Sexual Life in Ancient India: A Study in the Comparative History of Indian Culture v2.c11.56

v2.c11.56

Again he goes on looking and looking; the river Godāvarī gives no answer to the anguished questioner, the mountain tells him nought; but the beasts of the forest let him understand that he must go southwards, and there he finds traces: flowers that have dropped from the ravished one, wreaths, bits of ornament, other signs of the Rākshasa; his anger blazes forth; he is going to destroy the whole world. Then the prince of the apes, Sugrīva, brings him the upper garment and ornaments of Sītā. Weeping loud he falls to the ground and presses to his heart these ornaments and garment which have felt the glow of her body. His thoughts henceforth are only for his beloved; particularly when he sees the moon rise, do his tears well up, and sleep comes not to his bed. He eats but at every fifth meal; flies, gnats, and other vermin he does not keep away from himself; he does not mark it at all, since his soul is busied but with Sītā; "Sītā, Sītā!" is the only sound on his lips. As an earthquake rocks the mighty mountain, so is he thrown this way and that by his sorrow. When Hanumant brings him a token from her, who is still pining in the captivity of the man-eating monsters, the token of a precious stone, then he calls out with tear-filled eyes: "As her milk flows from the tender cow for love of her calf, so does my heart flow at the sight of this best of jewels. Yes, for me it is as though I had my darling once again. But what could there be more harrowing than this, that the stone born of the sea comes to me again, but without her of the black eyes?" She can only live, he says, a short time longer without him, and amid the cruel wretches. And now he overwhelms the messenger with questions about her welfare, and wants to know every word she has uttered; for that, he says, will give him life, like medicine to the sick man. At last the army is camped on the sea-shore over against Laṅkā, the city of the Rākshasas, where Sītā is being held a prisoner; and Rāma breaks out into the words: "They say that sorrow dies with time; but in me, who do not see my beloved, it waxes day by day.