In the depths of the Daṇḍaka forest, Rāma, the eldest son of King Daśaratha—whose valor was said to rival the gods themselves—stood with his companions. He introduced himself with gentle dignity: “I am Rāma, known among the people, and this is my younger brother Lakṣmaṇa, ever devoted to me. Beside us is my wife, Vaidehī, famed as Sītā.” But Rāma’s gaze lingered on the stranger before them. He sought to know her identity, asking, “Who are you, and to whom do you belong? You appear to me as a Rākṣasī, though your form is most attractive. Why have you come here—what is your true purpose? Speak truthfully.” Tormented by desire, the Rākṣasī replied, “Listen, Rāma, I will tell you the truth. I am Śūrpaṇakhā, a Rākṣasī able to assume any form at will. I wander alone in this terrifying forest. My brother is Rāvaṇa—perhaps you have heard of him, the heroic son of Viśravas. Kumbhakarṇa, mighty and ever given to deep sleep, is my brother too. Vibhīṣaṇa, righteous and unlike other Rākṣasas, is also my kin, as are Khara and Dūṣaṇa, renowned for their valor in battle. Leaving them behind, Rāma, I saw you for the first time and was drawn to you. I seek the best of men as my husband. I am endowed with power, moving freely by my own strength. Be my husband for a long time—what will you do with Sītā? She is deformed and ugly, not a match for you; I alone am suitable as your wife—look at me in that form. This ugly, wicked, fierce, sunken-bellied woman—I will eat her, your brother’s companion, along with him. Then, desiring, you will roam the Daṇḍaka forest with me, seeing mountain peaks and various woods.” Hearing these words, Rāma, wise and cheerful, laughed at the intoxicated-eyed woman and began to reply. Now listen to the eighteenth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Araṇya Kāṇḍa. Rāma, seeing Śūrpaṇakhā ensnared by desire, spoke gently, smiling: “I am already married, and this dear lady is my wife. For women like you, having a co-wife is a source of great sorrow. But here is my younger brother, Lakṣmaṇa, virtuous, pleasing to behold, glorious, and unmarried, endowed with valor. He is young, handsome, seeking a wife for the first time, and will be a fitting husband for you, matching your beauty. O large-eyed one, take him as your husband, O lovely-hipped woman, without a rival wife, like the radiance of the sun upon Mount Meru.” Thus addressed, Śūrpaṇakhā, overcome by desire, suddenly left Rāma and approached Lakṣmaṇa. “O handsome one, I am a suitable wife for you, of excellent complexion; with me you will happily wander throughout the Daṇḍaka forest.” Lakṣmaṇa, skilled in speech, smiled and replied, “How can you, a maidservant, wish to become the wife of a servant like me? I am dependent on my noble brother, O lotus-complexioned one. You should become the younger wife of my noble brother, who is prosperous, accomplished, and joyful, with a pure complexion. Abandoning his old, ugly, wicked, fierce, pot-bellied wife, he will surely choose you as his wife. For who among discerning men would forsake such excellent beauty among women and harbor affection for another?” Śūrpaṇakhā, fierce and lacking discernment, believed Lakṣmaṇa’s words to be true. Overcome by desire, she approached Rāma, seated in the leaf-hut with Sītā, difficult to assail. She said, “Clinging to this old, ugly, wicked, fierce, pot-bellied wife, you do not value me highly. Today I will devour this human woman before your eyes, and then, free from a rival wife, I will wander with you as I please.” Her eyes blazing, she rushed forward like a meteor toward Sītā. Seeing the danger, Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, “O Saumitri, one should never jest with cruel and ignoble beings; see to it, gentle one, that Vaidehī remains alive by any means. O tiger among men, you ought to disfigure this ugly, wicked, frenzied, big-bellied demoness.” Thus addressed, Lakṣmaṇa, angered and in the sight of Rāma, drew his sword and cut off Śūrpaṇakhā’s ears and nose. Her ears and nose severed, the dreadful Rākṣasī cried out in a distorted voice and fled back into the forest. Disfigured, terrifying, and covered in blood, she roared with many cries, like a raincloud in the monsoon. Ghastly to behold, streaming blood, clutching her arms and roaring, she entered the great forest. Disfigured, she approached her brother Khara—who was surrounded by a horde of Rākṣasas in Janasthana and possessed of fierce energy—and fell to the ground like a thunderbolt from the sky. Covered in blood, her form disfigured, overcome by fear and fainting, she told her brother Khara everything: about Rāma, his wife, and Lakṣmaṇa coming to the forest, and about her own disfigurement.