सीतायाः प्राणत्यागोद्यमः

Remembering those hateful words of Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, Sītā, stricken by what she loathed, trembled like a young cow-elephant seized by a lion at the edge of the forest. Sitting among the rākṣasīs, timid, sorely threatened by Rāvaṇa's words, she lamented like a young girl abandoned in a lonely wilderness. The two images, a young elephant in a lion's grip and a girl left alone in the wild, both speak of her helplessness, and both of youth and weakness. Trijaṭā's dream had given her hope, but the memory of Rāvaṇa's threats filled her with fear once more, and the poet keeps calling her young, a girl, to show her tenderness.

"True indeed is what the good say in the world, that there is no death before its time, for here I am, without merit, threatened like this, and still I live even for a moment. Surely this heart of mine, robbed of happiness and full of sorrows, must be hard, since it does not burst today into a thousand pieces like a mountain peak struck by a thunderbolt. No fault of mine lies in this: I am to be killed by this hateful creature, and I cannot give him my heart, just as a twice-born man will not give a sacred mantra to one who is not twice-born. Since the lord of the world does not come, that ignoble lord of the rākṣasas will soon cut my limbs apart with sharp weapons, as a surgeon cuts up a child in the womb. Alas, in my misery, these two months that seemed so long in coming will soon be over, as the night ends for a thief bound and condemned, held at the king's pleasure." The saying of the wise she had quoted in the twenty-fifth sarga returns here. The image of the mantra speaks of the sanctity of her heart: it belonged to Rāma alone and could not be given to one with no right to it. The thief waiting for dawn shows the torment of waiting: death was certain, only the hour remained.

"Ah Rāma! Ah Lakṣmaṇa! Ah Sumitrā! Ah Kausalyā, Rāma's mother, and all my mothers! Unlucky as I am, I am perishing like a ship caught by a whirlwind on the great ocean. Surely those two swift sons of the lord of men have been killed because of me by that creature who took the form of a deer, as two great lions might be struck down by lightning. Surely it was Time himself who took the form of a deer and tempted me, unlucky as I am, in that hour when in my folly I sent away the two noble princes, Rāma's younger brother and Lakṣmaṇa's elder. Ah Rāma, true to your vows, long-armed, with your face like the full moon, friend and beloved of all living things, you do not know that I am to be killed by the rākṣasas." Remembering the episode of Mārīca and her own folly, Sītā reproached herself. Her explanation that the deer was Time itself in disguise speaks of the power of fate.

"Worshipping no god but you, patience, sleeping on the bare ground, discipline in dharma, devotion to my husband: all this has proved as fruitless as a kindness done to ungrateful men. The dharma I have practised is in vain, and this faithfulness to one husband meaningless, since I do not see you, and I am thin and pale, parted from you, without hope of being with you again. I think that once you have faithfully carried out your father's command and come back from the forest with your vow fulfilled, free from fear and with your purpose achieved, you will take your pleasure with wide-eyed women. But I, Rāma, who love you and long ago bound my heart to you to my own undoing, having practised austerity and vows for nothing, will give up this wretched life. A curse on me, so unlucky!" Here her despair reached its height: she looked even on the fruit of dharma with doubt. Yet she felt no anger against Rāma; she imagined only his happiness. "Bound my heart to my own undoing" is moving: she thought her love itself was the cause of her ruin. Worshipping no god but her husband and the other four vows are the essence of a faithful wife's dharma, and her fear that they were fruitless was a test of her faith.

"I would quickly end my life with poison or a sharp weapon, but in this rākṣasa's house there is no one to give me poison or a weapon." Burning with grief, after turning it over in many ways, Sītā took hold of her braided hair and resolved: "I will hang myself with this braid and quickly go to the abode of Yama." Soft in every limb, she stood there holding a branch of the tree. The braid, which she had not unbound since she was parted from Rāma, was now to become the instrument of her death; this is the lowest point of the tragedy. But as she stood thinking of Rāma, of his younger brother and of her own family, at that very moment many omens appeared before the lovely lady, omens that drive away grief, the best in the world, that bring courage and had proved true before. So the story turns once more towards hope; the next sarga describes these omens in detail.