खरस्य सेनासन्नाहः पञ्चवटीं प्रति प्रस्थानं च

Scorned again and again by Śūrpaṇakhā in the previous sarga, Khara now gave his answer. In the midst of the rākṣasas that brave warrior spoke words harsher even than his own name — for ‘Khara’ means harsh, and here the harsh one spoke more harshly still. ‘This matchless anger of mine, born of the insult done to you,’ he said, ‘can no more be held back than the salt sea when it rises’ — a fine image, for as the surging ocean cannot be stopped by anyone, neither could his rage. Then he counted Rāma as a straw: ‘I think nothing of Rāma's prowess. He is a mortal whose life is already spent; struck down by his own misdeeds, he will give up his breath this very day.’ To his sister he gave comfort: ‘Hold back these tears and put aside your panic; I will send Rāma and his brother to the house of Yama. Today, rākṣasī, when Rāma lies on the ground cut down by my axe, his breath failing, you shall drink his warm red blood.’ Hearing these words from Khara's mouth she was delighted, and in her folly praised her brother, the best of the rākṣasas, once again. With the word ‘folly’ the poet makes clear that her praise sprang from blindness, for this very vow would bring about Khara's own ruin; his promise to send Rāma to Yama's house would in the end turn back upon himself. The vow to drink blood suits a rākṣasa's nature, yet he spoke it only to soothe his sister's grief.

Then Khara, first abused by her and now praised, spoke to his commander, Dūṣaṇa by name: ‘Make ready fourteen thousand rākṣasas who do my will, of terrible speed, who never turn back in battle, dark as thunderclouds, who take their sport in harming the world — arm them all and rouse them to their utmost, gentle friend.’ Then he ordered his own preparations: ‘Bring up my chariot at once, gentle friend, with bows, bright arrows, swords and lances of every kind, well sharpened.’ Finally he declared his wish: ‘Skilled in war as I am, I mean to ride out at the head of the great Paulastyas to kill the insolent Rāma.’ It is worth noticing that he calls his commander ‘gentle friend’ even while setting him to a cruel task, as rulers do. The number fourteen thousand is named here for the first time, and it returns at the end of the story, when the twenty-fifth sarga tells that Rāma alone killed so many; it is the measure of the whole episode. And the commander's name, Dūṣaṇa, is apt too — the one who corrupts others.

Even as Khara spoke, Dūṣaṇa reported the great sun-coloured chariot ready, yoked with fine dappled horses. The poet describes it at length: it was shaped like a peak of Meru, decorated with burnished gold, with golden wheels, roomy and wide, its pole made of lapis lazuli; its body was covered with golden figures of fish, flowers, trees and mountains, of moons and suns, of auspicious flocks of birds and of stars; it carried a banner and a sword, was hung with fine bells, and was yoked to good horses. Khara climbed into it in his fury. Note the irony the poet implies: the chariot is stamped with auspicious emblems, yet the one who rides in it goes to his doom, and this chariot so adorned with good omens will be his last. Its sun-like colour too is a radiance fated to be overpowered by Rāma's splendour. The description shows Vālmīki's richly ornamented style — gems, gold, birds, heavenly bodies and stars together make the chariot a whole universe in miniature — yet the one who rode in it was himself petty. And by saying that he mounted it in fury, the poet shows that he climbed aboard not with a calm mind but in the grip of anger.

Surveying that great army with its chariots, shields, weapons and banners, Khara and Dūṣaṇa ordered all the rākṣasas to march. Then the rākṣasa host, with its grim shields, weapons and banners, roaring loudly and moving swiftly, went out from Janasthāna. The poet lists their weapons: mallets, halberds, pikes and very sharp axes, swords and discuses in their hands and gleaming javelins, lances and dreadful iron bars, enormous bows, maces, swords, pestles and thunderbolts, all gripped tight and terrible to see. So fourteen thousand of the most dreadful rākṣasas, all obedient to Khara's will, marched out from Janasthāna. This long list of weapons is not mere ornament; it fixes in the reader's mind the vastness of the army, so that Rāma's coming victory, fighting alone, seems all the more astonishing. The grim shields, weapons and banners are mentioned twice, once as Khara and Dūṣaṇa survey the army and again as it sets out, and by repeating it the poet drives home how terrifying the host was.

Seeing those fearsome rākṣasas rushing out, Khara's chariot followed a little behind them — first the army, then its leader. Then the charioteer, reading Khara's mind, urged on the dappled horses decked in burnished gold, and the chariot of Khara, slayer of enemies, sped on, filling every quarter and every direction between with its noise. Khara, his fury swelling and his voice harsh, hurrying like Death himself to kill his enemy, roared aloud and urged his charioteer on again — a mighty being like a cloud that rains down stones. With that image the poet shows at once his thundering and his cruelty: a cloud rains water, but this one rained stones. So Khara, fully armed, set out for Pañcavaṭī, and in the next sarga ill omens appear along the way. And the comparison of Khara with Death at the close of the sarga hints at his own end.