शरद्वर्णनं रामविलापः सुग्रीवोपालम्भश्च

When Sugrīva had gone into his palace and the sky was free of clouds, Rāma, who had spent the nights of the rains on Prasravaṇa, was tormented by love and grief. He saw the sky grown pale, the moon's disc unclouded and the autumn night anointed with moonlight; he saw Sugrīva given over to pleasure, Janaka's daughter still lost and the time slipping by; and in his utter distress he fainted. After a moment the wise king, the descendant of Raghu, came to himself and began to think of Vaidehī, who lived on in his mind. Seeing the clear sky, its lightning and clouds gone and loud with the calls of cranes, he lamented in a voice of anguish. Seated on the mountain's peak, adorned with golden ore, he gazed at the autumn sky and in his mind went to his beloved. Three times in these verses the poet says "seeing": what he saw outside kindled the sorrow within. The grief that the clouds of the rains had covered now lay open in the clear sky, and though Sītā was lost to the world she still dwelt in his heart. At the very start two opposite states are set side by side, Sugrīva entering his palace and Rāma alone on the mountaintop, after four months of waiting. His faint is a real swoon; the hero too is overcome by separation, which shows his human nature, and yet after a moment he takes hold of his courage again, as is his way. Poets hold that the clarity of autumn favours lovers and torments those who are parted, which is why the pale sky and the moon distress him so. The golden peak shows outward beauty and inward pain together. In the last sarga Sugrīva, roused by Hanumān, had ordered the army to be summoned, so the reader expects action at once; but the poet shows delay again, and Rāma's impatience is justified. The sky free of clouds is itself the sign that the promised time has come.

"She who, calling like a crane herself, delighted in the cries of the cranes at our hermitage," said Rāma, "how can that young girl find any delight today? Seeing the asana trees in flower, spotless as if made of gold, looking for me and not finding me, how can she be happy? She of the lovely limbs and sweet voice, who used to be woken by the soft cries of the wild geese, how can she be happy today? Hearing the cakravāka birds calling as they go about in pairs, what will become of her, with her wide eyes like white lotuses? Though I wander among lakes, rivers, ponds, groves and woods, without her of the fawn's eyes I find no happiness today. I fear that love, swelling without pause with all the charms of autumn, may torment that lovely woman cruelly, parted as she is from me and so delicate." So the prince, best of men, lamented, like the cātaka bird that begs Indra for rain. Each verse of the lament is a question, which shows how helpless separation is; "how" is asked again and again, and no one answers. Birds that live in pairs, cranes, geese and cakravākas, stand against Sītā's loneliness and make the parting sharper. The fawn's eyes and lotus eyes remind us of her delicacy. Rāma fears her pain more than his own, and that is the mark of his love. The cātaka asks rain of Indra and of no one else, and so Rāma longs for Sītā alone. In all his lament there is not one curse, nor even Rāvaṇa's name, only care for Sītā's joy and sorrow, and this shows how pure his love is. "Though I wander I find no happiness" says that all the beauty of the forest is barren to him.

Then Lakṣmaṇa, who had gone looking for fruit over the pleasant slopes, came back and saw his elder brother; this is the plain daily life of their forest exile. The thoughtful son of Sumitrā saw him gripped by unbearable care, senseless and alone in that lonely place, and grieving at his brother's despair he quickly spoke in great distress. "Noble brother, what good is it to yield to desire? What good is this defeat of your own manhood? Your composure is undone by shame; will not discipline of mind restore it here? Apply yourself to action, keep your mind serene, keep your purpose steady, and without losing heart, my dear, make the strength of your allies and your own effort your means. Jānakī has you for her protector, lord of men, and no one else can win her; no one can come near a blazing flame and not be burned." His words begin with questions, respectful yet intense, and the five means he names, action, serenity, steady purpose, allies and one's own effort, sum up the art of kingship; the image of the flame shows that Sītā cannot be violated. There is no blame of Sugrīva anywhere in Lakṣmaṇa's counsel; that will come later. Here he wants only to steady his brother. Then Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, marked with every good sign and invincible, words that came from his own nature, beneficial and wholesome, grounded in policy and joined with conciliation, duty and gain: "Without doubt the task must be attended to and the proper means pursued; but, prince, when valour has grown great and hard to withstand, one need not brood over its fruit." He accepts Lakṣmaṇa's words, yet teaches action without craving for its fruit, and this is the moral summit of the sarga; his answer is short, but in it he keeps the place of teacher rather than pupil. These verses are in a longer metre, which lends the exchange its weight.

