शत्रुघ्नस्य रोषः, मन्थरायाः निग्रहः

At the end of the previous sarga Vasiṣṭha and Sumantra had comforted Bharata and Śatrughna and set them to the remaining rites. Now Bharata was preparing for a journey: he meant to go to the forest and bring Rāma back. As he sat consumed with grief, Śatrughna, Lakṣmaṇa's younger brother, said to him: “Rāma, who is the refuge of all creatures in their sorrow — to say nothing of his own — Rāma, so rich in every virtue, has been driven into the forest by a woman! And Lakṣmaṇa, so strong and so valiant — why did he not set Rāma free, even if it meant laying hands on our father? Once right and wrong had been weighed, the king should have been restrained beforehand, a king who had fallen under a woman's power and taken the wrong road.” These words reveal Śatrughna's nature: he speaks little, but when he speaks his words cut. His reproach reaches even to his father, something rare in Vālmīki, yet the poet does not condemn him, because the root of his anger is devotion to Rāma. His pain is that the one who was everyone's refuge found no refuge himself.

While Śatrughna was speaking, the hunchback suddenly appeared at the eastern gate, decked in all her ornaments, as though the subject of his words had come of her own accord. The poet describes her dress in detail: smeared with sandal essence, wearing royal garments, adorned with ornaments of every sort, and bound about with many bright girdle-chains and other fine jewels, she looked for all the world like a she-monkey tied up with ropes. The image does two things: it points to her hunched shape, and it suggests that her very ornaments were her bonds. That she strutted about adorned, enjoying the fruits of Kaikeyī's victory, was the very thing that brought her punishment. The poet times it exactly: while she stayed at Kaikeyī's side she was not seen, but the moment she came out in her finery, punishment was waiting.

Seeing the woman who had done such grievous wrong, the doorkeeper seized the hunchback without pity and brought her before Śatrughna. “Here is the wicked, cruel woman because of whom Rāma is in the forest and your father has given up his body. Do with her as you think fit.” The doorkeeper's words express what all Ayodhyā thought; everyone knew who was at the root of the wrong. Yet he did not punish her himself but left it to the royal house, respecting its authority. Hearing him, Śatrughna, firm in his vows and deeply grieved, said to all the attendants of the women's quarters: “This woman has brought bitter suffering on my brothers and my father. Now let her reap the fruit of her cruel deed.” It was a command, not a wish, and by calling it the fruit of her deed he presented his act as just; but the limits of punishing a woman will soon be recalled by Bharata.

With these words he at once seized the hunchback by force, though her companions were all round her, and her screams made the whole palace ring. All her companions, badly frightened and seeing Śatrughna's rage, fled in every direction, and hurriedly took counsel together: “The way he has begun, he will leave nothing of us at all. Let us go for refuge to Kausalyā — compassionate, generous, knowing what is right, renowned. She alone is our sure refuge.” Their flight was quick and their counsel quicker, as fear's way is. The poet adds a quiet irony: those who had sided with Kaikeyī now seek shelter with Kausalyā; the woman they had wronged is their only refuge. The four words they use for her — compassion, generosity, knowledge of dharma, renown — sum up her character.

Then Śatrughna, the chastiser of enemies, wrapped in fury, dragged the screaming hunchback along the ground. As Mantharā was hauled this way and that, her many bright ornaments broke and lay scattered over the floor, and the splendid royal residence, strewn with them, shone all the brighter, like the autumn sky. The image is striking: even in a scene of pain the poet finds beauty, the jewels scattered on the ground shining like stars across a clear autumn sky. But there is irony in it too: the ornaments that were meant to make her beautiful shine brightest when broken, and the end of the hunchback's splendour is the palace's adornment. Her screaming shows how helpless she was.

In his wrath that strong bull among men seized Kaikeyī roughly, rebuked her and spoke harsh words to her. Deeply hurt by those harsh and painful words and terrified of Śatrughna, Kaikeyī went to her son for refuge. Seeing Śatrughna's rage, Bharata said to him: “No creature may kill a woman; let this be forgiven. I would kill this wicked Kaikeyī of evil ways myself, were it not that righteous Rāma would then despise me as a matricide. And if Rāghava learns that even this hunchback has been killed, that righteous man will surely never speak to you or me again.” Bharata's words carry two kinds of force: the rule of dharma that a woman may not be killed, and Rāma's approval as the highest authority. He himself detests Kaikeyī, as “wicked” and “of evil ways” make clear; yet he holds back for fear of Rāma's displeasure. So the poet shows that everything Bharata does turns on Rāma. He states the general rule, then his own case — I too would wish it, but I will not do it — and in that lies Bharata's greatness.

Hearing Bharata's words, Śatrughna turned back from his fury and let the woman go, senseless as she was. Mantharā fell at Kaikeyī's feet and, sighing in utter misery, lamented piteously. Seeing the hunchback lying there, stunned by Śatrughna's shaking and gazing up in distress like a krauñca hen caught in a snare, Bharata's mother gently comforted her. So Kaikeyī, the cause of all the calamity, was now the one giving comfort. Śatrughna's anger had not sprung from injustice, yet it was quieted by his elder brother's word alone, and so the ideal of obedience is kept here too. The sarga, which began with an outburst of anger, ends with forbearance; in the next, the king-makers will beg Bharata to be consecrated, and he will refuse the kingdom and resolve to bring Rāma back.