सुग्रीवस्य पुनराह्वानं रामस्य प्रतिज्ञा च

They all went swiftly to Vālī's city, Kiṣkindhā, and took their stand in the thick forest, screening themselves with trees — the tactic of war is to hide first and then to challenge, and the same trees that had graced the road in the last sarga now served both to conceal them and to watch from. Broad-necked Sugrīva, who loved the woods, cast his eyes all round that forest and worked himself into a fierce anger. The phrase is telling: the anger did not come to him of itself; he summoned it, deliberately putting anger where fear had been, and it is only because he has Rāma's help that he can hold that anger now.

Then, surrounded by his companions — unlike his lonely challenge before — Sugrīva gave a terrible roar and called Vālī to battle, as if splitting the sky with his shouts. Roaring like a great cloud driven before the wind, glowing like the newly risen sun and moving with the gait of a proud lion, he looked at Rāma, so skilled in action, and said: "Here we are at Kiṣkindhā, Vālī's city, draped with a net of monkeys, with gateways of burnished gold, rich in banners and engines of war. The vow you made long ago to kill Vālī, hero — fulfil it quickly, as the coming of the season makes a creeper bear fruit." The image is subtle: the season does not force the creeper to fruit, it does so by its own nature, and so Sugrīva trusts that Rāma's vow will be fulfilled as naturally. The three details of the city — the monkey host, the golden gates, the banners and war-engines — show the strength of the fortress. Sound, colour and gait — the thunder, the young sun and the lion's stride — paint Sugrīva's eagerness three ways. Saying "here we are", he counts himself joined with Rāma, and the fear of the lonely fighter is gone; reminding Rāma of his vow is a friend's right, not a sign of doubt.

So addressed, righteous Rāghava, slayer of foes, said to Sugrīva the very same thing as before — no less and no more, such was his steadiness: "With this gajapuṣpī creeper you have made yourself a mark by which I can know you. Lakṣmaṇa tore it up and hung it round your neck, and with the creeper clinging there you shine all the more, like the sun reversed in the sky, wearing a garland of stars." The image is strange and lovely: the sun is itself the light of the stars, yet here it is adorned with them; so Sugrīva, splendid in himself, is marked out by the creeper. The purpose of the token is recalled — in the last sarga the arrow was not loosed because of the likeness; now the creeper marks the difference. "Today, with a single arrow loosed in battle, I will free you from the fear and the enmity that come from Vālī. Show me, Sugrīva, your enemy who wears a brother's shape. If Vālī comes within my sight and goes back alive, instead of being struck down and writhing in the dust of the forest, then blame me and reproach me at once" — so Rāma himself gives room for reproach, the height of self-confidence, and the dust of the forest foreshadows Vālī's fall. "You saw with your own eyes how I split seven sāla trees with one arrow" — trust created not by words but by deeds.

"By that strength, know that Vālī is already slain in battle. Though I have long been in distress I have never spoken a lie, and filled as I am with a longing for dharma I never shall. I will make my promise bear fruit — put away your anxiety. As Indra of the hundred sacrifices makes the sprouting rice field bear with his rain, so will I. Now, Sugrīva, raise the shout that will call golden-garlanded Vālī out, so that the monkey comes rushing forth." "Though I have long been in distress" points to the hardships of his exile: even in hardship he never gave up truth, so he will not give it up now. "A longing for dharma" is a lovely turn, for longing is usually a fault, but longing for dharma is a virtue. Rain and arrow both fall from the sky, one bringing life and the other death, yet both bring about the fulfilment of Sugrīva's hopes. The strength of Rāma's bow had already been shown; now the strength of his word is shown, and the two together make his promise.

"Glorying in his victories, boasting of them, never yet humbled by you and loving a fight, Vālī will come out of the city without a moment's pause. Heroes who know their own valour cannot bear to hear their enemies' insults in battle, least of all in front of women." Rāma speaks here not only of tactics but of a warrior's mind: to him insult is what is unbearable. He reckons that Vālī's own pride will bring him out, and that the challenge alone will be enough; "in front of women" also looks ahead to Tārā's attempt to hold Vālī back in the next sarga. Hearing Rāma's words, golden-tawny Sugrīva made ready.

Sugrīva roared with a cruel cry as though tearing the sky apart. At that sound the cows fled in terror, their beauty gone, distraught like women of good family caught up in the evils of a king's misrule; the deer ran swiftly like horses routed in battle; and the birds fell to the earth like planets whose store of merit is spent. All three images speak of falling — loss of beauty, flight, the exhaustion of merit — and the fear reaches all three realms: the cows of the village, the deer of the forest and the birds of the sky. Terror drives away even the cows' beauty. Then the son of the Sun, roaring like a thundercloud, his splendour swollen with valour, confident and quick, let out his cry again, like the lord of rivers, the ocean, when the wind tosses its restless waves.