लक्ष्मणस्य सुग्रीवनिर्भर्त्सनम्

When Sugrīva saw that bull among men come in angry and unchecked, for not even the guard of the seven courts had stopped him, he was shaken to his very senses. Seeing Daśaratha's son angry, breathing hard, blazing as it were with his own energy and burning with his brother's grief, the best of monkeys left his golden seat and sprang up like the great, well-adorned banner of mighty Indra. As he rose, the women, with Rumā at their head, rose after him, like the host of stars following the full moon across the sky; the image paints Sugrīva's company of pleasure beautifully, yet hints at his fault too, and tells how many women there were. His eyes red, the glorious king came forward with folded hands and stood there like a great wish-granting tree. Red eyes were the mark of drink, folded hands the mark of humility, and both were there at once. The wish-granting tree speaks of steadiness and greatness, but such a tree does not move of itself, and that is his fault made visible. Step by step the poet shows Sugrīva's fear, first the shaking of his senses, then leaving his seat, then folding his hands, and last standing silent; he says not a word, and it is Lakṣmaṇa who speaks first. Seeing Sugrīva with Rumā beside him amid the women, like the moon among the stars, the angry Lakṣmaṇa spoke. The women are painted as a thing of beauty, but in Lakṣmaṇa's eyes they are witnesses to the offence.

"A king is honoured in the world," said Lakṣmaṇa, "who has courage and good birth, who is compassionate, master of his senses, grateful and truthful. But who is crueller than a king who stands in wrong and breaks the promise he made to friends who had helped him? A lie about a horse kills a hundred, a lie about a cow a thousand, but a lie about a man kills oneself and one's own kin." The sin grows from horse to cow to man, and for the lie about a man no number is given, for it is like killing oneself. "One who has gained his ends through his friends and then makes no return is ungrateful and deserves death at the hands of every creature, lord of the monkeys. Hear this verse, monkey, which Brahmā sang in anger when he saw an ungrateful man, a verse the whole world honours: 'For the slayer of a cow, the drinker of liquor, the thief and the breaker of vows, the good have laid down atonement; for the ungrateful there is none.'" The law books prescribe atonement even for the gravest sins, but for ingratitude none at all, and that is the sting of the verse; and to deceive a friend who has helped you is the gravest fault of all. So Lakṣmaṇa first states the general rule and only then touches the man himself, keeping the order of the law books even in rebuke. His lesson climbs in three steps, the virtues of a king, the scale of lies, and the ingrate beyond atonement; by quoting Brahmā's verse he backs his view with scripture, so that even his reproach takes the form of teaching, not mere anger.

"You are base, monkey," Lakṣmaṇa said, "ungrateful and false, for you gained your ends through Rāma and make no return to him. Once you had what you wanted, monkey, surely you should have worked to find Sītā for Rāma, if you wished to repay him. Instead you cling to vulgar pleasures and have made your promise false, and Rāma does not see you for what you are, a snake that croaks like a frog." This is the sharpest image of all: as a snake lures its prey with a frog's voice, so Sugrīva deceives Rāma with a friend's words. Base, ungrateful, false: the three words gather three faults at once, applying the teaching he has just given, and "vulgar pleasures" shows how low such enjoyments are.

"It was the great and compassionate Rāma, the great-souled one, who set you, wicked and evil-minded as you are, on the throne of the monkeys. If you do not acknowledge what great-souled Rāghava has done for you, you will be struck down at once by his sharp arrows and go to see Vālin. The road Vālin took when he was killed is not closed. Keep to your compact, Sugrīva, and do not follow Vālin's path. Surely you do not see the arrows like thunderbolts that fly from the bow of the best of the Ikṣvākus; that is why you live happily at your pleasure and do not give Rāma's cause even a thought." "Vālin's path" means the road of death, and Vālin's killing is its plain proof, which makes the threat terrible. Yet "keep to your compact" shows the way out: what is wanted is not punishment but a promise kept. And the last charge, that he does not even think of Rāma's business, is heavier still, for thought must come before any deed. The last verse is in a longer metre, and so the rebuke rises to a higher pitch at the close of the sarga.