When Rāma gently declined the advances of the demoness Śūrpaṇakhā, she, overwhelmed by desire, turned her attention to Lakṣmaṇa. With eager words, she tried to entice him: “O handsome one, I am a fitting wife for you, blessed with a radiant complexion. With me, you would happily roam the vast Daṇḍaka forest.” Lakṣmaṇa, skilled in speech and ever composed, smiled at her bold proposition and replied with playful tact, “How could you, a maidservant, wish to wed a servant like me? I am bound in service to my noble brother, O lotus-complexioned one. Instead, you should seek to be the younger wife of my illustrious brother, who is prosperous, accomplished, and always joyful, his complexion pure and resplendent. Surely, if he were to abandon his old, unattractive, ill-natured, fierce, pot-bellied wife, he would choose you alone as his bride. For who among wise men, O lovely one, would forsake such rare beauty as yours and cherish another instead?” Deceived by Lakṣmaṇa’s words, the fierce and pot-bellied Śūrpaṇakhā, lacking discernment, believed him. Consumed by passion, she approached Rāma once more as he sat in his leafy hut with Sītā, whose presence was difficult to assail. With jealousy burning in her heart, she cried, “Clinging to this old, ugly, wicked, fierce, pot-bellied wife, you do not value me as you should. Today, I will devour this human woman before your very eyes. Then, free from a rival, I will wander with you as I please.” Her eyes blazing, her form twisting with anger, she rushed toward Sītā like a blazing meteor streaking toward the star Rohiṇī. Sensing the danger, Rāma spoke urgently to Lakṣmaṇa, “O Saumitri, one should never jest with cruel and ignoble beings. See to it, gentle one, that Vaidehī remains unharmed by any means. O tiger among men, you must disfigure this ugly, wicked, frenzied, big-bellied demoness.” Heeding Rāma’s command, the mighty Lakṣmaṇa, his anger roused, drew his sword before Rāma’s eyes and swiftly severed Śūrpaṇakhā’s ears and nose. Screaming in agony, her voice distorted, the dreadful demoness fled into the forest, blood streaming from her wounds. She roared and wailed, terrifying to behold, her form ghastly and covered in blood, clutching her arms as she stumbled deeper into the woods. Eventually, disfigured and trembling with fear, she reached her brother Khara, who was surrounded by a horde of fierce Rākṣasas in Janasthāna. There, she collapsed at his feet like a thunderbolt fallen from the sky. Covered in blood and faint with terror and pain, she told Khara all that had happened—about Rāma, his wife Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa’s cruel blow that left her disfigured. Now begins the nineteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇya Kāṇḍa. Seeing his sister fallen, disfigured, and drenched in blood, Khara, the mighty Rākṣasa, burned with anger and questioned her fiercely, “Rise up now! Cast aside your confusion and fear. Tell me clearly—who has done this to you? Who, as if playing with a deadly serpent, has so carelessly provoked danger? Who, already ensnared by the noose of death, fails to realize it and, having crossed your path today, has tasted the supreme poison? You, strong and valorous, able to go where you wish and assume any form—by whom have you been reduced to this state, as if meeting Death himself? Who among gods, Gandharvas, spirits, or great sages possesses such might as to have disfigured you so? I see none in all the worlds who would dare harm me—not even the immortals, nor Indra, wielder of the thunderbolt. Today I will slay this offender with my arrows, ending his life as a swan drinks milk from water. Whose blood, foaming and flowing from his vital points, will the earth drink when he is slain by me? Whose body, struck down by my hand, will the vultures joyfully devour? Neither gods, Gandharvas, spirits, nor Rākṣasas will be able to save that wretch from me in the coming battle. Now, as you regain your senses, tell me truly how you were overcome in the forest by this wicked one.” Hearing her brother’s passionate words, Śūrpaṇakhā, tears streaming down her face, spoke: “Two young men, radiant and strong, with eyes wide as lotuses, clad in bark and black antelope skin, dwelling on fruits and roots, self-controlled, ascetic, devoted to chastity—they are the sons of Daśaratha, the brothers Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. Their bearing is regal, like the king of the Gandharvas, marked with royal signs; I cannot tell if they are gods or demons. With them was a young woman, beautiful and adorned, slender-waisted, standing between them. Because of her, both brothers together have reduced me to this miserable state, as if I were a helpless wretch.” With her tale finished, Śūrpaṇakhā, her heart burning with vengeance, pleaded, “This is my foremost desire: let it be fulfilled by you. Let me drink the blood of those two in battle.