Then, thinking again of the Mithilā princess with eyes like lotus petals, Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, his mouth gone dry with the fire inside him. "The thousand-eyed Indra has satisfied the earth with water and ripened the crops, and now, his work done, he is at rest. Prince, the clouds with their long, deep thunder, which moved with mountains and trees before them, have let go their water and grown quiet. The rain clouds, dark as blue lotus petals, which darkened all ten directions, are spent like elephants whose rut is over. Gentle brother, the rain winds, heavy with water, swift and scented with kuṭaja and arjuna, have run their course and stopped. Sinless Lakṣmaṇa, the noise of clouds and elephants, peacocks and waterfalls has suddenly fallen silent. Washed by the great clouds, the mountains with their bright slopes look as if smeared with moonbeams." Here Rāma leaves his lament for a moment and begins to describe the season, yet in the end this description too comes round to the promise. By recalling that Indra has finished his work he hints that Sugrīva has not: even a god completes his task, but not the monkey king. The quiet clouds, the elephants past their rut, the ceasing winds and the hushed sounds are four signs of things finished; in nature everything is done, and only Rāma's task remains. The mountains smeared with moonbeams show the clarity of autumn, and by twice calling Lakṣmaṇa "prince" Rāma reminds him of a king's son's duty.

"Autumn has come today," Rāma went on, "sharing out its beauty among the branches of the saptacchada trees, the light of stars, sun and moon, and the play of the finest elephants. The beauty of the season, varied in its many settings and rich in autumn's charms, shines most of all on the lotus beds wakened by the sun's first rays. Fragrant with saptacchada blossoms, sung over by swarms of bees, following the wind and humbling the pride of rutting elephants, autumn shines all the brighter." Poets say the scent of the saptacchada calms an elephant's rut, which is why the tree is named twice. "Wild geese come from afar, with lovely broad wings, fond of love and dusted with lotus pollen, play with the cakravākas that have come down on the sandbanks of the great rivers. Beauty shines, shared out in many ways, among elephants bold with rut, among proud herds of cattle and in rivers of clear water. Seeing the sky empty of rain clouds, the peacocks in the woods have shed their tail plumes; they no longer care for their mates, their splendour and joy are gone, and they stand brooding." The peacocks are the opposite case: with the rains gone they have lost heart, and their state matches Rāma's own. "The glades of the forest seem lit up by the many priyaka trees, sweet-scented, golden and lovely to see, their topmost boughs bowed under their load of flowers. The finest elephants move slowly today, walking with their mates, loving the lotus pools, beloved in the forest, excited by the flowers and heavy with rut." In a longer metre throughout, the description gains weight. Autumn is imagined as dealing out its beauty to many dwellings; the word for beauty returns again and again, and so does the verb "shines". In describing elephants, geese, bulls and trees the poet shows each with its mate, which only pains Rāma in his separation, and the word "dear" comes three times in one verse, its sound sweetening the picture.

"The sky is clearly the colour of a burnished blade; the rivers run thin; the breezes blow cool with the scent of white lotuses; and the quarters, free of darkness, are bright. The sun's spreading heat has dried the mud, and the packed dust is laid bare after so long: now is the time for kings who are enemies of one another to march." Here the description turns towards statecraft; for the first time the season for marching is named, and even the sky, like a burnished blade, speaks of war. "Bulls whose shape and beauty autumn has filled out, thrilled, their bodies covered in dust, wild with rut and eager to fight, bellow among the cows. The she-elephant, full of love and deeply devoted, of good family and slow of step, walks around her rutting lord as he goes through the woods and follows him"; seeing her keep close to her mate, Rāma is reminded of his own loss. "The peacocks, having cast off the fine plumes that were their pride, come down to the riverbanks and go away dejected and dispirited, as though scolded by the flocks of cranes. Great elephants, their temples split with rut, frighten the kāraṇḍava ducks and cakravākas with their trumpeting and drink, stirring the water again and again, in pools crowded with lotuses. Into rivers whose mud has settled, with sandy shallows and clear water, with herds of cattle near and ringing with the cries of cranes, the wild geese come down in delight. Surely the sounds of the rivers, the clouds, the waterfalls, the high winds and the peacocks, and of the frogs whose festival is over, have all died away now. Snakes of many colours, their bodies wasted, dreadful with venom, which had vanished when the new clouds came and lay hidden so long, now slip out of their holes, pinched with hunger." Bulls eager to fight, elephants in rut, snakes leaving their holes: everything tells of activity beginning again. Of these verses six are about creatures and three about earth and sky, so that the moving and the unmoving are shown changing alike, and by "surely" Rāma marks his own inference that the sounds of the rains have certainly ceased.

