गुहेन लक्ष्मणसद्भाववर्णनम्

At the end of the previous sarga Guha had begun to console the grief-stricken Bharata, and this sarga is that consolation. Guha, at home in the deep forest, told the immeasurably great Bharata of the true devotion of great-souled Lakṣmaṇa — telling what he had seen with his own eyes, not what he had heard, so that what Bharata was to hear was not mere praise but an eyewitness's testimony. “Lakṣmaṇa stood awake, rich in every virtue, carrying his fine bow and quiver, wholly intent on guarding his brother, and I said to him: ‘Dear friend, here is a comfortable bed made ready for you. Rest, lie down on it, and sleep well, delight of the Raghus. All my men are used to hardship, and you are used to comfort. We will keep watch for Rāma, righteous one.’” The poet shows the reversal: the forest-dwelling Niṣādas were hardened to hardship and the prince delicate, yet it was the delicate one who stayed awake while the hardy ones urged him to sleep. That reversal is the measure of Lakṣmaṇa's devotion.

Guha went on with what he had said to Lakṣmaṇa: “‘There is no one on earth dearer to me than Rāma. So do not be anxious; I tell you this truly, before your face. It is by his favour that I hope to win great fame in this world, abundant merit, and wealth and pleasure besides. So I myself, bow in hand, with all my kinsmen, will guard my dear friend Rāma as he sleeps with Sītā. Nothing in this forest is unknown to me, for I roam it always, and we could hold off even a fourfold army in battle.’” This was no boasting from a forest-dweller but a true account of his own ground and his own strength: a man is strong where he was born. So Guha offered his strength and urged Lakṣmaṇa to rest. And the Niṣāda king's love sprang not from fear of a prince but from friendship, and that is the sweetness of this passage.

“When we had said this, the great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, looking only to dharma, turned us all aside with a gentle answer: ‘While the son of Daśaratha lies on the ground with Sītā, how could I have sleep, or life, or any comfort? Look, Guha, at the man whom all the gods and demons together could not withstand in battle — he is lying on the grass with Sītā.’” Lying on grass: in those few words lies the whole contrast between Rāma's former state and his present one. “‘Won by great austerity and every kind of labour, he is the one son of Daśaratha who bears his father's own marks. With him sent into exile, the king will not live long; surely this earth will very soon be widowed.’” The king is the husband of the land, so his death is the widowing of the earth. Here Lakṣmaṇa's foresight shows: what he feared then came true afterwards. And his answer was no contradiction but a gentle turning aside; looking to dharma, he did not reproach Guha, but only confessed that he could not sleep.

Lakṣmaṇa's thoughts ran from the forest back to Ayodhyā. “‘By now the women must have cried out their great cry and fallen silent from exhaustion; surely the clamour in the king's palace has died away tonight. Kausalyā, the king, and my own mother Sumitrā — I dare not hope that they will all live through this night. My mother may yet live on, looking to Śatrughna; but Kausalyā, the grieving mother of a hero, will not survive.’” Of his father his words were the most piteous of all: “‘Crying “It is gone, it is gone!”, his heart's desire unfulfilled, without having set Rāma on the throne, my father will die. Those who are there when his hour comes and perform all the funeral rites for the dead king will have gained their end.’” That what a son should do will be done by others is the sting of this lament, and the pain of a son living in the forest touches every listener's heart. The poet keeps an order: first the sound in the women's quarters, then the doubt whether three will live, then the difference between his mother Sumitrā and Kausalyā, and last his father's death — just as a mind far away calls up one person after another.

Then Lakṣmaṇa described Ayodhyā as if in a dream: “‘Happy men will walk about in my father's capital, with its lovely squares and well-laid highways, rich in mansions and palaces, adorned with every kind of jewel, thronged with elephants, horses and chariots, ringing with drums and trumpets, full of every blessing, crowded with sleek and cheerful people, full of pleasure groves and gardens, bright with gatherings and festivals — in that city of my father they will move about in happiness.’” Those who walk there happily are the fortunate ones, while he himself stands beside a bed of grass in the forest. That contrast is the purpose of the description: the more the city's splendour is spread out, the plainer the harshness of the forest becomes. The three verses make one sentence, the capital adorned with a long string of epithets and closed only with the words “of my father”, for in Lakṣmaṇa's memory the city is not mere buildings but the image of his father. At the end only one hope remained to him: “‘When this term is over, shall we too enter that city in happiness, with Rāma, true to his promise, safe and well?’” Fourteen years of waiting are bound up in that one question.

“While the great-souled prince stood there lamenting like this, the whole night passed,” said Guha — the night went by entirely in watching. “At dawn, when the sun rose clear, I had them both make their hair into matted locks, and ferried them safely across here, on this very bank of the Bhāgīrathī.” The last verse is a picture: wearing matted locks and garments of bark and rag, those two mighty men, like the leaders of an elephant herd, carrying fine quivers and bows, scourges of their enemies, went away with Sītā, looking about them as they went. Guha's account stops there; where his eyes could no longer follow them, his telling ceases too. But its effect is seen in Bharata, who in the next sarga, hearing this, will fall into a swoon.