सीताभरणदर्शनं रामस्य शोकरोषौ च

Delighted once more, Sugrīva said to Rāghava, joy of Raghu's line: "Hanumān, this minister of mine, the best of counsellors, has told me why you have come to this empty forest. While you were living in the forest with your brother Lakṣmaṇa, your wife Maithilī, Janaka's daughter, was carried off by a rākṣasa. Weeping, she was parted from you and from wise Lakṣmaṇa; the rākṣasa, watching for his chance, killed the vulture Jaṭāyu, and so brought on you the grief of losing your wife." "Watching for his chance" shows that the rākṣasas won not by strength but through an opening. Then Sugrīva comforts him: "You will soon be free of this grief. I will bring her back to you as the lost Veda was brought back. Whether she is in the underworld or in the sky, I will find your wife and give her back to you, tamer of foes." The comparison with the Veda is rich in meaning: like revealed scripture, Sītā may be lost but can be recovered, and she remains pure in herself; the underworld and the sky mark how boundless the search will be. Sugrīva's speech has three parts — a report of what Hanumān told him, the cause of Rāma's grief, and his own pledge. The friendship made in the last sarga is now made fruitful in action, for a friend takes his friend's sorrow as his own. "Soon" promises that the wait will be short, and so Rāma is quickly comforted. Jaṭāyu's death is briefly recalled, and the memory of the bird who gave his life deepens Rāma's grief.

"Take my word as the truth, Rāghava: your wife can no more be digested, even by the gods and demons with Indra at their head, than food laced with poison. So give up your grief, mighty-armed one; I will bring your beloved back to you." With the image of poisoned food Sugrīva foretells Rāvaṇa's ruin: whoever tries to enjoy her will be destroyed by her. By naming the gods and demons with Indra he places the power of her chastity above theirs, and calling Rāma "mighty-armed" twice reminds him of his strength, so that energy may take the place of grief. "I know by inference that it was Maithilī — of that there is no doubt. I saw her being carried off by a rākṣasa of cruel deeds, crying 'Rāma, Rāma!' and 'Lakṣmaṇa!' in a broken voice, writhing in Rāvaṇa's lap like the wife of a serpent king." "By inference" shows Sugrīva's honesty: what he does not know for certain he does not claim as certain. The image of the she-serpent conveys both her helplessness and her struggling. "When she saw me sitting on the mountainside with my four ministers, the fifth of our group, she let fall her upper garment and some fine ornaments. We picked them up and put them away, Rāghava; I will bring them, and you will be able to recognise them." Sītā's presence of mind shines out here: helpless as she was, she dropped a token so that her path could be traced, spotting Sugrīva and his ministers from far off and choosing her moment. Then Rāma said to kind-spoken Sugrīva, "Bring them at once, my friend — why do you delay?" "My friend" is the first use of the new friendship.

At that Sugrīva, eager to please Rāghava, quickly went into a deep cave in the mountain — keeping them hidden there shows his care, for he knew that what belongs to another must be guarded. He took up the upper garment and the ornaments and showed them to Rāma, saying simply, "Look at this" — a few words that become the cause of a great grief. Taking the garment and the lovely ornaments, Rāma was choked with tears, like the moon veiled in mist. The image is subtle: the light is not gone, only covered; so too Rāma's firmness was not lost but hidden by grief, and the moon also suggests his gentleness. Stained with the tears his love for Sītā drew from him, he cried "Ah, my beloved!" — two words that carry the whole of love in separation — and, losing his self-command, fell to the ground. Pressing that finest ornament to his heart again and again, he hissed hard, like an angry snake in its hole. The snake shows the anger hidden inside his grief: what comes out now as breath will later come out as arrows. His falling is not weakness but a sign of the depth of his love.

With his tears streaming without pause, Rāma looked at Saumitri beside him and began to lament piteously. "Look, Lakṣmaṇa: as she was carried off, Vaidehī let this upper garment and these ornaments fall from her body to the ground. She must surely have dropped them on grassy ground, for they look just as they were." Even overwhelmed with grief, Rāma reasons from evidence, which is true to his nature: had they fallen on hard ground they would have been broken; they are unbroken, so they fell on grass. Grief has not shaken his judgement. So addressed, Lakṣmaṇa said: "I do not know the armlets, nor do I know the earrings; but the anklets I recognise, because I bowed at her feet every day." These words are the highest proof of Lakṣmaṇa's modesty and character: of his brother's wife he had looked only at her feet, nothing more. His answer is short and clear, and he says without hesitation that he does not know what he does not know — the mark of a truthful man. Then Rāghava spoke to Sugrīva.

"Tell me, Sugrīva, in what direction did you see her being carried? A rākṣasa of dreadful form has taken my wife, who is dearer to me than life. And where does that rākṣasa live, who has brought this great calamity upon me? Because of him I will destroy all the rākṣasas. In carrying off Maithilī and rousing my anger he has surely flung open the door of death to end his own life." By this image the poet shows that Rāvaṇa himself set his own destruction in motion. Here for the first time Rāma's anger reaches out to all the rākṣasas, where before he had vowed the death of one alone. Last he begs the lord of the monkeys: "Tell me who he is, the night-rover who by treachery tore my dearest from the forest; I will send him to Yama this very day." "By treachery" marks the cruelty of the deceit.