With a fierce determination and wild eyes, Shurpanakha declared to Lakshmana, “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 gaze, gentle yet burning with rage, resembled a fawn’s eyes entwined with the intensity of a creeping vine. Consumed by anger, she rushed forward toward Sita, her movements as swift and fiery as a meteor streaking toward Rohini. Witnessing this, Rama cautioned his brother Saumitri, saying, “One should never jest with cruel and ignoble beings; see to it, gentle one, that Vaidehī remains alive by any means.” Lakshmana, addressed by Rama, was urged, “O tiger among men, you ought to disfigure this ugly, wicked, frenzied, big-bellied demoness.” Thus provoked, the mighty Lakshmana, his anger ignited, drew his sword in Rama’s presence and struck Shurpanakha, severing her ears and nose. Blood streaming from her wounds, Shurpanakha let out a distorted cry and fled into the forest, terrified and disfigured. Her form, ghastly and covered in blood, she roared with many kinds of cries, like a monsoon raincloud rumbling across the sky. Clutching her arms and howling, she vanished into the depths of the great forest. Disfigured and streaming blood, Shurpanakha approached her brother Khara, who was surrounded by a fierce horde of Rakshasas in Janasthana. Overcome by fear, delusion, and fainting, she collapsed to the ground before him like a thunderbolt falling from the sky. There, trembling and covered in blood, she recounted everything to Khara—about Rama, his wife Sita, Lakshmana’s presence in the forest, and the cruel disfigurement she had suffered. Now begins the nineteenth sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇya Kāṇḍa. Seeing his sister fallen and bloodied, 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. Having gradually regained her senses, you ought to tell me how you were overcome in the forest by that wicked one.” Hearing her brother’s words—especially as he was angry—Shurpanakha, with tears, began to speak: “Two young men, endowed with beauty, delicate and of great strength, with eyes wide as lotuses, clad in bark and black antelope skin—living on fruits and roots, self-controlled, ascetics, devoted to chastity, they are the sons of Dasaratha, those brothers Rama and Lakshmana. They resemble the king of the Gandharvas and bear royal marks; whether they are gods or demons, I am unable to discern. There I saw a young woman, beautiful in form, adorned with every ornament, slender-waisted, standing between them. By both of them, together, concerning that woman, I have been brought to this condition, as if I were a wretched, helpless one.” Shurpanakha’s voice trembled with fury and desire: “This is my first desire: let it be fulfilled by you there—let me drink the blood of those two in battle.” Hearing her plea, Khara, enraged, summoned fourteen mighty Rakshasas, fierce as the end of time. He commanded them: “Two men, armed with weapons, clad in bark and black antelope skin, have entered the dreadful Dandaka forest with a woman. Having slain those two and that wicked woman, you should return; and this, their sister, shall drink their blood for me. This is the wish of my sister, O Rakshasas; let it be quickly accomplished—go, overpower them with your own might. When you have slain those two brothers in battle, this one, delighted and joyful, will drink their blood in the fight.” Thus commanded, the fourteen Rakshasas set out, accompanied by Shurpanakha, like storm clouds driven by the wind. Let the twentieth sarga be heard in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakaṇḍa. The terrible Shurpanakha arrived at Rama’s hermitage and reported the presence of the two brothers, along with Sita, to the Rakshasas. The Rakshasas saw Rama, of great strength, seated in the leaf-hut, attended by Sita and also by Lakshmana. Observing their arrival, the illustrious Raghava spoke to his brother Lakshmana, his energy blazing, preparing for the confrontation that was to come.