जटायुषा सह रामस्य समागमः

In the previous sarga Lakṣmaṇa had given his long counsel. Though he was the elder, Rāma needed to be told only once; able to grasp what matters, he took in the weighty good advice his brother had spoken. That he accepted it, elder though he was, shows his humility, for it is the mark of the great to accept good counsel even from a younger man. Holding down the anger that had swelled in him, the mighty-armed Rāma leaned on his splendid bow and said to Lakṣmaṇa, "What are we to do, dear brother? Where shall we go? By what means shall we find Sītā here? Think it out." This turn from anger to planning was the fruit of Lakṣmaṇa's counsel. By asking him to think, Rāma made his brother his counsellor; too grieved to decide for himself, he now leaned on his helper's judgement. Even his leaning on the bow is telling: the bow that a moment before had been strung to destroy the worlds was now only something to lean on, and in that single detail the poet shows the anger subsiding.

To Rāma, tormented with anguish, Lakṣmaṇa said: "It is this very Janasthāna that you should search. It is full of rākṣasas and thick with every kind of tree and creeper; there are mountain strongholds here, clefts and caverns, fearful caves of every kind crowded with herds of wild beasts, the dwellings of kinnaras and the mansions of gandharvas. You should search them all, with me beside you. Great-souled men like you, gifted with understanding, do not tremble in calamity any more than mountains tremble in the wind." The image fits: as the wind cannot move a mountain, so misfortune cannot shake a steady man. His plan was sensible too: before going far, they should search nearby Janasthāna, where the chariot had been broken and where the rākṣasas lived, and his list of strongholds, caves and dwellings shows how hard the search would be. So addressed, Rāma ranged through the whole forest with Lakṣmaṇa. Counsel had become action; the poet has shown three steps in order, lament, reflection and then the search.

Rāma went ahead in anger with a dreadful razor-headed arrow fitted to his bow. Then he saw, fallen on the ground and wet with blood, a mighty and noble bird, huge as a mountain peak: Jaṭāyu. Seeing him, like a mountain crest, Rāma said to Lakṣmaṇa: "This is the one who has devoured Sītā, Vaidehī; there is no doubt of it. It is plainly a rākṣasa in the shape of a vulture that roams this wood. Having eaten wide-eyed Sītā, he sits here at his ease. I will kill him with dreadful straight-flying arrows with blazing points." So saying, he fitted the razor-headed shaft to his bow and rushed at the vulture in fury, making the sea-girt earth seem to shake. Here the pathos reaches its height: the one who had given up his life to save Sītā was taken by her husband for the one who had devoured her. The poet shows what harm anger born of ignorance can do. Rāma's very certainty shows how deep his delusion was, for a grief-stricken mind decides quickly and does not wait to reflect; the careful thought Lakṣmaṇa had urged was forgotten for a moment. The poet is describing human weakness here, not a fault in Rāma.

Then the bird, vomiting frothy blood, spoke to Rāma, son of Daśaratha, in the most wretched voice: "Long-lived one, the lady you are searching for in this great forest, as one searches for a healing herb, she and my own life both have been taken by Rāvaṇa. When she was left alone without you and Lakṣmaṇa, Rāghava, I saw that lady being carried off by the mighty Rāvaṇa. I went to Sītā's defence, and in that fight I shattered Rāvaṇa's chariot and parasol, and he himself was brought down to the ground." With one speech the bird did three things: he ended Rāma's error, gave news of Sītā and named her abductor. The image of the healing herb is moving, for Rāma sought Sītā as a sick man seeks a remedy. The old vulture's valour is the supreme example of a friend's duty, and in saying that Rāvaṇa had taken "both" he set his own life beside Sītā's, one thief for them both. The poet dwells on his broken voice and the blood he vomited to stir the listener's pity, and at once Rāma's arrow was rendered useless.

Jaṭāyu pointed to the evidence before their eyes. "Here is his broken bow, and here are his arrows; here, Rāma, is his war chariot, smashed in the battle. And here lies his charioteer, struck to the ground by my wings. When I was exhausted, Rāvaṇa cut off my wings with his sword, took Vaidehī Sītā and flew up into the sky." What Lakṣmaṇa had inferred from these same signs in the previous sarga, that it was the trampling of a single fighter, was now confirmed by a witness. The order follows the evidence, first the things, bow, arrows and chariot, then the man, the charioteer, and last the wounds in Jaṭāyu's own body, so that the whole battlefield of Janasthāna was explained and nothing was left unanswered. At the end he made a pitiful plea: "I have already been struck down by that rākṣasa; you should not kill me." A dying creature's plea was not to save his life but that he should not be dishonoured at a friend's hands, and with it Rāma's error vanished completely.

When Rāma understood that the bird's words brought welcome news of Sītā, he flung away his great bow and embraced the king of vultures. A kṣatriya does not lay down his bow, but here love overcame even the weapon. Helpless, he fell to the ground and wept together with Lakṣmaṇa; steadfast as he was, his anguish was now doubled, grief for Sītā and grief for a friend meeting in one. Seeing the bird lying alone in that hard, narrow place, drawing breath painfully again and again, the grieving Rāma said to Saumitri: "My kingdom lost, a life in the forest, Sītā gone, and this noble bird dying: such ill fortune as mine would burn up fire itself. If today I were to swim across the great ocean at its fullest, that lord of rivers would surely dry up because of my ill luck." By such exaggeration the poet shows the size of his grief: what kind of misfortune must it be that could burn fire and dry the sea?

"There is no one in this whole world of moving and unmoving things more unlucky than I, to have fallen into this vast net of calamity. This king of vultures, my father's friend, a bird of great strength, lies struck down on the earth because my fortune has turned against me." Because Jaṭāyu was his father's friend, he stood in Daśaratha's place, and Rāma's grief became like grief for a father. Having said this many times over, Rāghava, with Lakṣmaṇa, stroked Jaṭāyu, showing him the love one shows a father. The touch says everything: the hand that a moment before was fitting an arrow now caressed him like a son. Then, in a longer closing verse, the poet fixes the scene. Taking in his arms the king of vultures, his wings cut away and his body drenched in blood, Rāma cried out, "Where has Maithilī gone, who was dear to me as life?" and sank to the ground. The question hangs unanswered, and the sarga ends with his fall; in the next sarga the king of birds himself will answer.