"How wonderful! The glowing twilight, her stars opened wide with joy at the touch of the moon's trembling rays, lets slip her garment of sky of her own accord." The word for sky also means garment, so the twilight is pictured as a woman with her lover. "Night shines like a woman dressed in white silk: the risen moon is her gentle face, the hosts of stars her lovely open eyes, and moonlight is her mantle. The graceful line of cranes, having fed on the ripe ears of rice, climbs the sky swift and elated, like a woven garland shaken by the wind. The water of the great lake, with one goose asleep on it and covered with white lilies, shines like the cloudless night sky strewn with stars and holding the full moon"; here the water is likened to the sky, a reversal that is lovely in itself. "The beauty of the finest tanks today, girdled with scattered geese and garlanded with lotuses and lilies come awake, is greater than that of fair women in their finery. At daybreak the wind carries the swelling sound of churning jars and bulls, mingled with flutes and instruments, each seeming to fill out the other"; this touches village life, so that the description is not poetry alone. "The riverbanks are made lovely by fresh kāśa reeds, swaying in the soft breeze, bright as clean white linen, like flowers laughing. Bold in the woods, great drinkers of nectar, with their mates and full of joy, the bees, golden with the pollen of lotus and asana, follow the wind through the forest in their intoxication. Clear water, blossom like laughter, the cry of the krauñca, fields of ripe rice, a gentle wind and a spotless moon: all proclaim that the rains are over." Night as a woman, the pools as fair women, the rivers soon as brides: the picture of a woman comes back again and again, and from the lips of Rāma in his separation it is doubly moving. The day was described before; now it is night and dawn, so that the poet completes the whole round of day and night.

"The rivers, their girdles shown by the fish, move slowly today, like women slow in their gait at dawn after their lovers have enjoyed them. The mouths of the rivers are like the faces of brides: their cakravākas are the yellow mark, the water weed the painted leaf design, and the kāśa reeds veil them like silk. In the woods, bright with the bāṇa and asana trees in flower and humming with happy bees, Love goes about fiercely today, bow in hand and rod raised, his bow terrible." For Rāma in his separation, autumn is an enemy, and Love wields his rod like a stern king. "Having gladdened the world with good rain, filled the rivers and tanks and made the earth yield her crops, the rain clouds have left the sky and vanished. The autumn rivers show their sandbanks little by little, like bashful women at their first union showing their hips." Here the poet lays the colour of love upon nature, and that only sharpens Rāma's pain. The slow gait of the rivers shows how gently the autumn streams flow. When the clouds vanish, the poet counts what they have accomplished, the world gladdened, the rivers filled, the earth made fruitful; all have done their work and gone, all except Sugrīva. Of these verses three are about rivers, for in the poet's mind the river is autumn's chief dwelling, and the word "vanished" marks the end of the rains.

"Gentle brother, the pools shine with their clear water, loud with the cries of ospreys and crowded with flocks of cakravākas. Prince, the time has come for kings bent on conquest and bound in enmity to one another to march. This is the first season of marching for kings, and yet I see neither Sugrīva nor any such undertaking of his." With these words the subject of the sarga changes from description to reproach: having said that the time for marching has come, Rāma at once adds that he does not see Sugrīva, and all the description before turns into a single charge. "On the mountain slopes the asanas, saptaparṇas and kovidāras are in flower, and the bandhujīvas and dark tamālas are to be seen. Look, Lakṣmaṇa, the riverbanks are covered on every side with geese, cranes, cakravākas and ospreys." Flowering trees and flocks on the sandbanks, all this beauty is empty to him, and by saying "look, Lakṣmaṇa" he shares his sorrow with his brother. "For me, burning with grief and not seeing Sītā, these four months of rain have been like a hundred years. Like a cakravākī following her mate she followed me into the forest, and she thought the rough Daṇḍaka forest a pleasure garden." The hundred years measure the length of the waiting, and the image of the faithful bird recalls how she followed him; she who thought even the Daṇḍaka a garden, where is she now? So the poet leads the description of nature into memory, and memory into anger.

