Śūrpaṇakhā, the demoness of striking appearance, approached Lakṣmaṇa with bold words, “O handsome one, I am a worthy wife for you, blessed with a fine complexion. With me at your side, you will happily wander through the Daṇḍaka forest.” Lakṣmaṇa, ever skillful in speech and quick with wit, smiled at her proposal and replied to Śūrpaṇakhā in fitting words, “How can you, a maidservant, wish to become the wife of a servant like me? I am wholly dependent on my noble elder brother, O lotus-complexioned one. But, O large-eyed lady, you should seek instead to become the younger wife of my illustrious brother. He is prosperous, accomplished, joyful, and of pure complexion. Surely, if he were to abandon his old, ugly, wicked, fierce, pot-bellied wife, he would choose you alone as his consort. For among discerning men, who would forsake such radiant beauty as yours and be attached to another?” Hearing these words, the fierce and pot-bellied Śūrpaṇakhā, lacking in discernment, believed Lakṣmaṇa’s playful speech to be sincere. Overcome by desire, she turned away from Lakṣmaṇa and approached Rāma, the subduer of enemies, who sat with Sītā in their leaf-hut, a place difficult to assail. She addressed Rāma with frustration, “Clinging to this old, ugly, wicked, fierce, pot-bellied wife, you fail to value me. Today, before your very eyes, I will devour this human woman. Then, free from a rival, I shall wander with you as I please.” With her eyes wild, her form twisting like a creeper, Śūrpaṇakhā, now inflamed with rage, rushed toward Sītā like a blazing meteor streaking toward the star Rohiṇī. Witnessing this, Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, “O Saumitri, one should never jest with cruel and ignoble beings. Gentle one, see to it by any means that Vaidehī remains unharmed. O tiger among men, you must disfigure this ugly, wicked, frenzied, big-bellied demoness.” Thus commanded, the mighty Lakṣmaṇa, his anger aroused, drew his sword in Rāma’s presence and, with a swift stroke, cut off Śūrpaṇakhā’s ears and nose. Blood streaming from her wounds, the dreadful Śūrpaṇakhā let out a distorted, piercing cry and fled into the depths of the forest. Disfigured, terrifying, and covered in blood, she roared with many kinds of cries, like a thundercloud rumbling in the monsoon. Ghastly to behold, clutching her arms and still streaming blood, she vanished into the great forest. Seeking refuge, she made her way to her brother Khara, who was surrounded by a horde of rākṣasas in Janasthāna and was renowned for his fierce energy. She collapsed before him like a thunderbolt fallen from the sky. There, covered in blood, her form mangled and overcome by fear, confusion, and faintness, she told her brother everything—about Rāma, his wife, Lakṣmaṇa’s presence in the forest, and the disfigurement she had suffered. Now begins the nineteenth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇya Kāṇḍa. Seeing his sister fallen, disfigured and drenched in blood, Khara the rākṣasa burned with anger and questioned her, “Rise up! Cast off your confusion and fear. Tell me clearly—who has done this to you? Who, as if toying with a deadly black serpent, has dared touch you so carelessly? Who, with the noose of death already around his neck, fails to realize his doom and, having encountered you today, has drunk the supreme poison? You, strong and valorous, able to go where you will and assume any form—by whom have you been brought to such a state, as if meeting Death himself? Who among gods, Gandharvas, spirits, or great sages possesses such might as to disfigure you thus? I see no one in the world who would dare to harm me—not even among the immortals, nor Indra, wielder of the thunderbolt. Today, I will take that one’s life with my arrows, ending his existence as a swan drinks up milk from water. Whose blood, foaming and spilling from his vital points, will the earth drink when I have slain him? Whose body, struck down by me in battle, will the vultures, delighted, tear apart and devour? Neither gods, nor Gandharvas, nor spirits, nor rākṣasas will be able to save that wretch from me in battle. Now, as you gradually regain your senses, tell me how you were overcome in the forest by that wicked one.” Hearing her brother’s wrathful words, Śūrpaṇakhā, weeping, spoke, “Two young men, beautiful, delicate, and of great strength, with eyes wide as lotuses, clad in bark and black antelope skin, dwell here. Living on fruits and roots, self-controlled, ascetic, devoted to chastity—they are the sons of Daśaratha, the brothers Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. They resemble the king of the Gandharvas and bear royal marks. Whether they are gods or demons, I cannot discern. With them was a woman, beautiful in form, adorned with every ornament, slender-waisted, standing between them. Because of her, both brothers together have brought me to this wretched state, as though I were helpless.” She continued, her eyes burning with fury, “This is my first desire: let it be fulfilled by you—let me drink the blood of those two in battle.” As she spoke, Khara, enraged beyond measure, commanded fourteen mighty rākṣasas, fierce as the end of time, to avenge his sister’s suffering.