सीतायाः भूषणमोचनं लङ्कानयनं च

As she was carried off, Vaidehī could see no protector anywhere. Then, along the way, she caught sight of five bull-like monkeys sitting on a mountain peak. The large-eyed, lovely woman thought, "Perhaps these will tell Rāma about me," and she let fall her silken upper garment, bright as gold, together with her fine ornaments; the cloth she dropped fell among them with the jewels in it. This was Sītā's first deliberate act, the step from lament to a plan, and these are the very ornaments Sugrīva will later show to Rāma. In his haste and confusion Rāvaṇa did not notice what she had done, and so the poet marks his hurry and his blindness. The tawny-eyed monkeys gazed with unblinking eyes at the large-eyed Sītā as she cried out, while he, passing beyond Pampā, set his course for the city of Laṅkā. Two ways of seeing stand opposed here: Rāvaṇa looked only ahead, the monkeys stared upward, transfixed. Sītā's silent act is the hinge of the story in this sarga, for through it Rāma will later find his way. The number five points to Sugrīva sitting with his ministers on Ṛṣyamūka, though no names are given here. Sītā did not call out to them or make a sign; she simply let the cloth fall, since any signal would have been easy for Rāvaṇa to see.

The lord of the rākṣasas flew on, holding the weeping Maithilī fast. The poet adds a well-known image: delighted as he was, Rāvaṇa was really carrying off his own death, like a man holding in his lap a she-serpent with sharp fangs and deadly venom; what he carried in his lap was the very thing that would bite him. Travelling through the air he crossed forests, rivers, mountains and lakes as swiftly as an arrow loosed from a bow, and his speed was only the speed of his hastening ruin. Then he passed over the sea itself, home of whales and crocodiles, the unfailing abode of Varuṇa and refuge of all rivers. As Vaidehī was borne away, even the ocean was thrown into turmoil: its waves turned back and it held its fish and great serpents still. Unfeeling as it is, the sea too was shaken, and that shaking was more than natural; it was a sign of dharma disturbed, for even insentient things cannot bear wrong. Then the Cāraṇas moving through the sky sent forth their voices, and the Siddhas said, "This is the end of the ten-necked one," meaning that after this deed his end was certain; so the voices of heaven confirmed Sītā's words. The poet brings in three witnesses, the ocean, the Cāraṇas and the Siddhas, and not one of them approves of Rāvaṇa's act. Then, taking Sītā, who was writhing in his grip, onto his lap, he entered Laṅkā, carrying his own death in bodily form.

He entered the city of Laṅkā like death made visible. The phrase comes a second time here: first it was said of Sītā, now of Laṅkā, hinting that the city too will perish with him. Coming into that populous city, with its well-laid highways and its many close-packed courtyards, he went into his own inner apartments. There he put down Sītā, her eyes dark at the corners, overwhelmed with grief and bewilderment, as the asura Maya might set down his own magic. The comparison cuts two ways: like magic, Sītā could be seen but not grasped, near him yet beyond his reach, and like magic she would work his undoing. Then the ten-necked one summoned the dreadful-looking piśācī women and gave his orders: "No man or woman is to set eyes on Sītā without my leave. Pearls, jewels and gold, clothes and ornaments, whatever she wants is to be given her at once, as I command. And any woman who says so much as one unkind word to Vaidehī, knowingly or not, will lose her life." So he meant to win her over by fear and by greed, but, as the next sarga will show, both would fail. The inner palace is only briefly described here; it is set out at length in the next sarga, where Rāvaṇa himself displays his wealth to Sītā.

Having spoken so to the rākṣasa women, the mighty lord of the rākṣasas left the inner apartments, wondering what should be done next, and saw eight rākṣasas of great valour who fed on raw flesh, a word that marks their cruelty. Deluded by the boon he had received from Brahmā, which made him think a man no more than a blade of grass, he praised their strength and courage and said to them: "Take up your weapons of every kind and go quickly from here to Janasthāna, that ruined place which was once Khara's home. Settle there in Janasthāna, empty now, its rākṣasas slain; rely on your own manly strength and put all fear far from you. I had stationed a great army of mighty warriors there, and together with Dūṣaṇa and Khara it was all destroyed in battle by Rāma's arrows." In saying so he admitted his own defeat, and that was the root of his fury. His very order to cast off fear shows that there was fear in them, for Rāma had emptied Janasthāna, and the words "once Khara's home" recall at one stroke the rākṣasas' former plenty there and its destruction. That he sent only eight shows that he was not now dispatching an army, only spies.

Then Rāvaṇa laid bare his feelings. "From this an anger I have never known before rises in me beyond all restraint, and a great and terrible enmity has been born toward Rāma. I mean to pay back that enmity on my great foe; I shall not so much as sleep until I have killed him in battle. Only when I have killed Rāma, who slew Khara and Dūṣaṇa, shall I have peace, like a poor man who comes upon wealth." The likeness reveals his grasping nature: even peace, for him, was a kind of gain, not a thing of dharma. Then he set out their task: "Living in Janasthāna, keep close to Rāma and bring me news of him, exactly what he is doing. All of you night-rangers must go with the greatest care, and always be working toward Rāghava's death. I have seen your strength many times at the forefront of battle, and that is why I have posted you in Janasthāna." His first instruction was to spy, not to fight, which shows his caution. Yet his words contain a contradiction: he held Rāma to be a mere man, yet he sent spies to compass his death. By telling them to go with care he silently acknowledged Rāma's power; the army already lost in Janasthāna was the reason for his caution.

Then those eight rākṣasas answered with pleasing words of weighty purpose, saluted Rāvaṇa, and leaving Laṅkā together they set out unseen for Janasthāna. As for Rāvaṇa, having got Sītā and taken the daughter of Mithilā into his keeping, he was full of delight; and though he had brought upon himself the deepest enmity with Rāma, in his delusion the rākṣasa rejoiced. That one word, delusion, gathers up the meaning of the whole sarga: what he took for joy was really the beginning of his destruction.