अयोमुख्याः विरूपकरणं कबन्धबाहुबन्धनं च

In the previous sarga Rāma had given Jaṭāyus, king of the vultures, the fire rites due to a father and prayed that he might reach heaven. Now, having made the water offering, the two Rāghavas left that place and went westward, searching for Sītā throughout the forest. Then, turning south, the two Ikṣvākus, armed with arrows, bows and swords, came upon a path that no one ever travels, hemmed in on every side by thickets, by many trees and by creepers, hard to pass, dense and dreadful to look at. Even the princes now had to take a wild forest track that no people used. Crossing it at speed and holding to the south, the mighty brothers passed through that vast and terrible forest. Three krośas beyond Janasthāna the powerful pair entered a dense wood called the Krauñca forest. It was dark like a mass of heavy rain clouds and seemed joyful on every side, filled with bright flowers of many colours and with herds of beasts and flocks of birds. The flowering wood looked happy, but to the grieving brothers it gave no pleasure; the poet describes its beauty without forgetting their sorrow. Longing to see Vaidehī, they searched the whole forest, and weary and stricken by her abduction they stopped here and there to rest a moment. Then, going three krośas to the east, they passed beyond the Krauñca forest and, within the precincts of the sage Mataṅga's hermitage, came upon another wood, full of fearsome beasts and birds, crowded with trees of every kind, thickly overgrown and dreadful to see. Measuring the way twice by three krośas, first southward and then eastward, the poet shows how winding their path was. From west to south and from south to east they wandered without pausing in their search even for a moment; the directions changed, their grief did not. They did not know for certain that Rāvaṇa had taken Sītā south, yet Jaṭāyus's word made the south their goal. So the sarga sets its stage: as they went from dense forest into denser, a great danger in the shape of Kabandha lay in wait ahead of them.

On a hill in that forest the two sons of Daśaratha saw a cave, deep as the underworld and always wrapped in darkness, a darkness that seems to mirror the nature of the creature who lived there. Not far from it the two tigers among men came upon a rākṣasī, huge in form and hideous of face. She was a terror to weaker creatures, loathsome and dreadful to look at, with a hanging belly, sharp fangs, a gaping mouth and rough skin. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa saw her there, misshapen, her hair loose, devouring fearsome beasts. She came up to the two heroes, took hold of Lakṣmaṇa, who was walking ahead of his brother, and said, "Come, let us enjoy ourselves." Embracing Saumitri she said to him, "My name is Ayomukhī. You are my beloved; to win you is my great prize. My lord, my hero, you will have a long life, and you will always take your pleasure with me among the mountain strongholds and on the sandbanks of the rivers." Her words were utterly shameless, much like Śūrpaṇakhā's, and she tried to tempt him with a long life, but Lakṣmaṇa's mind did not waver. He gave her no answer in words, only in action, as was his way. Angered, the slayer of foes drew his sword and cut off her ears, her nose and her breasts, more than was done to Śūrpaṇakhā. With her ears and nose cut away, the dreadful rākṣasī shrieked in a hideous voice and fled back the way she had come; her cry of pain shook the forest and seemed to herald the great noise to come. As with Śūrpaṇakhā, it was Lakṣmaṇa who disfigured her rather than killing her, the Rāmāyaṇa's familiar way of punishing a woman. In this episode the forest's terror takes bodily form in the rākṣasī, and it serves as a prelude to the appearance of Kabandha. When she had gone, the two brothers, destroyers of their enemies, pressed on vigorously into the thick forest.

Then Lakṣmaṇa, full of splendour, steadfast, well-conducted and pure, folded his hands and spoke to his radiant brother. "Noble brother, my arm is throbbing hard and my mind is uneasy; for the most part I see omens that foretell evil." A throbbing arm is a well-known ill omen. "So be ready, and do as I say. I think these omens foretell sudden danger for me alone." He did not merely voice his fear; by saying "be ready" he pointed to what could be done about it, as a hero does, and by taking the danger on himself he sought to protect his brother. "But this vañjulaka, the most dreadful of birds, is crying out as if it foretold our victory in the fight." So Lakṣmaṇa announced both the danger at hand and its happy outcome at once, and in the listener dread and reassurance rise together. As the two searched on, the whole forest seemed to stir with their force. A great noise arose that seemed to shatter the wood, as a gale breaks trees; the dense forest seemed wholly wrapped in wind, and the sound seemed to flood every corner of it, echoing in all directions. Seeking the source of that sound, Rāma, sword in hand and with his brother beside him, saw a rākṣasa with a vast body and a broad chest. From the telling of omens to the hearing of the noise, the poet builds up fear step by step, and with the sight of the creature it takes shape.

