Ramayana (3): Maricha & Subahu - Rama's First Battle

 Late Treta Yuga

It was dusk, when Sage Viśvāmitra walked the ground, testing the firmness of the clay underfoot, tracing one line with his toe, smoothing a ridge with his palm.

“Six days and six nights. We will not stop once we begin. On the last night they will come. They have done so before. They will do so again. This time they will not.”

The sacrifice began with the first light. There was no crowd. No drums. The sage and his assistants moved like men who knew their work. Offerings of ghee were poured as the Sāman was sung. Smoke rose straight, then bent a little with the breeze, then straightened again.

Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa stood at the edge of the clearing, not close enough to break the circle of purity, not far enough to be late if called. They ate little and spoke less.

On the second night a jackal cried and then stopped. On the third, a wind played with the flames and went away. On the fourth, a low hum ran through the ground as if something far beneath had rolled over in sleep. By the fifth, the princes’ nerves had settled into a single line.

They knew the sounds of the place: the creak of rope, the murmurs of the priests, the light clack of wood, the hush after a chant. They slept in turns at the grove’s rim and woke at the smallest change.

On the sixth night, clouds gathered without lightning. The air cooled. The chant deepened. The ghee shone bright as molten gold as it fell. Somewhere in the dark, a bird lifted and flew without calling.

Rāma glanced at Lakṣmaṇa and saw the same readiness in his brother’s eyes that he felt in his own bones.

The first sign was a smell: sour, like old smoke and meat left in rain. Then came a sound like wet leather ripped by strong hands. A smear of shadow crossed the sky and vanished.

The flames shivered but did not lower. The priests kept speaking. Viśvāmitra’s voice did not change.

A laugh rose. It came from above and around, thin at first, then thicker, as if many throats had learned one tune. Rākṣasas came through the clouds.

Two led them: Subahu and Maricha

Subāhu, broad-shouldered, with long arms and a mane of hair that slashed at the wind, and Mārīca, tall and lean, his eyes set far back like a hunter’s who sees between leaves.

The lesser ones carried skins of foul blood and lumps of stinking flesh. They began to cast these upon the altar, their voices jagged. The blood hissed when it struck fire. The flesh smoked and spat.

Rāma spoke without raising his voice. “Lakṣmaṇa.”

“Here.”

“Guard the circle. No foot crosses the line.”

Lakṣmaṇa moved, notch and draw already one motion. The first rākṣasa that dived low met an arrow in the throat and fell with a sound like a sack of wet clay.

The second tried to skim the ground to spill filth upon the altar; Lakṣmaṇa’s shaft pinned his wrist to the trunk of a neem tree and then ended him before he could pull free.

Above, Subāhu beat the air with his arms and howled. He called the black clouds closer. Mārīca cut wide circles, studying.

Rāma looked at the altar. The fire had not gone out. Viśvāmitra’s voice still flowed, clear and plain. That steadiness settled Rāma’s mind. He stepped a little left, until the altar, the lead demons, and the open gap of sky formed one line in his sight.

He drew once to test the weight. Then he called, in his own chest, not aloud: Āgneya for the pack, to burn what offends by fire itself.

The arrow leapt, and where it flew the reek turned suddenly clean. It burst among a knot of shrieking shapes, and for a breath the air was bright. Several fell smoking; the rest scattered.

Subāhu roared at that light and dove.

Rāma’s next arrow met him above the shoulder and drove through the chest. It did not need a name. It needed only the right hand and a mind held true.

Subāhu twisted once, threw out his arms as if to catch hold of the night, and fell.

Mārīca swerved to strike from the side. He dropped steep, then tried to climb at the last instant, skimming the edge of the sacred ground to draw Rāma’s eye away from the altar.

He was quick and subtle, and his strength greater than his size promised. Rāma watched the long line of his dive and chose carefully. He did not want useless death. He did not want more blood near the fire.

He set a shaft and invoked Mānava, the human missile that binds, that does not tear, that throws down without killing.

The string sang. The arrow struck Mārīca like a sudden wall. It lifted him, bore him, and carried him far. The demon did not understand at first; he struggled and clawed at the air.

The arrow did not cut him. It drove him like a log on a flood, out over the trees, past the dark line of the horizon, until the roar of the sea rose and swallowed him.

He splashed into the salt water so far from land that he would remember the taste for the rest of his days. He would live and he would fear that sound again.

On the ground, the lesser demons faltered when their leaders fell and fled when Lakṣmaṇa cut down two more. Rāma did not give chase. He turned back to the altar. The fire was steady. The chant was unbroken. The last libation glowed and sank.

Viśvāmitra raised his palm and brought the rite to its close. The hush that followed was not empty; it was like a wide bowl that could hold relief without spilling.

The sages exhaled. Some wept a little. One old priest laughed softly, then covered his mouth as if to hide joy. Viśvāmitra stood and put his hand, not heavy, on Rāma’s head. “Well done.” He did the same for Lakṣmaṇa. “Well done.”

They did not feast that night. They ate simply and slept in their places. In the early hours before dawn, a mist lay low on the ground. Rāma woke and saw the altar’s square still dark with ash. He watched the first line of sunlight pick out the edges of leaves and roof-thatch.

Lakṣmaṇa stirred beside him. Neither spoke. They did not need to.

When the hermitage fully woke, Viśvāmitra gathered them.

“There is one more road. A city waits. A bow waits. But the work here is done.”

They spent that day putting the place in order. Arrows were gathered and burned. The ground was washed again.

The trees that had lost branches were trimmed cleanly so rot would not set in. In the afternoon, Viśvāmitra took the princes to a small stream. They stood ankle-deep where the water ran clear over stones and washed their hands and faces.

“Remember,” he said, “what held this place safe. Not only weapons. The vow. The rhythm. The steadiness of speech. Keep those, and the bow will not tremble.”

Sources:

Valmiki Rāmāyaṇa: Bāla Kāṇḍa

• Arrival of Viśvāmitra at Ayodhyā: 1.19 – 1.20

• Daśaratha’s refusal and Vasiṣṭha’s counsel: 1.21 – 1.22

• Journey to Siddhāśrama + Bala/Atibala initiation: 1.23 – 1.27

• Tāṭakā episode + her killing: 1.26 – 1.29

• Gift of celestial astras (divine weapons): 1.30 – 1.31

• Arrival at Siddhāśrama & preparation of yāga: 1.32 – 1.35

• Sixth night battle: Subāhu slain, Mārīca hurled to sea: 1.36 – 1.38

• Ritual successfully completed and departure toward Mithilā: 1.39

  
  

Secondary Sources / Parallel Traditions

• Kamban Rāmāyaṇam — Bala Kāṇḍam (corresponds to same episode, embellishes emotional inner states)

• Ananda Ramayana — Bāla Kāṇḍa, same episode retold with more dramatic weapon invocations