लाङ्गूलदीपनं सीतायाः अग्निप्रार्थना च

When he heard the words of his great-souled brother Vibhīṣaṇa, so fitting to the place and the time, ten-necked Rāvaṇa gave his answer. "You have spoken rightly, Vibhīṣaṇa," he said. "The killing of an envoy is condemned in the śāstras. But some punishment other than death must certainly be laid on him. A monkey's tail, they say, is his cherished ornament. Set it on fire at once, and let him go with it burnt. Then let all his friends, kinsmen and relations and all his well-wishers see him wretched, wasted by the disfigurement of his limbs." And the lord of the rākṣasas gave the order: "Let the rākṣasas lead him through the whole city and all its squares with his tail ablaze." Rāvaṇa accepted Vibhīṣaṇa's argument, but his aim was still humiliation. Of the punishments for an envoy that Vibhīṣaṇa had listed, disfigurement is the one used here, in the form of burning the tail; in Rāvaṇa's eyes a monkey's tail was the badge of his pride, and burning it was the worst insult. In ordering him paraded, Rāvaṇa's arrogance shows: he wanted the whole city to witness his enemy's disgrace. Yet this very order would give Hanumān the chance to see Laṅkā, which is the poet's quiet irony. Rāvaṇa agreed that his brother was right, but he decided the form of the punishment himself, and so Vibhīṣaṇa's counsel only half succeeded.

Hearing their master's order, the rākṣasas, harsh with anger, wrapped his tail in old rags of cotton cloth. As it was being wrapped, the great monkey Hanumān swelled in size, like a fire in the forest that has found dry fuel: as fuel feeds a fire, so insult fed his might. They soaked the tail in oil and set it alight, and Hanumān, his whole being filled with rage and indignation and his face like the rising sun, beat the rākṣasas with his blazing tail. Then the cruel rākṣasas gathered together and bound that bull among monkeys fast again, and the night-rangers, with their women, children and old people, were delighted. But their delight was brief, and it would soon be the cause of their ruin; the old cloth and the oil they used would themselves become the means of Laṅkā's burning. Hanumān had struck back once, with his tail, but then he let himself be bound again; and bound as he was, the hero formed a plan to fit the moment.

"Even bound as I am," Hanumān thought, "these rākṣasas are no match for me. I could snap these ropes, leap up and kill them again. I am roaming here for my master's good and at his command, and if these wicked creatures tie me up, then the price I have made them pay for what they have done is not yet complete. Alone, I am more than a match for all these rākṣasas in battle; but for Rāma's sake I shall put up with being bound like this. This way I shall get to range through Laṅkā again, for by night I did not see well how its defences are laid out. I must certainly see Laṅkā now that the night is over. Let them tie me up again and again as they please, and torment me by setting my tail on fire; my mind feels no strain." Here Hanumān's steadiness and intelligence both show: he turned an insult into an opportunity. He remembered the rākṣasas' injustice in binding an envoy who was only doing his master's work, and his anger was real, but it was subject to his master's business. He had to see the fortress by daylight for the sake of the war to come, and so he bore his bonds of his own will. "For Rāma's sake" is the root of everything he does, and the untiring calm of his mind is the ground of the daring that follows.

Then the rākṣasas of cruel deeds seized the mighty great monkey, who had hidden his true size and strength, and went off rejoicing with that elephant among monkeys, proclaiming his deeds with the blare of conches and drums as if at a victory festival. They paraded him through the city, and the tamer of foes went along at his ease, the rākṣasas following him; bound as he was, he walked as if to a celebration, without a trace of fear. As he went through the great city of the rākṣasas, he saw its wonderful palaces, its walled enclosures, its well laid-out squares, its streets crowded with rows of houses, its crossroads, its main streets and side streets and the spaces between the houses. In the squares, at the four-way crossings and on the royal roads all the rākṣasas proclaimed him a spy, and here and there women, children and old men came out in curiosity, their eagerness showing the life of the city. The rākṣasas called him a spy, and yet it was they who were showing him everything in Laṅkā, doing the spy's work for him; and their cry was true, for he was indeed Rāma's spy. The poet lists the streets of Laṅkā in detail because this knowledge of the inner plan of the fortress, which Hanumān had not seen clearly by night, would serve him in the burning to come. So his wish was fulfilled: he saw Laṅkā by day. The rākṣasas are called "of cruel deeds", Hanumān "the tamer of foes": one party the oppressors, the other the hero.

