शबर्याः सत्कारः स्वर्गगमनं च

Taking the road to Pampā that Kabandha had shown them in the forest, the two sons of the best of men turned west and set out; the very first words tie this sarga to the last. Looking at the many trees crowding the hills, heavy with honey, blossom and fruit, just as Kabandha had described, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa went on their way to see Sugrīva. They spent a night on a mountain ridge, which shows how long the journey was, and then the two delights of the Raghus reached the western shore of Pampā. There, on the western bank of the lotus pool, they saw Śabarī's lovely hermitage. Coming up to it, ringed by many trees, and gazing at its beauty, they approached Śabarī. The poet tells the journey briefly, for what Kabandha described in the last sarga now comes true before their eyes. With this sarga a new chapter of the story opens: the battles with the rākṣasas are over and the friendship with the monkeys is about to begin, and between them comes the tale of Śabarī, which shows the greatness of devotion.

As soon as she saw them, that perfected ascetic rose with folded hands and clasped the feet of Rāma and of wise Lakṣmaṇa; the poet makes a point of saying she clasped Lakṣmaṇa's feet too, a sign of her humility. She gave them water for their feet and for rinsing their mouths, and everything else due to guests, according to the rule. Then Rāma spoke to the ascetic woman, steadfast in dharma: "Have you overcome all obstacles? Is your austerity growing? Do you keep your anger and your food in check, you whose wealth is penance? Have you fulfilled your vows? Is your mind at peace? Has your service to your teachers borne fruit, sweet-spoken lady?" These questions fit an ascetic exactly, for victory over obstacles, growth in austerity, control of anger and food, keeping of vows, peace of mind and service to one's teachers are the six riches of the ascetic life. Rāma's courtesy shines here: he did not ask about her birth, only about the welfare of her austerities, and that before anything else.

Questioned by Rāma, the aged Śabarī, perfected herself and honoured by the perfected, stood before him and answered. "Today, by the sight of you, I have won the fruit of my austerities. Today my birth has borne fruit and my teachers have been truly honoured. Today the penance I have practised has borne fruit, and heaven too will be mine, now that I have honoured you, best of the gods, bull among men; for when you are honoured, all is honoured. Your gentle glance, gentle one, giver of honour, has made me pure, and by your grace, subduer of foes, I shall go to the imperishable worlds." In this answer the heart of Śabarī's devotion shines out: she asked for no boon and no reward; the sight of Rāma was itself the fruit of all her striving. In calling him "best of the gods" she hinted at his supreme divinity, something rarely said so openly in Vālmīki.

Then she told what had gone before. "When you came to Citrakūṭa, the teachers I always served mounted flying chariots of matchless splendour and rose from here to heaven." Naming the time of his arrival at Citrakūṭa recalls the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa and fixes the order of events. "As they were leaving, those great and fortunate seers, who knew dharma, told me: 'Rāma will come to this most holy hermitage of yours. You must receive him as your guest, and Saumitri with him, and when you have seen him you will go to the highest, imperishable worlds.' That is what those great ones told me then, bull among men. So I have gathered for you, tiger among men, forest food of many kinds that grows on the shore of Pampā." So it becomes clear that her long wait rested on her teachers' word, and three things meet here, the seers' foreknowledge, Śabarī's faith and Rāma's arrival. Her store of forest food speaks of that long, faithful waiting: not knowing when her guest would come, she had gathered provisions day after day.

Thus addressed by Śabarī, the righteous Rāghava said to her, who had never been shut out from true knowledge: "I have heard truly from Danu the power of those great-souled sages, and if you think it fitting, I wish to see it with my own eyes." The poet says it plainly: though she may have been shut out by birth, she was never shut out from knowledge. Danu was Kabandha's own former name, and from him Rāma had heard of the power of Mataṅga's hermitage; now he wished to see what he had heard, and asked courteously, "if you think it fitting." Hearing these words from Rāma's lips, Śabarī showed the two of them that great forest. "Look at this wood, dark as a bank of cloud and thronged with beasts and birds; it is famous by this very name, Mataṅga's wood, delight of the Raghus. Here, radiant one, lived my teachers, pure of soul, and here they made offerings into the sacred fire, hallowed and honoured with mantras, used both in the rite and in worship. This is the altar facing west, where my honoured teachers used to make their offerings of flowers with hands trembling from their labour." The trembling hands of the old sages speak of the severity of their austerities.

"See, best of the Raghus, how even today, by the power of their austerity, this altar lights up every quarter with a splendour beyond compare. When they were too weak from fasting to walk and could no longer go on pilgrimage, the seven seas came and gathered here at their mere thought; see them. The bark garments they hung on the trees here after bathing have not dried even now, delight of the Raghus. And the garlands they made while worshipping the gods, with blue lilies among them, still do not fade." So four wonders were shown together, the shining altar, the seven seas summoned by thought, the bark garments that never dried and the garlands that never faded, and all had one cause, the power of the sages' austerities. What Kabandha had said in the previous sarga about the unfading flowers Śabarī now confirmed by showing the place itself.

"You have seen this whole wood and heard all there is to hear. Now, with your leave, I wish to lay down this body. I wish to go to those pure-souled sages whose hermitage this is and whom I served." Her wish is the natural longing of a devoted servant; even death she saw as a way to be with her teachers again, and the body as a mere covering. Hearing her righteous words, Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa felt a joy beyond compare, and Rāma said, "It is a wonder," expressing both amazement at the power of austerity and praise for her devotion. Then Rāma said to Śabarī, whose vows were strict, "You have honoured me, good lady; go as you wish, and in peace." He neither forbade her nor asked her to wait; her wish was granted at once.

So addressed, with Rāma's leave, she of the matted hair, clothed in bark and black antelope skin, offered herself into the sacred fire, and blazing like the burning fire she went straight to heaven. There she appeared lovely to see, decked with heavenly ornaments, heavenly garlands and unguents, in heavenly clothes, lighting up the place like a flash of lightning, brief but brilliant; the fire seemed only the reflection of her own splendour. By her own inward concentration she went to that holy abode where those sages of perfected deeds move at will. "Inward concentration" points to the power of yoga: her entry into the fire was not self-destruction but the chosen passing of a yogin, a path the sacred texts approve. So the tale of Śabarī ends. In it the poet shows the greatness of devotion: an ascetic woman, low by birth, old in years and alone in the forest, held her teachers' word in faith, waited through long years, and at the last reached the highest goal through the sight of Rāma alone.