Rāma gazed upon the extraordinary deer before him, marveling at its wondrous form. As it yawned, its tongue—brilliant and blazing like a hundred-rayed flame—emerged from its mouth, shimmering like a radiant cloud. Its face gleamed with the hues of sapphire and gold, and its belly shone like conch and pearls. Who could resist such beauty, so indescribable and alluring? Rāma continued, reflecting aloud to Lakṣmaṇa: “Who, seeing this form—radiant as gold from the sacred Jambū river, divine and adorned with various gems—would not be filled with wonder?” He recalled how kings, for meat and for sport, hunt deer with bows in the great forest, seeking treasures—minerals, gems, and gold—through effort. All that is considered the essence of wealth among men, the means of increasing riches, and all that is desired in the mind, is as it is for Śukra. Whatever a seeker pursues for gain, without hesitation, is called ‘wealth’ by those skilled in its science. Rāma imagined Vaidehī, his slender-waisted Sītā, sitting with him upon the priceless golden skin of this jewel among deer. No plantain, nor priyaka, nor praveṇī, nor āvikī—none of these, he mused, could match the touch of this one. He compared this splendid deer to the celestial star-deer moving in the sky; both were divine—the star-deer above and the earth-deer before him. Yet, Rāma acknowledged Lakṣmaṇa’s caution. “If, as you say, this is indeed a demon’s illusion, then I must slay this deer. For by this cruel Māricā, whose nature is unrighteous, the foremost sages wandering in the forest have previously suffered harm. Many kings, expert archers, rose up for the hunt and were slain by him; therefore, this deer must be killed.” Rāma recalled the tale of Vātāpi, who deceived ascetics and killed brahmins from within their own bellies, as a foal within its mother. Out of greed, Vātāpi approached the great sage Agastya and became his food. By Vātāpi’s might, the best of brahmins were disregarded and overpowered, and thus he came to old age among the living. “Such a being is not a true demon, O Lakṣmaṇa, who would scorn someone like me—steadfast in righteousness and self-control—just as Vātāpi did. Māricā will meet his end, just as Vātāpi was destroyed by Agastya. Do not go, but remain here, armed and vigilant, to guard Maithili.” Rāma reminded Lakṣmaṇa that their duty depended on Sītā: he would either slay this creature or capture the deer. “While I go swiftly, O Saumitri, to bring back the deer, observe the longing Vaidehī has for its beautiful skin. This deer will not survive today, for its skin is its chief allure; you must remain alert in the hermitage with Sītā. As soon as I strike down this spotted deer with a single arrow, I will take its hide and return quickly, O Lakṣmaṇa. With the mighty and wise bird Jatayu circling to the right, you must remain vigilant, protecting Maithili, and be wary at every moment from all sides.” Thus, the forty-fourth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa, begins. After instructing his brother, Rāma, the scion of Raghu, radiant with great energy, fastened his sword made of Jambū-nada gold. He took up his triple-curved bow, his own ornament, and fastened two quivers, setting out with vigorous stride. As he entered the forest, the king of the forest—the deer—rushed toward him. The king of kings, Rāma, became invisible out of fear, then reappeared. With sword fastened and bow in hand, Rāma pursued the deer, watching it shine before him in its splendid form. He watched and watched as it ran, bow in hand, through the great forest, noting how it sometimes behaved unnaturally, enticing him now and then. The deer seemed suspicious and agitated, leaping as if into the sky, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden among the trees. Like the autumn moon veiled by scattered clouds, it would appear for a moment, then shine from afar. By appearing and disappearing, Māricā, who had taken the form of a deer, drew Rāghava far from the hermitage. The descendant of Kakutstha, angered and bewildered, became helpless. Exhausted, he paused, seeking shade on a grassy spot. That night-stalker, in the form of a deer, began to agitate him, and surrounded by other deer, appeared not far away. Seeing Rāma eager to seize him, Māricā again rushed forward; but in that very moment, out of fear, he vanished once more. Then again, from a distance, emerging from behind a tree, Rāma—of great brilliance—saw him and resolved to kill. Enraged, Rāghava took up a shining arrow, blazing like the rays of the sun, a destroyer of enemies. He fitted it to his sturdy bow, drawing it with great force, aiming at that very deer, who breathed like a serpent. He released the flaming, radiant weapon, crafted by Brahma; the excellent arrow pierced the body of the deer-form. It struck Māricā’s heart like a thunderbolt. Leaping a palm’s length, Māricā fell, grievously wounded.