"Lakṣmaṇa, though I have lost my beloved, though I am stricken with grief, robbed of my kingdom and driven into exile, King Sugrīva shows me no pity. 'He has no protector, he has lost his kingdom, Rāvaṇa has insulted him, he is wretched, his home is far away, he is a man in longing, and he has come to me for refuge': for just these reasons, gentle brother, that evil-minded king of the monkeys, Sugrīva, slights me, scorcher of foes though I am." Rāma describes himself in six words, without protector, without kingdom, insulted, wretched, far from home, longing; to Sugrīva these are signs of weakness, to Rāma they are the causes of the insult. That the scorcher of foes should be the one slighted is a bitter paradox. And calling him "King Sugrīva" reminds him of a king's duty, to protect one who has come for refuge. "He fixed the time for the search for Sītā and made his compact, and now that he has what he wanted the dull-witted creature pays no heed to it. So go into Kiṣkindhā and speak for me to that bull among monkeys, the fool Sugrīva, who clings to his vulgar pleasures. One who raises the hopes of capable suppliants who have already helped him, and then dashes them, is the lowest of men in this world. But one who keeps in good faith the word he has given, whether fair or foul, is a hero and the best of men." With these two maxims Rāma states the general law of keeping one's word, and then leaves Sugrīva to find his own place between the lowest of men and the best. He does not curse him himself; he states the common rule and so puts him to shame, which is the way of the most honourable of men.

"Those who, having gained their own ends, will not help friends who have not gained theirs, such ingrates not even the eaters of flesh will touch when they are dead." The ungrateful are condemned by the harshest of images. "Surely he wants to see the shape of my gold-backed bow, like a mass of lightning, as I draw it in battle. Surely he wants to hear again the dreadful twang of my bowstring, like the crash of the thunderbolt, when I am angry in the fight. Heroic prince, when he knows my prowess and knows I have you at my side, it is strange indeed that he feels no anxiety even now." Here is a veiled threat; lightning and thunderbolt, both weapons of Indra, show how terrible the bow is, and this warning will break out in Lakṣmaṇa's anger in the next sarga. "Conqueror of enemy cities, now that the lord of the monkeys has what he wanted, he does not acknowledge the compact for whose sake all this was undertaken. He promised the end of the rains as the time, and now, lost in his pleasures, he does not notice that four months have passed. He sports with his ministers and courtiers and gives himself to drink, and Sugrīva shows no pity for us, wretched with grief." Rāma's words grow sharper step by step, from sorrow to reproach to warning. Sugrīva's days, spent at play and drink among his ministers, while those in grief receive no mercy, complete the reproach, and calling him "lord of the apes" and "lord of the monkeys" gives it an edge: he is a lord, yet does not keep a lord's duty.

"Go, mighty hero," Rāma said. "Sugrīva must be told what form my anger takes, and give him this message as well: 'The road by which Vālin went when he was killed has not closed. Keep to our compact, Sugrīva; do not follow Vālin's road. In battle it was Vālin alone that I struck down with an arrow, but if you break your word I will kill you and your kinsmen with you.' Best of men, bull among men, in this state of affairs tell him whatever is good for him. Hurry; the time is passing. 'Lord of the monkeys, look to eternal dharma and make true the promise you gave me; do not go today, sped by my arrows, the way of the dead to see Vālin in Yama's realm.'" Rāma's message has three parts, a reminder that Vālin's road is not closed, a command to keep the compact, and a threat to kill him with his kin; "do not follow Vālin's road" is the sharpest line in the sarga. Yet even in anger Rāma tells Lakṣmaṇa to say what is for Sugrīva's good; care for his welfare is not abandoned. And he speaks through Lakṣmaṇa rather than himself, keeping due dignity. Seeing his elder brother so wretched and lamenting, his anger fiercely swollen, the son of Sumitrā, terrible in his energy, the increaser of the race of men, set his mind hard against the lord of the monkeys. Lakṣmaṇa does not answer; he only hardens his resolve, and this is the seed of the next sarga, where he will take up his bow and set out for Kiṣkindhā. The closing verses are in a longer metre, as the poet likes to end a sarga, and they build the bridge to the journey to Kiṣkindhā.