Who, indeed, could gaze upon this wondrous form—radiant as gold washed by the Jambū river, divine in its beauty, adorned with a dazzling array of gems—and not be filled with awe? Rama, marveling at the sight, spoke to Lakshmana: “O Lakshmana, it is for the sake of meat, and sometimes for sport, that kings venture into the vast forests, bows in hand, to hunt deer such as this. The great forest is also a place where, through effort, men seek treasures—rare minerals, precious stones, and gold. “All that is considered the very essence of wealth among men, the means to increase their riches, and all that the mind desires, is, for the wise, as it is for Śukra. Whatever one pursues for the sake of gain, without hesitation, that, O noble Lakshmana, is called ‘wealth’ by those skilled in the science of prosperity. “Imagine, Lakshmana, the priceless golden skin of this jewel among deer—how lovely it would be for Vaidehī, slender-waisted Sita, to sit with me upon it. No plantain, nor priyaka, nor praveṇī, nor āvikī—none, I think, could match this skin in softness and touch. “Behold, this splendid deer before us and that celestial one that moves among the stars—both are divine: the star-deer above and this earth-deer below. Yet, if as you say, O Lakshmana, this is indeed a demon’s illusion, then it is all the more necessary that I slay this deer. For this cruel Māricā, whose nature is unrighteous, has previously harmed the foremost sages who wandered these forests. “Many kings, skilled archers all, have risen for the hunt and have been slain by him. Therefore, this deer must be killed. Recall, too, how Vātāpi, by deceit, killed brahmins—concealing himself within their bellies, as a foal within its mother. Once, out of greed, he approached the great sage Agastya, radiant with brilliance, and became his food. “O Vātāpi, by your strength, you disregarded and overpowered the best of brahmins, and thus you came to old age among the living. Yet, Lakshmana, such a one is not a true demon who would dare to scorn someone like me, steadfast in righteousness and self-control, just as Vātāpi did. He will meet his end, just as Vātāpi was destroyed by Agastya. Therefore, do not follow me; remain here, armed and vigilant, to guard Maithili. “Our duty here, O delight of the Raghus, depends on her. I will either slay this creature or capture the deer. While I go swiftly, O Saumitri, to bring back the deer, observe how Vaidehi longs 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 Sita. “As soon as I strike down this spotted deer with a single arrow, I will take its hide and return quickly, O Lakshmana. 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 instructing his brother, Rama, the scion of Raghu, radiant with great energy, fastened his sword made of Jambū-nada gold. He then took up his triple-curved bow—his cherished ornament—and, fastening two quivers, set out with a vigorous stride. As Rama entered the forest, the king of the deer, seeing the king of kings approach, became invisible out of fear, only to reappear again. With sword fastened and bow in hand, Rama pursued the deer, watching as it shone before him in its splendid form. He watched and watched, bow in hand, as it ran through the great forest, sometimes behaving unnaturally, enticing him now and then. The deer seemed suspicious, agitated, leaping as if into the sky—sometimes visible, sometimes hidden amidst the trees. Like the autumn moon veiled by scattered clouds, it would appear for a moment and then shine from afar. By appearing and disappearing, Māricā, who had taken the form of this deer, drew Rāghava farther and farther from the hermitage. Angered and bewildered by the elusive creature, Rama, the descendant of Kakutstha, became helpless. Exhausted, he paused for a moment, seeking shade on a grassy spot. But that night-stalker, still in the form of a deer, began to agitate him further, and, surrounded by other deer, appeared not far away. Seeing Rama eager to seize him, the deer rushed forward once more, but in that very moment, vanished again out of fear. Then, from a distance, emerging from behind a tree, Rama—brilliant and resolute—caught sight of him and resolved to end the chase. Now enraged, Raghava took up a shining arrow, blazing like the rays of the sun, a destroyer of enemies. He fitted it to his sturdy bow, drew it with great force, and aimed at the deer, who breathed like a serpent. Rama released the flaming, radiant weapon, crafted by Brahma himself. The excellent arrow pierced the body of the deer-form. Struck in the heart like a thunderbolt, Māricā leapt a palm’s length and fell, grievously wounded. He uttered a dreadful cry upon the earth, his life nearly spent. As he was dying, Māricā abandoned his false form. Even in his last moments, Māricā recalled the demon’s command and pondered: “By what means might Lakshmana be drawn away from here, so that Ravana may seize Sita in solitude?