सीतायाः राक्षसीवचनप्रत्याख्यानं राक्षसीनां तर्जनं च

Then all those rākṣasīs with their hideous faces spoke harsh and hateful words to Sītā, who deserved nothing harsh. The poet sets "harsh" against "deserving nothing harsh" to point up the contrast: the harshest words were aimed at the one who least deserved them. "Sītā, why will you not agree to live in the inner palace, a delight to every creature and furnished with costly beds? You are a human woman, and you make much of being the wife of a human; take your mind off Rāma, or you will not live. Take Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, who enjoys the riches of the three worlds, as your husband, and roam at your pleasure. Being human, lovely and blameless lady, you want that human Rāma, who has fallen from his kingdom, failed in his aims and lost his nerve." The rākṣasīs' argument was about kind: for a human woman to choose a human man seemed folly to them. They charged Rāma with three faults, losing his kingdom, failing in his aims and being distraught, which were in truth the marks of his renunciation and his steadfastness. In the previous sarga they had spoken one by one; now they spoke all together with one voice, and the pressure mounted. The word "human" kept returning, and Sītā would soon turn that very word back on them as her pride. The comforts of the inner palace, Rāvaṇa's wealth and Rāma's poverty were the same three themes that had run through the earlier sargas.

When she heard the rākṣasīs, lotus-eyed Sītā answered with her eyes full of tears: "This thing you have all come together to say is hateful to the world. Such sinful words find no footing in my mind. A human woman cannot become the wife of a rākṣasa. Eat me, all of you, if you like; I will not do what you say." She turned their own argument against them: she was human, and therefore could be no rākṣasa's wife. "Whether he is wretched or stripped of his kingdom, the man who is my husband is my master, and I am devoted to him always, as Suvarcalā is to the sun." Then she recalled the long tradition of faithful wives: "As the illustrious Śacī waits upon Indra, as Arundhatī upon Vasiṣṭha, Rohiṇī upon the moon, Lopāmudrā upon Agastya, Sukanyā upon Cyavana, Sāvitrī upon Satyavān, Śrīmatī upon Kapila, Madayantī upon Saudāsa, Keśinī upon Sagara, and as Bhaimī Damayantī was devoted to her husband, the king of the Niṣadhas, so am I devoted to Rāma, best of the Ikṣvākus, my husband." These examples are varied: gods, seers and kings; some of the husbands were old, like Cyavana, some fell into misfortune, like Nala, Satyavān and Saudāsa; yet their wives stayed devoted. So the argument that Rāma was wretched and without a kingdom meant nothing. Hearing Sītā's words, the rākṣasīs, urged on by Rāvaṇa and beside themselves with anger, threatened her with harsh words. Her tears were a sign of grief, not of weakness; her words did not waver. By saying "eat me if you like" she accepted even death, but not the abandonment of dharma. The string of examples shows that her faithfulness was not hers alone but part of the whole tradition of India. The word she used for her husband means master and teacher: a husband was not merely a lord but a guide to be revered. And the image of Suvarcalā and the sun follows the image of light and the sun she had used before.

Hidden and silent in the śiṃśapā tree, the monkey Hanumān listened to the rākṣasīs as they menaced Sītā. The poet reminds the reader once more that Hanumān is there: he witnesses everything and will later report it to Rāma. Furious, they closed in from every side on Sītā as she trembled, and licked their long, flaming lips over and over, a dreadful sign of their hunger to eat her. In a towering rage they snatched up axes and cried: "She is not worthy of having Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, for her husband!" Threatened by those fearsome rākṣasīs, the lovely lady, wiping away her tears, went to that very śiṃśapā tree in which Hanumān was hiding. This turn is important for the story: Sītā herself comes close to Hanumān. Surrounded by the rākṣasīs, large-eyed Sītā reached the śiṃśapā and stood there, overwhelmed with grief, and the fearsome rākṣasīs threatened her again from every side as she stood, thin, her face wretched, wearing soiled clothes. Her coming under the tree clears the way for Hanumān's conversation with her. Trembling with fear, she crept towards the tree for shelter, as a child creeps to its mother. Hanumān stayed hidden and silent; he did not yet show himself, for the time had not come. When the rākṣasīs took up axes, their threats turned from words to action. The picture of her wiping away her tears is moving: she wanted to hide her weeping and not show weakness before the rākṣasīs, though in the end her composure broke. The description of her, thin, wretched-faced, in soiled clothes, recalls the portrait of her in the nineteenth sarga. As the rākṣasīs' fury grew, Sītā drew nearer to the tree, and the story moves towards her meeting with Hanumān.

