Desiring companionship, Śūrpaṇakhā, her eyes intoxicated with longing, eagerly invited Rāma to wander with her through the Daṇḍaka forest, promising sights of mountain peaks and wondrous woods. Hearing her words, Rāma, the wise Kākutstha, laughed gently and prepared to reply to the demoness. Now, listen to the eighteenth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Araṇya Kāṇḍa. Rāma, perceiving Śūrpaṇakhā ensnared by desire, spoke to her kindly and with a smile. He explained, “I am already married, and this dear lady is my wife. For women like you, having a co-wife is a cause of great sorrow.” Then, he pointed to his younger brother: “This is my brother Lakṣmaṇa, virtuous, handsome, glorious, and unmarried, endowed with valor. He is young, pleasing to behold, and seeking a wife for the first time. He would be a fitting husband for you, matching your own 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, overwhelmed by desire, turned away from Rāma and approached Lakṣmaṇa. She said, “O handsome one of excellent complexion, I am a suitable wife for you. With me, you will happily wander throughout the Daṇḍaka forest.” Lakṣmaṇa, skilled in speech, smiled and replied fittingly: “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 alone as his wife. For who, among discerning men, would forsake such excellent beauty among women and harbor affection for another?” Believing Lakṣmaṇa’s words to be true, the fierce, pot-bellied demoness, lacking discernment, was again overcome by desire. She approached Rāma, who sat in the leaf-hut with Sītā, difficult to assail. Śūrpaṇakhā, frustrated, exclaimed, “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.” Having spoken thus, her eyes wild like a fawn and her anger blazing, she rushed forward like a meteor toward Sītā. Rāma, seeing the danger, warned 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 Rāma’s sight, drew his sword and cut off Śūrpaṇakhā’s ears and nose. Her ears and nose severed, the dreadful Śūrpaṇakhā cried out in a distorted voice and fled back into the forest the way she had come. Disfigured, terrifying, and covered in blood, she roared with many kinds of 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 Rakshasas in Janasthana and possessed fierce energy. She fell to the ground like a thunderbolt from the sky. Covered in blood, her form disfigured, overcome by fear, delusion, and fainting, she told her brother Khara everything—about Rāma, his wife, Lakṣmaṇa’s arrival in the forest, and her own disfigurement. Now, listen to the nineteenth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Araṇya Kāṇḍa. Seeing his sister fallen, disfigured, and covered in blood, Khara the Rakshasa burned with anger and questioned her: “Rise up now and tell me—cast off your confusion and fear; clearly say who has disfigured you in this way. Who, like one toying with a black serpent, has carelessly touched a deadly snake with the tip of his finger as it lay coiled? Who, with the noose of death already around his neck, fails to realize it out of delusion, and, having encountered you today, has drunk the supreme poison? You, endowed with strength and valor, able to go where you wish and assume any form—by whom have you been brought to this state, as if meeting Death himself? Who among the gods, Gandharvas, spirits, or great sages possesses such might as to have disfigured you in this way? I see no one in the world who would dare do me harm—not even among the immortals, nor Indra, wielder of the thunderbolt. Today I will take the life of that one with my arrows, ending his existence, as a swan drinks up milk from water. Whose blood, foaming and cut from his vital points by my arrows in battle, will the earth wish to drink when he is slain by me? Whose body, struck down by me in battle, will the vultures, delighted, tear apart and devour the flesh from his limbs? Neither gods, nor Gandharvas, nor spirits, nor Rakshasas will be able to save that wretch from me in the great battle.” Thus, Khara, burning with rage, vowed vengeance for his sister’s suffering, setting the stage for a dire confrontation.