सालभेदनं प्रथमं वालिसुग्रीवयुद्धं च

Hearing Sugrīva's well-spoken request, glorious Rāma took up his bow to give him proof. That giver of honour took his dreadful bow and a single arrow, aimed at the sāla trees and let fly, filling the quarters with the twang of his bowstring. Loosed by that mighty arm, the gold-adorned arrow pierced all the sālas on the mountainside together and plunged into the earth; in a moment that swift shaft split through the sālas, broke into the underworld, and flew back out again straight into his quiver. "In a moment" tells how short the time was, and an arrow that returns of itself to the quiver is no ordinary arrow: to pierce the earth and reach the underworld is the mark of a divine weapon, and its return is beyond anything in this world. Seeing the seven sālas pierced by the speed of Rāma's arrow, the bull among monkeys was filled with utter wonder. Overjoyed, Sugrīva threw himself headlong to the ground, his ornaments trailing, and folded his hands to Rāghava — the trailing ornaments show how deep his bow was. The doubt he had put into words was removed by a single deed. Note that Sugrīva had named two tests and Rāma has met both: the throwing of the bones at the end of the last sarga and here the piercing of the sālas. "All together" means the seven trees were pierced at once, not one by one, which surpasses even Vālī's feat, for he pierced them one at a time.

Delighted by that deed, he said to Rāma, the hero who knew dharma and was the best of all masters of weapons: "With your arrows, bull among men, you could kill all the gods with Indra in battle — how much more Vālī, my lord! When one arrow has split seven great sālas, a mountain and the earth, Kākutstha, who could stand before you in battle? Today my grief is gone and my joy is complete, for I have found in you a friend the equal of great Indra and Varuṇa. Then this very day, for my sake, kill Vālī, that enemy of mine who only wears a brother's shape; I fold my hands to you, Kākutstha." In that one phrase Sugrīva names the heart of his sorrow: a brother in form, an enemy in deed. His praise runs in proper order — first the general (you could kill the gods with Indra), then the particular (how much more Vālī), then the visible proof (seven sālas, a mountain and the earth split by one arrow), and last the request. "Today my grief is gone" shows a long sorrow ended in an instant, and the two comparisons, Indra and Varuṇa, name both Rāma's splendour and his depth. Then Rāma, in his great wisdom, embraced the handsome Sugrīva and answered him with words Lakṣmaṇa approved; the embrace said more than words, showing friendship in action.

"Let us go from here to Kiṣkindhā," said Rāma. "Go quickly ahead of us, Sugrīva, and when you get there challenge Vālī, who is a brother only in name." The phrase is sharp: in Vālī only the smell of brotherhood remains, not its feeling. Rāma's order to go ahead also makes clear that he himself will stay behind, though Sugrīva does not consider this at the time. They all went swiftly to Vālī's city, Kiṣkindhā, and stood in the thick wood, hidden among the trees — the first mention of Rāma's concealment, which will later become a matter of dispute. Then Sugrīva, girding himself tightly for battle, gave a terrible roar to call Vālī out, as if splitting the sky with the force of his cries. Hearing his brother's roar, mighty Vālī grew furious and rushed out in a rage, like the sun coming down the slope of the western mountain. The image is apt: splendid as he is, he is heading for his setting — a hint of the death to come.

Then a tumultuous battle broke out between Vālī and Sugrīva, as terrible as a war in the sky between the planets Mercury and Mars. Senseless with rage, the two brothers struck each other with palms like thunderbolts and fists like the vajra — the weaponless fighting of monkeys. Then Rāma, bow in hand, looked closely at them both: the two heroes were as like each other as the divine Aśvins. Since Rāghava could not tell which was Sugrīva and which Vālī, he did not decide to loose his death-dealing arrow. Meanwhile Vālī broke Sugrīva, and, not seeing Rāghava, his protector, he fled towards Ṛṣyamūka. Exhausted, his body drenched in blood and battered by the blows, pursued by the furious Vālī, he entered the great forest. The poet gives Rāma good reason for not acting: it was the likeness that stopped him, not reluctance; yet Sugrīva did not know this, so his distress was natural. Two images serve the battle: the war of the planets shows its fury, and the Aśvins, famous as twin gods alike in form, prove that the two fighters could not be told apart. "Senseless with anger" shows that both had lost all judgement, and that made the likeness harder still to see through, since in anger even their faces and gestures became the same.