Crowds came to see Hanumān with his tail on fire. While the tip of his tail was blazing, the hideous-eyed rākṣasīs went to Sītā and told her the dreadful news, hoping to hurt her. "That red-faced monkey you were talking to, Sītā," they said, sneering at him, "is being led about the city with his tail on fire." When she heard those cruel words, which were as painful to her as her own abduction, for his suffering felt to her like her own, Vaidehī, burning with grief, turned in her mind to the fire. Wishing for the great monkey's welfare and not her own, the large-eyed queen purified herself and approached the fire, the bearer of oblations. "If I have served my husband," she prayed, "if I have practised austerity, if I have been faithful to one husband alone, be cool to Hanumān. If the wise Rāma has any compassion for me, or if any of my good fortune remains, be cool to Hanumān. If the righteous Rāma knows that my conduct has been good and that I long to be with him again, be cool to Hanumān. If the noble Sugrīva, true to his word, will carry me across this flood of sorrow, be cool to Hanumān." Sītā's prayer is an act of truth: by the power of her own truthful life she commands the fire. Four times the refrain returns, "be cool to Hanumān", and each time it rests on a different ground: Rāma's compassion and her remaining fortune, her own conduct, Sugrīva's promise. Forgetting her own pain, she asked only for his protection, which shows her compassion, and in these verses the strength of a faithful wife's truth is revealed. The fire as purifier and Sītā's purity are bound together here, like a foreshadowing of the ordeal by fire in the Yuddha Kāṇḍa.

Then the fire, sharp-flamed though it was, burned calmly, its flame turning to the right, an auspicious sign, as if to tell the fawn-eyed Sītā that all would be well with the monkey; it was as though the fire had accepted her prayer. The Wind, Hanumān's father, blowing together with the fire in his tail, blew cool as a wind from the snows, bringing comfort to the queen; the Wind too helped to protect his son. As his tail burned, the monkey thought: "This fire is blazing all around, so why does it not burn me? It looks like a great blaze, yet it gives me no pain; it is as if a fall of frost had settled on the tip of my tail." His wonder was natural: the flames could be seen, but no burning was felt. "Or rather, it is plain," he reasoned from what he had already seen. "It is the same marvel I saw as I leapt across: a mountain rising out of the lord of rivers by the power of Rāma. If the ocean and wise Maināka were so eager to help for Rāma's sake, what will fire not do? It is because of Sītā's compassion, Rāghava's power and my father's friendship that the fire does not burn me." Remembering Maināka, he found the cause: nature itself helps in Rāma's work. He did not know of Sītā's prayer, and yet among the three causes he named Sītā's compassion first. The poet makes it clear to the reader that her prayer was the chief cause, and that Hanumān, without knowing it, put her mercy first is the subtlety of his devotion.

For a moment the elephant among monkeys reflected again: "How can it be right for someone like me to be bound here by these vilest of rākṣasas? I have the strength, and some answer must be given." He had seen Laṅkā, and the purpose of his bonds was served, so his self-respect awoke. Then, snapping the ropes, the swift great monkey leapt up with speed and roared, proclaiming his release. The glorious son of the Wind reached the city gate, lofty as a mountain peak, where the throng of rākṣasas was thinner. He had been as big as a mountain; in an instant he made himself very small, and his bonds fell away of themselves, freed not by force but by skill; then, free, the glorious monkey became once more like a mountain. Shrinking and growing at will was his special power. Looking about, he saw an iron bar, wrought of black iron, leaning against the gateway; the long-armed son of the Wind seized it and once more killed all the guards, repaying the rākṣasas for the insult they had done him. The bar of the city's own gate became his weapon. Having killed them, fierce in battle, he surveyed Laṅkā once again, already thinking of his next task, and garlanded with the flames of his blazing tail he shone like the sun with its garland of rays; the poet uses one word for both, the ring of fire round the tail and the ring of rays round the sun. In the next sarga this same blazing tail will set Laṅkā on fire.