सुप्तस्य रावणस्य तत्पत्नीनां च दर्शनं, मन्दोदर्यां सीताशङ्का

Looking about him there, Hanumān saw a splendid sleeping-dais of crystal, heavenly and adorned with jewels — a raised platform on which the great bed stood. It was furnished with costly seats of beryl, their frames inlaid with ivory and gold, and spread with precious coverings. In one part of it he saw a white parasol like the moon, lord of the stars, hung with heavenly garlands, and a supreme couch set in gold, bright as fire and hung with garlands of aśoka flowers. Women with yak-tail whisks fanned it on every side; it was perfumed with many scents and censed with the finest incense, spread with the best coverlets and with sheepskins, and adorned all round with strands of choice garlands. Parasol, whisks, incense and garlands are emblems of royalty: even Rāvaṇa's bed was decked like a throne. The garlands of aśoka flowers seem a quiet hint from the poet, for it is in the Aśoka grove that Sītā will be found. The poet describes the bed first and then the one who lies on it, so that the eye moves from the outside to the centre. In the last sarga the drinking-hall and its women were described in general; now Hanumān reaches the heart of the hall, Rāvaṇa's own bed. The whiteness of crystal, the glitter of gems, and the ivory and gold all meet here; the parasol is like the moon and the couch like fire, cool and hot side by side. Sheepskins against the cold, incense for scent, whisks for a breeze — every comfort of the senses is provided. It is all proof of Rāvaṇa's love of pleasure, and having seen the splendour of the bed, Hanumān moves on to see its master.

On that bed he saw Rāvaṇa, like a dark cloud, his bright earrings blazing, red-eyed, mighty-armed, dressed in garments of gold. His limbs were smeared with fragrant red sandal, so that he looked like a cloud in the sky reddened by twilight and lit by lightning. Covered with heavenly ornaments, handsome, able to take any form he pleased, he lay like Mandara asleep with all its trees, forests and thickets. Having ceased from his play in the night and rested after drinking, adorned with the finest ornaments, beloved of the rākṣasa maidens and the delight of the rākṣasas, the heroic lord of the rākṣasas lay sleeping on that shining bed, and the great monkey saw him. Coming close to Rāvaṇa as he breathed heavily like a serpent, the best of monkeys, deeply agitated, drew back as if in great fear. Then, climbing a stairway and taking his stand on another terrace, he gazed at that tiger among rākṣasas, drunk with wine. The fine bed of the sleeping rākṣasa lord shone like the great Prasravaṇa mountain with a scent-elephant lying on it. Cloud, Mandara, serpent and elephant — all the images convey Rāvaṇa's size, his dark colour and his strength. His description is full of red — red eyes, red sandal, a cloud reddened by twilight — signs of his wrath and cruelty. "Able to take any form" recalls the magic by which he wore a wandering ascetic's guise when he carried off Sītā. "The delight of the rākṣasas" shows that he was a king dear to his own people. Hanumān's fear is only "as if": he is not truly afraid, but he draws back with caution and watches from a distance. Seeing his enemy face to face for the first time, he does not attack, for his task is to find Sītā, not to fight — proof of his wisdom and self-control. In Hanumān's eyes this enemy is not simply wicked but powerful, handsome and strong; and the image of the scent-elephant asleep on a mountain conveys both his majesty and the heavy scent of his rut.

He saw the two arms of that great lord of the rākṣasas flung out, bound with golden armlets, like the banners of Indra. They bore the scars of wounds from the tips of Airāvata's tusks, and his massive shoulders had been scored by the thunderbolt and gashed by Viṣṇu's discus. They were thick, with shapely, well-matched shoulders, firm-jointed and strong, with well-formed nails and thumbs and fingers bearing auspicious rings; compact like iron bars, round like elephants' trunks, flung out on the white bed like two five-headed serpents. They were well anointed and adorned with costly sandal, cool and fragrant and red as a hare's blood; caressed by the finest women and perfumed with the best scents, they were arms that had made yakṣas, serpents, gandharvas, gods and dānavas cry out. The monkey saw them lying on the bed like two enraged great serpents asleep in a cave of Mandara, and with those two massive arms the rākṣasa lord, huge as a mountain, shone like Mandara with its two peaks. In his bedchamber Rāvaṇa is described with one face and two arms; only on special occasions, such as battle, does he become at will ten-headed and twenty-armed. The scars on his arms are witnesses to his old wars against Indra, Airāvata and Viṣṇu, reminders of his enmity with the gods; the poet does not hide Rāvaṇa's valour, and the reader understands that he is a great adversary. The serpent returns again and again in the images — a snake's breathing, five-headed serpents, enraged great serpents — to suggest how dangerous and venomous he is. The poet spends eight verses on his arms, showing how central his strength is, for these are the arms that will fight Rāma in the Yuddha Kāṇḍa. "Caressed by the finest women" tells of his pleasures, "arms that made gods and dānavas cry out" of his cruelty. His fingers, nails and thumbs bear auspicious marks, the signs of a king according to the lore of bodily marks; so Rāvaṇa, blessed with every sign of greatness, is nonetheless destroyed by his wickedness — a hidden teaching of the Rāmāyaṇa.

