लक्ष्मणेन रामस्य प्रबोधनम्

In the previous sarga Lakṣmaṇa had held back Rāma's anger with reason and with dharma. Now the anger had cooled, but grief remained in its place. Scorched by sorrow, Rāma lamented like a man with no protector, seized by a deep stupor, worn out and hardly conscious. The phrase is poignant: he who was the protector of all now seemed himself unprotected. Seeing his brother so, Saumitri first steadied himself for a moment, for he too had been stunned, and then, pressing and chafing Rāma's feet, he roused him and began to speak. The poet puts service before speech: only a mind first calmed by touch and care can take in counsel. So the sarga begins, and the whole of it is one long speech of consolation.

Lakṣmaṇa first called up the memory of their family. "King Daśaratha won you through great austerities and great deeds, as the immortals won the nectar. Bound fast by your virtues, that lord of the earth went to the gods because he was parted from you; so we heard from Bharata." Rāma's life, he implied, was not his own alone but the fruit of his father's austerities, and it was not right to waste it in grief. Then he reasoned: "If you, Kākutstha, cannot bear the sorrow that has come to you, how will an ordinary man of little strength bear it?" The steadiness of the great is the world's example, and the despair of the best spreads despair to all. So Lakṣmaṇa reached Rāma by three paths, affection, the honour of their line and the good of the world, all toward one end, to raise him out of grief.

"Take heart, best of men. What living creature is free of misfortune? Misfortunes touch us like fire, and in a moment they pass." The image is lovely: calamity burns but does not stay, and whoever thinks it will last for ever is burned the more. Then he spoke of the danger: "If in your grief you burn up the worlds with your fiery power, where will the suffering people find peace? This is simply the way of the world." That line is the thread on which all his consolation hangs. He gave two examples. "Yayāti, son of Nahuṣa, won a place in Indra's own heaven, and even there wrongdoing caught up with him. And the great seer Vasiṣṭha, our father's family priest, had a hundred sons born to him in a single day, and in the same way they were taken from him again." So in heaven and on earth, among kings and among seers, the same law holds.

He widened the examples. "The earth, mother of the world, to whom all people bow, even she is seen to shake, lord of Kosala. The sun and moon, the ordainers and the eyes of the world, in whom everything rests, mighty as they are, fall into eclipse. The great elements and the gods themselves do not escape fate; how then can any embodied creature? Right and wrong conduct and their fruits are heard of even among Indra and the gods, tiger among men; you should not grieve." The order is worth noticing: earth, sun and moon, the great beings, the gods and Indra, rising from below to the highest. What is found even among the highest, how could it not be found in man? Suffering is not the exception but the rule. First he raised the greatness of each, the earth as mother of the world, the sun and moon as its eyes, and then showed that even they are touched by change; that is the strength of his argument.

"Even if Vaidehī is dead or lost, Rāghava, you should not mourn, hero, like some ordinary man. Men like you, who always see all things clearly, do not grieve even in the greatest trouble, Rāma; despair does not cloud their vision. So think it through with your understanding, as it truly is; only the very wise, guided by understanding, can tell good from ill. When the merits and faults of actions have not yet been seen and their outcome is uncertain, the fruit one desires does not come without doing them." That last teaching was about action itself: results come not from brooding but from making a start. One cannot know whether an undone deed will turn out well or ill, and so one should not give up acting out of doubt about the fruit. Rise from lament and begin to act: that was his conclusion.

At the end Lakṣmaṇa humbly drew himself back. "Hero, it was you yourself who used to tell me all this, many times. Who could teach you? Could Bṛhaspati himself? Your understanding, wise brother, is hard even for the gods to follow. I am only waking the knowledge in you that grief has put to sleep." That humility is what made his counsel acceptable: the pupil does not teach the teacher, he only reminds one who has fallen asleep. Then he pointed to the task: "Look to your own prowess, both divine and human, bull of the Ikṣvākus, and set yourself to destroy your enemies. What would you gain by destroying everything, best of men? Find out who that one sinful enemy is and tear him out by the roots." So in place of the destruction of all the worlds he set the search for one enemy and his death. "Tear him out by the roots" is well chosen, for he is to be uprooted like a tree, not merely lopped of a branch, and this resolve is the seed of the story in the sargas to come.