Seeing him enter that forest, Vālī, for fear of the curse, said, "You are let off," and the mighty one turned back — here the curse of the eleventh sarga bears fruit, for strong as he is he cannot cross the boundary set by the sage's word. His words carry two meanings: on one side he spares Sugrīva's life, on the other he reveals his own helplessness. Rāghava too, with his brother and Hanumān, came to the same forest where Sugrīva was. Seeing Rāma arrive with Lakṣmaṇa, Sugrīva, ashamed, looked down at the ground and said piteously: "You told me to challenge him and showed me your prowess, and then you let my enemy beat me. What is this you have done? You should have told me the truth at that very moment, Rāghava — 'I will not kill Vālī' — and then I would not have left this place." Looking at the ground shows his shame, his piteous tone his distress; he does not rebuke in anger but asks in pain, and so his friendship remains unbroken. "At that very moment" stresses that words spoken afterwards are of no help.

To great-souled Sugrīva, speaking so pitifully in a broken voice, Rāghava replied: "Listen, dear Sugrīva, and put away your anger; hear why I did not loose this arrow. In ornament, dress, size and gait you and Vālī are alike. In voice, in lustre, in the way you look, in valour and in speech I could see no difference between you. So, bewildered by the likeness of your forms, best of monkeys, I did not let fly that swift, terrible arrow that destroys enemies and ends life; I held back in doubt because of the resemblance, so that we should not both be ruined at the root. For if, hero, you had perished through my ignorance and haste, lord of monkeys, my folly and childishness would have been proclaimed to all. To kill one who has been promised safety is a monstrous and unheard-of sin. Lakṣmaṇa, the lovely Sītā and I — all of us depend on you; in this forest you are our refuge. So fight again, monkey, and do not doubt me." Rāma not only gives his reason but, imagining the wrong he might have done, all but begs forgiveness — the way of the great. He lists the likeness in detail — ornament, dress, size, gait, voice, lustre, look, valour and speech — so that his holding back is shown to be not slackness but the fruit of close scrutiny. "Ruin at the root" names the great danger: with one wasted arrow both brothers might have been lost. And the principle that killing one promised safety is a sin lies at the root of Rāma's character.

"This very hour you will see Vālī in battle, struck down by a single arrow of mine and writhing on the ground. Make some mark on yourself, lord of monkeys, by which I can recognise you when you enter the single combat." Then he told Lakṣmaṇa: "Pluck this flowering gajapuṣpī creeper of auspicious marks, Lakṣmaṇa, and put it round the neck of great-souled Sugrīva." Lakṣmaṇa plucked the flower-laden gajapuṣpī growing on the mountainside and hung it about his neck — his silent devotion to the task shown once more. With that creeper clinging to his throat the glorious monkey shone like a twilight cloud garlanded with a line of cranes. The image is lovely: dark cloud, white cranes and the glow of evening all meet in the flowering creeper round the monkey's neck. The idea of a mark is thoroughly practical: the likeness that held Rāma back is overcome by a single outward sign; and since the gajapuṣpī has white flowers and the monkey is dark, it can be seen even from afar, so poetic beauty and practical purpose come together. Radiant in body and made steady by Rāma's words — his real strength was Rāma's word, not the outward sign — Sugrīva went with Rāma and reached Kiṣkindhā once more. "Once more" marks the failure of the first attempt and the start of the second, so the sarga ends not in defeat but in a fresh setting out.