Then a rākṣasī named Vinatā, terrible to look at, the very image of anger, grim, with a sunken belly, spoke: "Sītā, you have shown enough love for your husband. Anything overdone, my dear, ends in disaster everywhere." It was the proverb "avoid excess in everything" in a rākṣasī's mouth. "I am pleased with you; good luck to you, Maithilī. You have kept the human custom. Now do as I tell you, for I speak for your good. Take for your husband Rāvaṇa, the husband of all the rākṣasas, valiant, rushing on his enemies like Indra, lord of the gods. Leave that pitiful human Rāma and take refuge with Rāvaṇa, who is courteous, generous and kind of speech to all. Anoint yourself with heavenly unguents, deck yourself with heavenly ornaments, and from today, Vaidehī, be queen of all the worlds. Be to him what Svāhā is to Agni, lovely lady, what Śacī is to Indra. What do you want with Rāma, a pitiful man whose life is already over? If you will not do what I have told you, we will all eat you this very moment." Vinatā's speech began sweetly and ended cruelly, travelling from persuasion to force in a single breath, and by calling Rāma a man whose life was over she even presumed his death. The virtues she named in Rāvaṇa, courtesy, generosity, kind speech, might have been real in the rākṣasīs' eyes, but to Sītā they meant nothing. Vinatā granted Sītā's love as a human custom, half praise and half mockery. Her argument that too much of anything brings disaster treats Sītā's faithfulness not as a fault but as an excess; it is a subtle kind of temptation, one that accepts the worth of faithfulness while setting it a limit. Svāhā and Śacī are almost a reply to Sītā's own list of examples: Sītā had recalled Śacī as a devoted wife, Vinatā recalled her as the sharer of Indra's glory. "From today queen of all the worlds" proclaimed once more Rāvaṇa's claim to rule the three worlds, and Vinatā's own looks, grim, sunken-bellied, the image of anger, show that the sweetness of her words was false.

Then another rākṣasī, Vikaṭā, with dangling breasts, raised her fist in anger and menaced Sītā: "You fool, Maithilī, we have put up with a great many improper words from you out of pity and gentleness. Yet you will not take our advice, sound and timely as it is. You have been brought to the far shore of the ocean, which others cannot reach. You have entered Rāvaṇa's dreadful inner palace; you are shut up in Rāvaṇa's house and closely guarded by us. Not even Indra himself could rescue you, Maithilī; do as I say, for I speak for your good. Enough of these tears; give up this useless grief. Put away your endless misery and take joy and delight. Sītā, sport with the king of the rākṣasas as you please. We women know, timid one, how fleeting a woman's youth is. Until your youth passes, take your pleasure. Roam with the king of the rākṣasas in the lovely gardens and mountain groves, you with the intoxicating eyes, and thousands of women will be at your command, lovely queen. Take Rāvaṇa, husband of all the rākṣasas, for your husband, or I will tear out your heart and eat it." Vikaṭā's argument had three parts: Sītā's helplessness, beyond the sea where not even Indra could save her; the brevity of youth; and the fear of being eaten. The argument about fleeting youth had been used by Rāvaṇa himself in the twentieth sarga; the rākṣasīs were simply repeating their master. "Closely guarded by us" cuts both ways: protection, and a prison guard. "Take Rāvaṇa for your husband" had been in Vinatā's speech too; the rākṣasīs all said the same thing, only their threats grew fiercer. Vikaṭā had spoken in the previous sarga and now came again, fist raised. Her claim to have borne with Sītā "out of pity and gentleness" was pride in her own kindness: the one threatening to eat Sītā thought herself gentle, a contrast both comic and pitiful. "The far shore of the ocean" makes Sītā's isolation plain, the sea itself being the wall of her prison; but the reader knows that Hanumān has just leapt across that very sea. Vikaṭā's speech is like a small imitation of Rāvaṇa's, with its gardens, mountain groves and thousands of women. Her boast that not even Indra could save Sītā was empty too, for Rāma was stronger than Indra. And her final threat to tear out Sītā's heart and eat it echoes Rāvaṇa's "for my morning meal".

"...if you do not do exactly what I have told you," Vikaṭā finished. Then a rākṣasī named Caṇḍodarī, cruel to look at, whirling a great spear, said: "Ever since I saw this fawn-eyed woman carried off by Rāvaṇa, her breasts quivering with terror, I have had a great craving. Her liver and spleen, her great breast, her heart with its ligaments, her limbs and her head: I would eat them all; that is my wish." Then a rākṣasī named Praghasā said: "Let us wring this cruel woman's neck; why are we sitting here? Then let the king be told that the human woman is dead. There is no doubt he will say, 'Eat her.'" Then a rākṣasī named Ajāmukhī said: "Cut her up and make all the pieces equal, and then we will share them out; I do not like quarrelling. Let drink be brought quickly, and garlands of every kind in plenty." Then a rākṣasī named Śūrpaṇakhā said: "What Ajāmukhī says is just what I like. Let wine, which drives away all sorrow, be brought quickly. When we have tasted human flesh, we will dance before the goddess Nikumbhilā," whose shrine stood in Laṅkā. Threatened like this by those misshapen rākṣasīs, Sītā, who was like a daughter of the gods, lost her fortitude and wept. At the end of the sarga the rākṣasīs' threats reach their height, with the sharing out, the drinking and the dancing like a festival. The composure Sītā had kept through everything said before now broke, yet her weeping was not the abandonment of her resolve, only the outpouring of grief; her lament follows in the next sarga. Caṇḍodarī's word for her craving is the word for a pregnant woman's longing, used here to horrify. Praghasā proposed even defying Rāvaṇa's orders: her hunger was stronger than her master's wishes, and she was ready to lie to him. Ajāmukhī's equal shares and her dislike of quarrelling show how prone the rākṣasīs were to squabble among themselves. So six rākṣasīs built up six kinds of terror, and Hanumān heard it all. Śūrpaṇakhā's call for wine and dancing blends their cruelty with revelry. And the closing phrase, "like a daughter of the gods", recalls Sītā's purity, equal to a heavenly maiden's, in sharp contrast to the rākṣasīs' deformity.