From the great mouth of the sleeping rākṣasa king issued his breath, fragrant with mango, punnāga and the finest bakula, mingled with the savour of fine food and led by the smell of wine, as if it filled the whole house — an exaggeration that speaks of his enormous size, and a match for the women's breath described in the last sarga. Hanumān saw his golden crown, set with pearls and gems, slipped from its place in his sleep — a fine touch of realism — and his face bright with earrings. He was resplendent with a shining necklace smeared with red sandal and with his broad, deep, massive chest, the chest of a warrior. His eyes were red as blood; he was wrapped in a loose white silk garment and a costly yellow upper cloth — white silk, yellow cloth, a dark body and red eyes, a picture in colours. Like a heap of black gram, hissing like a serpent, he lay like an elephant asleep in the deep waters of the Gaṅgā, his dark body amid the white cloth. Lit on four sides by four golden lamps, every limb of him illumined, he was like a cloud lit by flashes of lightning, the light all around him and he dark in the middle. Hanumān observes all this closely, because he must report to Rāma what Rāvaṇa is like.

In the house of that great lord of the rākṣasas, so fond of his wives, he saw too the wives who lay at his feet — their place showing their devotion and love for him. The leader of the monkeys saw them, their faces bright as the moon, adorned with fine earrings, their garlands and ornaments unfading, a mark of something more than human. He saw them lying there, skilled in dance and music, accustomed to the arms and lap of the rākṣasa lord and wearing the finest ornaments; on their ears he saw golden earrings set with diamonds and beryl, and on their arms armlets. With their lovely moon-like faces and graceful earrings, the aerial car shone like the sky with its hosts of stars — the same image as in the last sarga, which keeps the scene continuous. Wearied by drink and exertion, the slender-waisted wives of the rākṣasa lord lay asleep wherever they had found room. Hanumān studies each of their faces, fearing that Sītā may have been placed by force among Rāvaṇa's wives. But all of them are happy, adorned and drunk; none shows the marks of Sītā's grief. That they were skilled in dance and music prepares the description of the instruments that follows.

Another, a lovely dancer, slept with all her fair limbs arranged in the graceful postures of the dance, as if dancing even in her sleep. One, asleep with her arms around her vīṇā, looked like a lotus adrift on a great river, clinging to a boat. Another, dark-eyed, slept with a little maḍḍuka drum under her arm, like a loving mother with her small son. One lovely-breasted woman, beautiful in every limb, slept with a paṭaha drum laid upon her, like a woman embracing a lover found after long absence. One lotus-eyed woman slept clasping a vīṇā like a woman full of desire holding her dearest lover. Another, a disciplined dancer, lay overcome by sleep holding a vipañcī lute, like a woman with her beloved. Another, her eyes heavy with drink, slept with her soft, full, lovely limbs, golden in hue, wrapped round a mṛdaṅga drum. A slender-waisted, faultless woman, wearied by drink, slept with a paṇava drum held in the circle of her arms. Another slept holding a ḍiṇḍima drum, clinging to it like a young mother embracing her little one. One lotus-eyed woman, overcome by drink, slept with an āḍambara drum pressed in her arms. Another lay asleep beside an overturned water-jar, like a spring garland of many-coloured flowers sprinkled with water, for she slept in clothes wet from the spilled jar. One woman, overcome by the power of sleep, slept clasping her breasts, which were like golden jars. Another, lotus-eyed and moon-faced, lay in drunken languor embracing another lovely woman. And other fine women slept clasping wonderful instruments, pressing them to their breasts as loving women hold their lovers. The poet likens each instrument to a lover, a child or a little calf — vīṇā, maḍḍuka, paṭaha, vipañcī, mṛdaṅga, paṇava, ḍiṇḍima, āḍambara and the water-jar — and each image fits the shape of the instrument and the posture of the woman. Some are stringed instruments, like the vīṇā and vipañcī, and some drums, like the mṛdaṅga, paṇava, paṭaha, ḍiṇḍima, maḍḍuka and āḍambara: after the night's concert, everyone has fallen asleep just where she was. This shows how music and dance ruled Rāvaṇa's inner palace and how accomplished its women were. The images are all tender — lover, son, calf — bringing out the softness and innocence of the sleeping women. Among them all Hanumān looks for Sītā, but none who sleeps clasping an instrument could be Sītā, who is sunk in grief at her separation from Rāma.

Then, apart from them, the monkey saw a beautiful woman lying on a fine bed set by itself, adorned with ornaments of pearls and gems, as if adorning that splendid palace with her own splendour. It was Mandodarī he saw lying there, fair and golden in complexion, the beloved queen of the inner apartments, lovely in form. Seeing her so adorned, the mighty-armed son of the Wind guessed from her wealth of beauty and youth that "this is Sītā", and the leader of the monkeys was overjoyed. He slapped his arms, kissed his tail, rejoiced, played, sang, ran about, climbed the pillars and leapt down to the ground, showing his own monkey nature. Seeing Mandodarī sleeping apart, a chief queen, and so beautiful, his mistake was natural, for Sītā too was a king's daughter, beautiful and above all others; her beauty and youth seemed to match what he had heard of Sītā from Rāma. Her separate bed marks her as the chief queen, Rāvaṇa's dearest and mistress of his women. But he had seen only her beauty, not her state: how could Sītā, parted from Rāma, lie adorned and sleeping in comfort? That question will arise in the next sarga, where he corrects his own mistake. In this moment even the great monkey shows his monkey nature — an example of the poet's humour and humanity — and the rush of eight verbs, slapping, kissing, rejoicing, playing, singing, running, climbing and leaping, conveys the speed of his joy. The joy is short-lived, yet his very excitement proves his devotion to Rāma and to his task: believing he has found Sītā, he forgets himself.