किष्किन्धाप्रयाणं सप्तजनाश्रमदर्शनं च

Righteous Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa's elder brother, set out with Sugrīva from Mount Ṛṣyamūka for Kiṣkindhā, the city guarded by Vālī's valour — a phrase that hints how hard the city was to take and so how grave the coming fight would be. He raised his great gold-adorned bow and took arrows bright as the sun, arrows that would do their work in battle: the promise made in words was now to be kept with weapons, and taking up arms was its first step. In front of great-souled Rāghava walked thick-necked Sugrīva — himself immensely strong, though Vālī had beaten him — and mighty Lakṣmaṇa; behind came the hero Hanumān, Nala, valiant Nīla and the splendid Tāra, a leader even among the leaders of the monkey troops. The poet shows the order of the march: guides in front, guards behind; and the naming of the captains suggests the size of the monkey force. The monkeys carried no weapons, for their arms were their weapons, and Rāma's bow was the only human arm among them.

As they went they gazed at trees bowed under their load of blossom, at rivers running clear to the sea, at ravines and hills, mountain torrents and caves, lofty peaks and lovely glens. Along the way they saw brimming lakes, beautiful with water clear as beryl and lotuses whose buds had opened, and loud with kāraṇḍava ducks, cranes, geese, vañjula birds, water-fowl, cakravākas and other birds. On the open ground they saw deer feeding fearlessly on soft young grass, at home in the forest, some grazing and some standing still. They saw the enemies of the lakes, too — fearsome solitary tuskers with gleaming white tusks that break down the banks, rutting elephants broken loose from the mountainsides like walking mountains — and monkeys as big as elephants, powdered with the dust of the earth. Watching these and other creatures of the woods and the birds that travel the sky, they hurried on, obedient to Sugrīva. This picture of nature sets a stillness before the march to war, and even in their haste the poet keeps room for looking; words of seeing recur again and again through these eight verses, and sight is the thread of the passage. Peace in the rivers, violence in the elephants — both faces of nature are shown, and the tuskers breaking the banks seem to foreshadow the violence of Vālī's killing, while the fearless deer speak of the peace of the forest near the hermitage of the Saptajanas. The roll of birds shows the poet's knowledge of nature; the lakes are centres of life, not merely pools. Solitary elephants, strayed from the herd, are the most dangerous of all, and the monkeys likened to elephants suggest the strength of Sugrīva's force. The eight verses make a single long sentence — many sights but one verb, "they went" — so that the march is felt as unbroken. And the poet shows water, land and sky in turn: rivers and lakes, then deer, elephants and monkeys, then the birds of the air, so that the whole of nature is gathered into one road.

As they hurried on, Rāma, delight of Raghu's line, saw a dense grove of trees and asked Sugrīva: "This mass of trees shines like a cloud in the sky; it is as vast as a bank of storm clouds, and plantains fringe it all around. I want to know what it is. My curiosity is great, my friend, and I would like you to satisfy it." Hearing great-souled Rāghava, Sugrīva, still walking, began to tell him about that great forest. "Friend" shows the firmness of their bond: the friendship sworn before the fire was not only for use but from the heart. Even on his way to battle Rāma is curious by nature, and his calm mind shows here. The journey does not stop, but the story goes on; the question is the doorway to the description of the hermitage that follows, which the poet, in his usual way, gives through a character's mouth rather than his own. The cloud image is used twice, first one cloud in the sky, then a whole bank of clouds, so that the grove seems to grow before our eyes.

"Rāghava," said Sugrīva, "this is a broad hermitage that takes away weariness, rich in gardens and groves, with sweet roots, fruits and water. Here lived seven sages of strict vows called the Saptajanas, who lay head downwards and always slept in the water. They ate once in seven nights, lived on air and never moved from the spot, and after seven hundred years they went to heaven in their own bodies. By the power of their austerity this hermitage, walled in by trees, cannot be assailed even by the gods and demons with Indra. Birds and the other creatures of the forest keep far away from it, and those who enter it in their folly never return. Here one hears the ringing of ornaments, each sound distinct, the music of instruments and song, and there is a heavenly fragrance, Rāghava. The three sacred fires still blaze, and the thick smoke, red-grey as a dove's plumage, seems to wrap the treetops round. Their crowns wreathed in smoke, these trees shine like mountains of beryl veiled in a net of cloud." Sugrīva does not only point out the place; he tells of the power of austerity, which guards a spot that even gods and demons cannot reach. Sound, scent and sight — through three senses the holiness of the hermitage is made real. The sages are gone but their power is not. Their very discipline is bound to the number seven — a meal every seventh night, heaven after seven hundred years — and going to heaven in the body is the highest attainment of austerity. "They never return" is frightening, yet Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa treat the place as holy and honour it with a bow. The description moves in order: first the comfort of the place, then the austerity of those who lived there, then its fruit, then the inviolability it produced, and last the signs that the senses can perceive. The smoke is compared by its colour to a dove's plumage and by its action to a wrapping, and the trees to mountains of beryl, suggesting their blue-green shade.

"Righteous Rāghava, compose yourself, join your palms with your brother Lakṣmaṇa and bow to them. Those who bow to these sages of purified soul are left with nothing inauspicious in their bodies." At Sugrīva's words Rāma, with his brother Lakṣmaṇa, joined his palms and saluted those great-souled seers; and having saluted them, righteous Rāma, his brother Lakṣmaṇa, Sugrīva and the monkeys went on with glad hearts. Even on his way to war Rāma does not forget to honour the sages: good conduct, the poet shows, is the root of his strength. It is pleasing that the monkey king should be the one to remind him of dharma — friendship helps both ways. After the salutation every heart was glad, in keeping with the custom of making an auspicious resolve before a great undertaking. Composing himself and joining his palms are the outward purity and humility; inward purity comes through the bow itself. Rāma does not delay when asked, so natural is his reverence for teachers and sages, and the sight of a holy place raises the spirits of the whole army.

Having travelled a long way from the hermitage of the Saptajanas, they saw Kiṣkindhā, unassailable, guarded by Vālī. Then Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma and the monkeys, their fierce splendour risen like the sun — a sign of the victory to come — took up their weapons and came once more to the city protected by the valour of the son of the king of the gods, to kill their enemy. "Once more" is poignant: before, Sugrīva had turned back beaten; now he comes with Rāma at his side. The sarga closes in a longer metre that adds weight to their advance, and the word "unassailable" recalls again how strong the city was.