रावणस्य आत्मश्लाघा सीतायाः तर्जनं च

At the end of the last sarga Sītā had fallen silent after declaring the gulf between Daśaratha's son and Rāvaṇa. Hearing her, Rāvaṇa flew into a rage, knit his brows and answered her harshly. Now he had really cast off his mendicant's guise: what had been veiled in humility was now laid bare in pride. "I am Vaiśravaṇa's half-brother, lady of lovely hue," he said; "my name is Rāvaṇa, the mighty ten-necked one, bless you. Gods and gandharvas, piśācas, birds and serpents always flee from me in terror, as creatures flee from death. On a certain occasion I met my half-brother Vaiśravaṇa in single combat, and in my anger and valour I defeated him in battle; and tormented by fear of me he abandoned his own rich seat and now lives on Kailāsa, best of mountains, he whose mounts are men. That is who I am." His brother's defeat is his first proof, and he uses his family's glory only for his own renown. With the single picture of his knitted brows the poet shows the change in him: the one who had spoken courteous words now spoke with a scowl. The dress was still a mendicant's, but the voice was the rākṣasa king's, and through that contrast the poet reveals his true nature.

"That fine chariot of his called Puṣpaka, which goes wherever one wishes, I won by my valour, good lady, and in it I travel through the sky. Maithilī, at the mere sight of my face when my anger is roused, the gods with Śakra at their head take fright and scatter. Where I stand, the wind blows warily, and the fierce-rayed sun in the sky turns cool-rayed out of fear. Wherever I stand or walk, the leaves of the trees stop stirring and the waters of the rivers grow still." In these three verses he names the stilling of nature as his own mark; what the poet described as an evil omen in the forty-sixth sarga, Rāvaṇa now proclaims as a boast. Then he described his city: "Beyond the sea is my fair city called Laṅkā, full of terrible rākṣasas, like Indra's Amarāvatī. It shines, ringed with a white rampart, a lovely city with courts of gold and gateways of beryl." The comparison with Amarāvatī is telling: the one who rivals Indra will before long be slain by Rāma. The mention of Puṣpaka is worth remembering, since that same chariot will carry Rāma back to Ayodhyā after the war, so the poet seems to hint at a far-off outcome. And with "won by my valour" he dresses up theft as heroism.

"It is crowded with elephants, horses and chariots, ringing with the sound of music, adorned with gardens thick with trees that yield every wish. Live there with me, Sītā, princess, and then, proud lady, you will not even remember the women of the human world. Enjoying pleasures both human and divine, lady of lovely hue, you will forget Rāma, a mortal whose days are done." Then he began to belittle Rāma: "King Daśaratha put his favourite son on the throne and sent his eldest, a man of feeble valour, off to the forest. What will you do, wide-eyed lady, with that Rāma, fallen from his kingdom, out of his wits, an ascetic living a life of penance?" This scorn contradicts what he says elsewhere: the one who will claim that Rāma is not worth one of his fingers still treats him as a cause for fear, so the root of the scorn is fear. With the three words "a mortal whose days are done" he diminishes Rāma three ways: his life nearly spent, his birth merely human, his state that of a forest-dweller. Sītā says nothing to all this; her silence is broken only in the refusal that follows. And the one thing he wants her to forget, Rāma, is the one treasure she has.

"Take the lord of the rākṣasas under your protection; love him who has come to you of his own accord. You should not reject one pierced by the love-god's arrows. If you reject me, timid one, you will regret it afterwards, as Urvaśī regretted it when she spurned Purūravas with her foot. In battle that mortal Rāma is not equal to one finger of mine, lady of lovely hue. It is your good fortune that I have come to you; accept me." In just three verses his speech moves from entreaty to command: first the plea "protect me", then the threat of regret, and last the self-glorifying "your good fortune". The story of Urvaśī and Purūravas fits the other way round: there it was the woman who left, while here he rebukes a woman for wishing to leave him. The word "protect" is strange in his mouth: the lord of the rākṣasas begs for protection, and the poet's wordplay shows his abjectness. All his speech is bound up at the last in the single word "accept me".

At these words Vaidehī grew angry, her eyes turned red, and there in that lonely place she spoke harshly to the lord of the rākṣasas. "How can you claim as your brother the god Vaiśravaṇa, honoured by all the gods, and yet wish to do such a vile thing? All the rākṣasas are sure to perish, Rāvaṇa, whose king you are, harsh, evil-minded and a slave to your senses. A man might carry off Śacī, Indra's wife, and still live, but no one could be safe who carried me off, Rāma's wife. One might live long even after violating Śacī, the incomparably beautiful wife of the wielder of the thunderbolt; but after outraging a woman like me, rākṣasa, there is no escape for you, not even if you had drunk the nectar of immortality." Twice she uses Śacī as her comparison: to carry off even the king of the gods' wife might be survived, but not to carry off Rāma's, and so she sets Rāma's greatness above Indra's. The last verse, in a weightier metre, carries the gravity of it, and "even if you had drunk nectar" says that immortality itself would not save him. In Sītā's answer there is no lament and no pleading, only dharma, sound judgement and consequence. Her words "all the rākṣasas are sure to perish" are like the seed of the whole Yuddha Kāṇḍa: what she says here is what will come to pass.