रावणस्य समुद्रतटगमनं मारीचसमागमश्च

In the last sarga Śūrpaṇakhā had told Rāvaṇa that he must now decide what to do. Hearing those words that made his hair stand on end, he took leave of his counsellors, settled on his course and set out. He turned the matter over in his mind, grasped it as it truly was, weighed the strength and weakness of its faults and merits, and decided, "This is what must be done." His mind made up, he went to his fine chariot house. Going there in secret, the lord of the rākṣasas ordered his charioteer, "Yoke the chariot," and the swift-handed driver yoked the fine chariot he wanted in a moment. "In secret" tells us that what he meant to do could not be revealed even in his own court, and so the keynote of the sarga is struck: splendour outside, a hidden evil purpose within. In these first verses the poet shows the very steps of taking counsel: leave-taking, reflection, grasping the matter, weighing it, deciding. It is the method of the science of statecraft, but here it is turned to a wicked end. Calling him "firm of purpose" is ironic as well: one who is firm in dharma is praised, but one who is firm in wrongdoing is ruined. Even the driver's speed is noted, "in a moment"; a master's haste passes to his servants.

He mounted the golden chariot, jewel-studded, that went wherever he wished, drawn by asses with the faces of piśācas and trappings of gold. With a roar like thunder the glorious lord of the rākṣasas, younger brother of Kubera the giver of wealth, set off for the ocean, lord of streams and rivers. Above him was a white parasol and on either side white yak-tail fans waved; his body had the sheen of smooth beryl and his ornaments were of refined gold. Ten-necked, twenty-armed, splendidly arrayed, the enemy of the gods and slayer of great sages looked like the king of mountains with ten peaks. Riding that chariot which went where he willed, he shone in the sky like a cloud ringed with lightning and attended by cranes. With these images the poet shows his majesty and his menace at once. He sets two contrasting colours side by side, the white of parasol and fans and the dark blue sheen of beryl; the asses have piśāca faces but golden trappings, so that grandeur and horror appear together. Calling him Kubera's younger brother reminds us that the brother of the god of wealth was now on his way to steal another man's wife. The ten-peaked mountain and the cloud suggest both his solidity and his restlessness. And the ocean is called the lord of streams and rivers, the place where all rivers meet, and there too he was bound. Remembering that he left "in secret", we feel the irony of all this pomp: a hidden purpose, a showy journey.

Then the mighty Rāvaṇa began to gaze at the seashore with its hills. It was strewn with thousands of trees bearing every kind of flower and fruit, set about on every side with lotus pools of cool, wholesome water, and adorned with great hermitages that had their altars. Here were plantain groves, there coconut palms, sāla, tāla and tamāla and other trees in full flower. Great seers who lived on the most sparing diet, nāgas, suparṇas, gandharvas and kiṃnaras by the thousand lent it beauty. Siddhas who had conquered desire graced it, and cāraṇas, and the Ājas, Vaikhānasas, Māṣas, Vālakhilyas and the drinkers of sunbeams. Thousands of apsarases thronged it, heavenly in form, wearing heavenly ornaments and garlands, skilled in the ways of love and play; the glorious wives of the gods visited it and waited there, and hosts of gods and dānavas who feed on nectar roamed it. All this was seen by the one who came there to do evil. This is one of the loveliest descriptive passages in the Araṇya Kāṇḍa. The poet fills the shore not only with trees and pools but with ascetics and heavenly beings, because it is a holy place. The names themselves mark different kinds of austerity: the Vaikhānasas are forest-dwelling hermits, the Māṣas those of the Māṣa clan, the Vālakhilyas seers the size of a thumb, the sunbeam-drinkers those who live on the rays of the sun, the Ājas sons of Brahmā. Among them the apsarases and the wives of the gods take their pleasure, so that austerity and delight are described together, the very mark of a heaven. Yet the one looking on all this is Rāvaṇa, bent on sin, and that contrast is what the poet intends. The water is called cool and wholesome, both refreshing and purifying; the hermitages are many, so that the whole shore is a land of penance, and the altars show sacrifices being offered without end. That Rāvaṇa could see such a shore and not change his mind proves how hard his heart was.

