ऋक्षबिलप्रवेशः स्वयंप्रभादर्शनं च

Hanumān, joined now by Tāra and Aṅgada, went on searching the caves and thickets of the Vindhya — the caverns all around, haunted by lions and tigers, the rough places of that lord of mountains, and its great cascades — which shows how frightening and how rugged the country was. The poet speaks as though the search were going on before our eyes, so that we feel it never stops. They came to the south-western spur of the mountain, and while they were there the time Sugrīva had fixed for their return slipped by; the whole month was gone. The country was vast and hard to search, full of caves and thickets, yet the Wind's son searched the whole mountain. This is the first sign that the deadline has passed, and it will be the root of the monkeys' fear in the sargas to come. Hanumān's untiring labour is singled out: others grew weary, but he searched the entire mountain. Tāra, Aṅgada and Hanumān are the three leading figures here, and with them together the southern search grew stronger.

Separate from one another, yet never far apart — Gaja, Gavākṣa, Gavaya, Śarabha, Gandhamādana, Mainda and Dvivida, Hanumān and Jāmbavān, the crown prince Aṅgada and Tāra, who knew the woods — searched the country netted with hills and the southern quarter. The seeming contradiction describes exactly how they searched: each moving on his own, yet each within sight of the others. Their names are listed so that we know who entered the cave later. As they searched they saw an open cave, its mouth uncovered, which is why they noticed it. It was hard to get into, known as Ṛkṣabila, and guarded by a dānava — a hint of danger that will later turn out false. The name Ṛkṣabila will come up again and again, for inside it lies Svayamprabhā's dwelling. The monkeys were weak with hunger and thirst, weary and longing for water; these four things together turned them towards the cave, and fate too led them there.

They saw that great cave, overgrown with creepers and trees. Out of it came krauñcas, swans and sārasas, and cakravāka birds wet with water, their bodies reddened with lotus pollen. The wet birds and the pollen showed that there was water and lotuses inside, and this became the basis of Hanumān's reasoning; every bird named is a water-bird, flying out from water. Coming up to that fragrant cave, so hard to pass, the monkeys were bewildered with wonder. Its mouth hidden by creepers and trees, its fragrance and its difficulty are the cave's three marks. Wary of it but eager, those fine leapers, full of vigour and might, approached the cave; it was full of creatures of every kind and looked like the palace of the lord of the daityas, an image that recalls the terrors of the underworld. Their wariness was not fear but caution — a hero's misgivings do not wreck his task — and wonder, wariness and eagerness all rose in them at the same moment.

The cave was dreadful and almost frightening to look at, and hard to penetrate in every way. Then Hanumān, son of the Wind, huge as a mountain peak and expert in the wild forests, spoke to those fierce monkeys; the first epithet gives his size, the second his authority in forest matters, which makes his reasoning worth trusting. "We have searched the country netted with hills and the southern quarter," he said, "and we are all exhausted, and we have not found Maithilī. Now swans and krauñcas, sārasas and cakravākas wet with water are flying out of this cave on every side. There must be water inside, a well or a pool. And look, the trees at the cave's mouth are fresh and green." This is a fine example of reasoning by inference: the wet birds and the green trees are the signs, water the conclusion — and people still look for water that way. It is Hanumān's first long speech; until now he had been a silent searcher. He states their weariness first, then points to the signs, then gives his conclusion, in sound logical order. His words were what made them all go in, so whatever happens next has its root in Hanumān. At his words they all entered the cave, wrapped in darkness.

It was a place where neither moon nor sun ever came, and the monkeys found it hair-raising. Hearing lions and all kinds of beasts and birds inside, those tigers among monkeys went into the dark cave. Yet their sight was not baffled, nor their fire, nor their prowess; they moved like the wind and could see even in the dark — a sign of their divine nature. The poet builds the fear step by step: first darkness, then the absence of sun and moon, then the hair-raising horror, then the cries of beasts and birds; still the monkeys did not turn back. Rushing into the cave, those great monkeys saw a bright, lovely and excellent region. Then, in that fearful cave crowded with trees of every kind, they went a whole yojana, clinging to one another — even in fear they held together, finding their way in the darkness by touch. The distance shows this was no ordinary cave. Dazed, parched, bewildered and longing for water, they ran on through the cave for some time without slackening. Their thirst is mentioned again and again, for water was the reason they went in, and water is what they will find at the end.

Thin, their faces drawn, exhausted, and despairing of their lives, those heroes then saw a light. Only after saying that they despaired of life does the poet show them the light; the turn from darkness to light, from despair to wonder, is the centre of the sarga. Coming to that place, a pleasant wood free of darkness, they saw trees of gold glowing like blazing fire — sālas, tālas, tamālas, puṃnāgas, vañjulas and dhavas, campakas, nāga trees and flowering karṇikāras. The list names the ordinary trees of a southern forest, but all of them turned to gold, which means this was not nature but magic. They were decked with gold ornaments, with bright golden clusters, red young shoots, crowning wreaths and creepers; they shone like the rising sun and stood on platforms of lapis lazuli, radiant in their very form, all of gold — the ornaments and the craftsmanship together made the wood look like a garden. There were lotus pools the colour of dark lapis, crowded with birds, ringed by great golden trees like the newly risen sun, with great fish of gold and golden lotuses; that even the fish, tortoises and lotuses were golden is the height of the marvel.

They saw lotus pools full of clear water there, and mansions of gold and of silver, with windows of refined gold veiled in nets of pearls, floored with gold and silver and set with lapis gems. On every side the monkeys saw fine houses; trees in flower and fruit like coral and jewels; golden bees and honey everywhere; couches and seats of every kind, broad and bright with gems and gold; heaps of vessels of gold, silver and bell-metal; stores of divine aloe-wood and sandal; pure food, roots and fruits; costly carriages and sweet honey drinks; stores of costly divine garments, of patterned blankets and antelope skins; and lamps set here and there, blazing like fire. This is the longest part of the description. For eight verses the poet hardly uses a verb, stringing together a garland of objects and closing it all with a single "they saw", and the style conveys overwhelming wonder, as if the list of things seen would never end. Buildings, windows and floors; beds, seats, carriages and vessels; aloe, sandal, garments, blankets and skins; roots, fruits, honey and drink — the poet gathers every possession of a household, so that the cave seems not a cave but a rich palace. All this points to the splendour Maya had made by his magic, whose origin the ascetic herself will tell in the next sarga.

They saw heaps of shining gold as well. Searching here and there in the cave, those splendid, brave monkeys saw a woman not far off. She was an ascetic, dressed in bark and black antelope skin, sparing in her food, and seeming to blaze with her own radiance; with just these three touches the poet makes her asceticism plain. The monkeys stood around her in wonder, keeping their distance out of respect rather than fear, and Hanumān asked her, "Who are you, and whose is this cave?" Then Hanumān, huge as a mountain, folded his hands, saluted the aged woman, and asked again: "Who are you? Whose is this dwelling, this cave, and whose are these jewels? Please tell us." His courtesy is plain: mighty as he was, he greeted the old ascetic with joined palms before questioning her. The question is given twice, first briefly and then at length in a closing verse of a longer metre, the second time with the added courtesy of his greeting, and the poet leaves the answer for the next sarga.