वनप्रथमरात्रौ रामस्य विलापः

Having crossed the Gaṅgā and reached the Vatsa country, Rāma came to that great tree, sat through the western twilight, and said to Lakṣmaṇa: Tonight is the first night we have spent outside our own country, and the first without Sumantra; you must not let it trouble you. From tonight on the two of us must keep watch at night without growing drowsy, for Sītā's safety and welfare depend on us. Let us get through this night somehow, son of Sumitrā; we will spread on the ground the grass and leaves we have gathered ourselves and lie down on them. Then he who was used to costly beds lay down on the bare earth and spoke these good words to Lakṣmaṇa. Notice the poet's skill: the man fit to sleep on a golden couch lies on grass gathered with his own hands, and yet his words are "good". By telling Lakṣmaṇa not to be troubled, Rāma steadied his brother's mind in advance, for the parting from Sumantra had only just happened. And "somehow" acknowledges the hardship: he expected no comfort, only to get through the night.

Surely, Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma said, the great king is sleeping in sorrow tonight, while Kaikeyī, having got what she wanted, has reason to be content. When Queen Kaikeyī sees Bharata arrive, she may even drive the life out of the great king for the sake of the kingdom. He is without a protector, he is old, and he has been deprived of me; what will he do, ruled by desire and fallen into Kaikeyī's power? Rāma's compassion is to be seen here: setting aside his own exile, he thought only of his father's plight. "Without a protector" is poignant: the protector of all Kosala had himself become unprotected by the loss of his son. And "deprived of me" implies the parting was not of their own choosing but brought about by another. Rāma's fear about Kaikeyī came not from hatred but from anxiety to protect his father. With the word "surely" he sees his distant father's state as if it were before his eyes.

Looking at this disaster and at the confusion of the king's mind, Rāma said, I think desire weighs more than gain or duty. For what man, however ignorant, would abandon an obedient son for a woman's sake, as our father has abandoned me? Bharata, Kaikeyī's son, is the happy one, and with a good wife; he alone will rule the glad people of Kosala like an emperor. Now that our father is far gone in years and I have gone to the forest, he will be the one source of happiness for the whole kingdom. A man who abandons gain and duty and follows desire soon comes to grief, as King Daśaratha has. I think, gentle brother, that Kaikeyī came into our house for Daśaratha's end, for my banishment and for Bharata's kingship. Here the three aims of life are weighed: of duty, gain and pleasure, desire is the lowest, yet, as Rāma says from experience, the strongest. By calling himself an obedient son he recalls his own obedience: he who never went against his father's word was the one cast off. And "looking at" shows he drew this conclusion from what he had seen, not from the books.

Even now, Rāma said, Kaikeyī, drunk with the pride of her good fortune, may trouble Kausalyā and Sumitrā because of me. Because of us your mother, Queen Sumitrā, would live in sorrow; so go back to Ayodhyā from here, Lakṣmaṇa, at first light, for it would not be right to travel alone by night. I will go on alone with Sītā to the Daṇḍaka forest, and you will be the protector of Kausalyā, who has none. Kaikeyī is mean in her deeds and may act unjustly out of hatred; she may even give poison to your mother and mine, you who know what is right. Rāma's argument had two sides: Sumitrā's sorrow, and Kausalyā's need for protection, and with both he hoped to turn Lakṣmaṇa back. The fear of poison is very sharp, but it was not Rāma's real view: it was spoken to test Lakṣmaṇa's resolve, as the interpreters explain. And "protector of one who has none" shows Kausalyā's helplessness: her husband was sunk in grief and her son gone to the forest, so she truly had no one.

Surely, my dear brother, Rāma said, in some former birth my mother parted women from their sons, and that is why this has come upon her today. She nourished me so long and raised me through hardship, and just when the fruit was due Kausalyā has been parted from me; shame on me! Let no woman ever bear a son like me, who give my mother endless grief. I think even her pet myna is dearer to her than I am, for it is heard to say, "Parrot, bite the enemy's foot!" What use is a son like me, subduer of foes, who does nothing at all for his unlucky, grieving mother, left as if she had no son? Parted from me, my mother Kausalyā is ill-fated; she lies stricken with utter grief, fallen into an ocean of sorrow. The myna is a most touching example: even a bird turns angrily against its mistress's enemy, while he, her son, could do nothing for his mother; so Rāma reproached himself. "When the fruit was due" points to old age, the time when a mother looks to her son's care. And "endless" means that her grief was without measure and would not subside even when the fourteen years were over.

Were I angry, Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma said, I could by myself overrun Ayodhyā and the whole earth with my arrows; but strength is no reason for action. It is because I fear unrighteousness and the world to come, sinless one, that I do not have myself consecrated today. Here the ruling thought of the sarga comes out: Rāma's power was complete, but it was held in check by dharma, so his exile came not from weakness but from restraint. For securing one's good in the world to come, strength and valour are no means at all; dharma alone is. Having lamented much in this and other pitiful ways in that lonely place, his face full of tears and cast down, he sat in silence through the night. "Lonely place" suggests that Rāma did not show his grief before the world but only before his brother. And the lament ended not in resolution but simply in silence. Seeing Rāma, his lament over, like a fire whose flames have died and like an ocean without a wave, Lakṣmaṇa comforted him. Both images speak of calm, not of lost strength.

Surely tonight, Rāma, best of bowmen, Lakṣmaṇa said, now that you have left, the city of Ayodhyā has lost her brightness like a night when the moon has gone, an image of the city's lost splendour and of darkness both, and both the fruit of Rāma's absence. It is not fitting for you to torment yourself so, bull among men; you are casting Sītā and me into despair. Neither Sītā nor I could live a moment without you, Rāghava, any more than two fish taken from the water. Without you, scorcher of foes, I would not wish to see my father, or Śatrughna, or Sumitrā, or even heaven itself. So Lakṣmaṇa rejected the advice to go home without even mentioning it: he answered not by argument but by saying he could not live without Rāma. The image of the fish is especially apt, for a fish out of water dies at once, not after a while. And with "even heaven" he counts the highest reward lower than being near Rāma.

Then the two brothers, who loved what is right, sitting there and seeing not far off the bed Lakṣmaṇa had made well for them under a banyan tree, went to it; "made well" speaks of Lakṣmaṇa's labour, since he had made it himself. Hearing Lakṣmaṇa's excellent and ample words, Rāghava, scorcher of foes, accepted forest life with respect, took up that duty for a long time to come, and settled the matter so for all the years; that is, he accepted Lakṣmaṇa's company for the whole fourteen years. And there in that lonely great forest the two mighty men who extend the line of Raghu knew neither fear nor alarm, like two lions ranging the mountain slopes. These closing verses are in a longer metre, as is the poet's way at a sarga's end. With the image of the lions the poet suggests that the forest was not exile for them but a place natural to them. So Rāma's first night in the forest ends; in the next sarga they go on towards Prayāga and reach Bharadvāja's hermitage. Here, too, an important decision in the story is made: Rāma formally accepted Lakṣmaṇa's right to share his exile.