The shore was crowded with swans, curlews and waterfowl and gladdened by cranes; its rocks were like beryl, smooth and dense, glowing with the ocean's splendour. On every side were flying chariots, white and vast, hung with heavenly garlands and ringing with music and song, belonging to those who had won the higher worlds by austerity and could go wherever they wished. As he sped along, Kubera's brother saw them, and gandharvas and apsarases too. He passed and gazed at thousands of sandal groves whose roots ran with fragrant resin, gentle to the eye and delightful to the nose; at woods and pleasure-groves of the finest aloe, and of takkola trees with their sweet-smelling fruit; at tamāla blossoms, thickets of pepper, and heaps of pearls drying on the shore; at fine hills, banks of coral, peaks of gold and silver; at lovely springs, clear and wonderful; and at cities rich in wealth and grain and full of women who were jewels among their sex. The eight verses are bound together in one long view. The gaze moves from level to level: above, the flying chariots; across, the groves; below on the shore, pearls and coral; far off, the cities. So the poet also conveys the speed of Rāvaṇa's journey: the chariot flies fast and the scenes change quickly. The owners of the flying chariots had won their place by austerity, not by force, an unspoken lesson for Rāvaṇa. And the cities full of women like jewels seem to hint at what is to come: the one on his way to steal a jewel among women passes cities full of them. All the senses are touched, the scent of sandal and aloe, the colours of gold and silver, the coolness of the springs, and the description comes alive. By its very abundance the poet also suggests how long the road was, though he does not say how many yojanas lay between Laṅkā and the far shore.

Then, on the shore of the lord of rivers, he saw a place level on every side, smooth, with a breeze soft to the touch, a place like heaven itself. There he saw a banyan dark as a cloud, surrounded by sages, whose branches spread a hundred yojanas all around. It was the very tree to whose bough the mighty Garuḍa once came, carrying a huge elephant and a tortoise to eat. Here the poet begins a story that shows the banyan's greatness, for its name was Subhadra, the Auspicious. In the midst of Rāvaṇa's sinful journey this holy tale shines by contrast. By calling the place "like heaven" the poet makes it equal to paradise, and there stood the banyan with branches a hundred yojanas long; such dimensions are the manner of the old legends, and they tell the listener at once that the story matters. Seeing a tree, the poet begins to tell its history, a device Vālmīki loves. The tree's name is given only later; here we learn only its size and its tale, and that delay heightens our curiosity.

Under the weight of Suparṇa, best of birds, the leafy bough of that banyan suddenly snapped. Beneath it were gathered great seers, Vaikhānasas, Māṣas, Vālakhilyas, sunbeam-drinkers, Ājas and Dhūmras. Out of pity for them Garuḍa swiftly caught up the broken bough, a hundred yojanas long, together with the elephant and the tortoise, holding them all in a single claw. Then the righteous bird ate his meal, used the bough to destroy the land of the Niṣādas, and, having saved the great sages, felt joy beyond compare. That joy doubled his strength, and the wise bird set his mind on fetching the nectar of immortality. Tearing through the iron grilles and breaking open the splendid jewelled chamber, he carried off the nectar that lay hidden in Indra's palace. This story explains the banyan's name. The words "out of pity for them" are its heart: Garuḍa set his hunger aside for the moment and saved the seers first. His might is graced by compassion, and his joy came not from killing an enemy but from rescuing the sages. So the poet holds up a mirror to Rāvaṇa: both are immensely strong, but one uses his strength for the good of others, the other to seize what belongs to others. The tree's name, the Auspicious, recalls the same lesson. And that he held bough, elephant and tortoise in one claw shows his matchless strength.

Kubera's brother saw that banyan called Subhadra, frequented by hosts of great seers and bearing the mark Suparṇa had left on it. Then, crossing to the far shore of the ocean, he saw a hermitage in a lonely, holy and pleasant spot within the forest. There he saw a rākṣasa named Mārīca, dressed in black antelope skin, his matted hair piled up, living on a restricted diet. When they met, Mārīca honoured King Rāvaṇa with due ceremony and with every delight beyond the human. He himself served him food and water, and then spoke to him in words full of meaning: "Is all well with you in Laṅkā, king, lord of the rākṣasas? What errand has brought you here again in such haste?" Addressed so by Mārīca, the mighty Rāvaṇa, skilled in speech, began to answer, and there the sarga ends; his words will be heard in the next. Mārīca is described as an ascetic: the antelope skin, the matted hair, the restricted diet. The one whom Rāma's arrow once hurled far away now lived alone in penance. His hospitality was correct in every way. "Words full of meaning" shows that he did not merely ask after Rāvaṇa's welfare but wanted to know why he had come; suspicion had already arisen in him. And in "in such haste" there is fear as well: one who comes back again so quickly will ask for something hard. Rāvaṇa's speech is begun but not given, and so the poet keeps the listener eager for the next sarga. Throughout this sarga the verb is "he saw": Rāvaṇa sees everything and hears nothing, and that is his condition.