shoulder was still unstrung. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he spoke to Lakshmana without taking his eyes off Sita.

“Look, Lakshmana. King Janaka’s daughter, my pure wife, raised in a palace, is held against that rakshasa’s hip. This is what Kaikeyi, my second mother, desired. The kingdom for her son was not enough for her. Me, whom she once loved above all others, she cast out into the woods. Today her wish is fulfilled.”

Lakshmana already held his bow in both hands.

“My father died. The kingdom was taken from me,” Rama said. “All of that was nothing beside seeing Sita touched by another.”

“Why do you lament as though you had no one, Brother?” Lakshmana took a step forward, already uncoiling the bowstring from his waist. “You are the protector of all creatures, and I am right here. The earth shall drink this rakshasa’s blood. The anger I bear toward Bharata, who coveted that throne, I will pour out upon this creature. Let my arrows pierce that broad chest of his until the life leaves him.”

Sita heard every word from Viradha’s hip. Her fingers dug into the tiger skin.

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“Who are you?” Viradha roared, and the whole forest heard him. “Where are you going?”

“We are kshatriyas of the house of Ikshvaku,” Rama answered. “And I wish to know who you are, roaming the Dandaka forest.”

Viradha laughed. “Listen, King. Long ago I performed penance, and Brahma was pleased with me. He granted me a boon, that no weapon in this world can slay me by cleaving my body.” He lifted Sita a little higher so that they could see her clearly. “Leave this woman behind. Hope for nothing. Flee back to where you came from, or I will take your lives.”

Rama’s eyes turned red.

“Woe to you,” he said. “You go looking for your own death, and you shall find it. Stand where you are. You will not escape with your life.”

He swung the bow down from his shoulder, planted its tip against the ground, and looped the string into place. Sita heard the cord hum taut. Seven times Rama drew and loosed. Seven gold-feathered arrows flashed out, pierced Viradha’s body clean through, and dropped to the earth behind him, red with blood.

The arm around Sita’s waist slackened. Viradha set her down on the ground, raised his pike, and roared.

Sita scrambled backward across the grass. She saw the rakshasa rush at Rama and Lakshmana with his pike raised high, the elephant’s head still swinging from its point. The two brothers rained arrows upon him. Viradha stopped, stood upright in one spot, and laughed. He opened his mouth wide and yawned, and each time he yawned, the arrows slid out of his flesh and clattered to the ground, as though his body were spitting them back out.

Drawing upon Brahma’s boon, the rakshasa gathered his strength anew and hurled his pike. It blazed through the air. Rama loosed two arrows, and the iron shaft snapped in the middle and thudded to the ground before Sita’s feet.

The two princes drew their swords and closed with him. Sita saw the blades flash, strike home, and flash again. Viradha let himself be hacked. Then he stretched out both long arms, caught the two brothers at once, and hoisted them onto his shoulders as lightly as a man lifts two children.

“Let him be, Lakshmana,” Rama called down from the rakshasa’s shoulder, his sword still in his hand. “Let him carry us wherever he pleases. The road he takes is the very road we meant to travel.”

Viradha roared again and ran into the woods toward the thickest trees, carrying Dasharatha’s two sons upon his shoulders.

Sita sprang to her feet. The broken pike lay in front of her, and scattered across the grass were the gold-feathered arrows the rakshasa’s body had cast out. She ran after the sound of that roaring, stumbled over a root, ran on again, and raised both arms high in the air.

“Rakshasa! Those two you carry are Rama, son of Dasharatha, truthful and pure, and his brother Lakshmana!” she cried out. “If I am left behind here, bears and tigers will devour me. I bow before you, mightiest of rakshasas. Take me instead. Let them go.”