The two came upon the demon standing right before them. His bulk was enormous; he had no head and no neck, he was a mere trunk, and his mouth was in his belly. He bristled with sharp, stiff hairs, towered up like a great mountain, was dark as a storm cloud, terrible, and roared like thunder. His forehead too was in his chest, and there he had one huge, tawny eye, wide and long, blazing like a tongue of fire, with a great lid over it, a single dreadful eye that saw keenly. His huge mouth was armed with great tusks, and he kept licking it; with it he devoured dreadful bears, lions, beasts and birds. He flung out his two terrible arms, each a yojana long, and with his hands seized bears, flocks of birds and deer of every kind, even the leaders of herds, dragging some toward him and flinging back those he did not care to eat. The length of those arms is not mere exaggeration; it explains his power to seize, for with them he caught creatures even far away, and with them he would catch the two Rāghavas. He stood barring the path the brothers had taken. Passing him by, they saw him from a krośa away, so vast he was, a huge, cruel and fearsome trunk hedged about with arms, dreadful to see in its very shape: a kabandha, a headless trunk, which is what his name means. The poet describes him limb by limb, size, colour, voice, eye, mouth, arms, until the picture of terror is complete, and in the two words "trunk" and "mouth in the belly" his whole deformity is caught.

Stretching out his vast arms to their full length, the mighty-armed creature seized both Rāghavas together and squeezed them with all his strength. Though they carried swords and strong bows, were fierce in their splendour, mighty-armed and powerful, the brothers were dragged along helpless; neither strength nor weapons were of any use. Rāma, brave and steadfast, was not shaken; but Lakṣmaṇa, being young and finding nothing to steady him, was sorely distressed. Downcast, Rāghava's younger brother said to him: "See, hero, I am helpless in the power of this rākṣasa. Let him be satisfied with me alone; you free yourself, Rāghava. Give me to him as an offering to the spirits and escape as best you can. I am certain you will find Vaidehī before long, and when you have won back the land of your fathers and forefathers, Kākutstha, and sit on the throne there, remember me always." The poet shows plainly Lakṣmaṇa's self-sacrificing love: even facing death, his only thought was his brother's success, and his offer to be the offering raises the pathos to its height. Hearing these loving words, Rāma said to Saumitri, "Do not give way to fear for nothing, hero; a man like you does not despair." Even in danger Rāma's words taught steadiness and at once eased his brother's anguish. Meanwhile the cruel, mighty-armed Kabandha, chief of the dānavas, spoke to the two brothers: "Who are you two, with shoulders like bulls, carrying great swords and bows? Why have you come to this terrible country, brought by fate within reach of my eye? Tell me what your business is here." It is a strange thing for him to ask their names before eating them, but the question makes room for the story of his past. He spoke of fate, and Rāma soon will too; the word is the same, but the feeling differs, for to Kabandha it was good fortune and to the Rāghavas a calamity.

"You have come into this country, carrying arrows, bows and swords like two bulls with sharp horns, where I stand famished," Kabandha went on, "and you have come right up to me; your lives are hard to keep now." Hearing the evil Kabandha's words, Rāma, his mouth gone dry, said to Lakṣmaṇa: "You who are truly valiant, from one hardship we have passed into a harder and crueller one; without having found my beloved, a calamity has come that will end our lives. Lakṣmaṇa, the power of Time over all beings is very great. Look at us, tiger among men, you and me, bewildered by misfortunes. No burden among all beings is too heavy for fate, Lakṣmaṇa; whatever it wishes to do, it does without effort. Men who are brave, strong and trained in arms sink down on the field of battle when Time overtakes them, like dams built of sand." The image is apt: as a dam of sand gives way in water, so even heroes crumble once Time has seized them. His words spoke of steadiness while his mouth went dry, and so the poet keeps his humanity. Saying this, the glorious and majestic son of Daśaratha, firm in true valour, looked at Saumitri, whose courage ran high, and made his own resolve steady within himself. The poet shows that neither grief nor fear could shake Rāma's fortitude: knowing the power of Time, he did not freeze, but steadied his mind and stood ready to fight back. It is this very view that saves him from despair, for one who understands Time can also endure it; and here is laid the ground for the cutting off of Kabandha's arms in the next sarga.