रावणस्य माहिष्मतीगमनं नर्मदायां शिवार्चनं च

In the last sarga Agastya had described Indrajit's strength and Rāvaṇa's victory over the gods. Then Rāma of great splendour, full of wonder, bowed once more — a sign of his humility and his reverence for his teacher — and spoke to Agastya, best of seers. "Lord, best of the twice-born, when that cruel rākṣasa was roaming the earth, were the worlds empty? Was there no kṣatriya king then, no one even of a king's rank, at whose hands Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, met defeat? Or had all the rulers of the earth lost their valour and been stripped of the best weapons, so that so many kings were conquered?" Rāma's question sprang from a kṣatriya's pride: he was troubled to think that his own forefathers too might have been beaten by Rāvaṇa, and he asked about great kings and lesser rulers alike, wondering whether all of them had been so weak. Hearing Rāghava's words, the blessed seer Agastya laughed and spoke to Rāma as the Grandfather Brahmā might speak to the Lord Śiva — with a father's fondness and with respect. "It was in this way, bull among kings, Rāma, lord of the earth, harassing the kings, that Rāvaṇa roamed the earth." Agastya's laugh hinted that the answer would be surprising: one human king had indeed defeated Rāvaṇa. The story of Arjuna that begins in this sarga will be completed in the next two.

Then Rāvaṇa came to the city called Māhiṣmatī, splendid as the city of heaven — a very Amarāvatī, so that having conquered the world of the gods he now came to the heaven of the earth. The god of fire was always present there, and through that fire's power there lived a king named Arjuna, its equal in splendour, in whose realm Agni forever lay in a fire-pit strewn with reeds. This Arjuna was Kārtavīrya, famed as the thousand-armed, and the presence of fire in his city was the source of his brilliance. That very day the mighty lord of the Haihayas, King Arjuna, had gone with his women to sport in the river Narmadā, and on that same day Rāvaṇa arrived there — the repeated "that very day" shows the hand of fate: on the one day the king was out of the city, his enemy came. The lord of the rākṣasas asked Arjuna's ministers, "Where is King Arjuna? Tell me quickly and truly. I, Rāvaṇa, have come seeking battle with that best of men. Announce my coming to him beforehand." He asked not out of fear but as a challenge, and he did not attack the city in the king's absence — that was his warrior's code. The ministers, who were very wise, did not lie out of fear of Rāvaṇa but told the lord of the rākṣasas plainly that the king was not there. Hearing from the citizens that Arjuna had gone out, Viśravas's son withdrew and came to the Vindhya mountain, which was like the Himālaya.

Rāvaṇa gazed at the Vindhya. It seemed to have entered the clouds, to have burst up out of the earth, to be scraping the sky. It had a thousand peaks, and lions lived in its caves. With the cold waters falling from its cascades it seemed to be laughing aloud. Gods, dānavas, gandharvas, apsarases and kinnaras sported there with their women, so that the lofty mountain was like heaven itself — the poet shows that the splendour of the gods' world is to be found on earth too. Its streams ran crystal-clear, and it stood like Ananta, the thousand-hooded serpent, with its rivers for his hoods and their darting currents for his flickering tongues — a very delicate image — soaring upward, full of caverns, a mountain like the Himālaya. The length of the Vindhya is likened to the length of the great serpent, and its height is conveyed by the images of scraping the sky and laughing aloud. The mountain is seen through Rāvaṇa's eyes, as a traveller takes everything in with wonder.

Gazing at the Vindhya, Rāvaṇa went on to the Narmadā, whose waters tumble over the stones, the holy river that flows to the western sea. Buffaloes, yaks, lions, tigers, bears and great elephants, oppressed by the heat and thirsty, churned up her pools — it was the heat of midday, as Rāvaṇa will soon say — and she was thronged with cakravākas, kāraṇḍavas, geese and waterfowl, and with cranes, always amorous and calling; she was a refuge for every creature, like a mother. The poet paints the river as a lovely woman: the flowering trees were her crest-ornament, pairs of cakravāka birds her breasts, her broad sandbanks her hips, the rows of geese her girdle; the pollen of flowers was the scented paste on her limbs, the foam of her waters her spotless garment, bathing in her her sweet touch, and her blooming lotuses her lovely eyes. The river as a woman is a favourite figure of the poet, and here it is complete, every feature supplied by some part of nature. Descending quickly from the Puṣpaka, Daśānana plunged into the Narmadā, best of rivers, as if into the arms of a beloved and lovely woman — even in the simile his amorous nature shows, and his bathing is described with a lover's eye. Then that bull among rākṣasas sat down with his ministers on her delightful bank, where many sages came — itself a sign of her holiness. Praising the Narmadā as though she were the Gaṅgā, holding her as sacred as the Gaṅgā, Daśānana was filled with joy at the sight of her. Here he appears calm, content and devout — another side of his character.

Then, in a playful mood, he said to his ministers, Śuka and Sāraṇa foremost among them, "This sun, which with its thousand rays has turned the world to gold, stands blazing hot in the middle of the sky — yet knowing that I am sitting here, the maker of day turns as cool as the moon. And this wind, cool from the waters of the Narmadā, fragrant and easing weariness, blows gently and carefully for fear of me. And this Narmadā too, best of rivers, who increases delight, stands still with her waves full of crocodiles, fish and birds, like a frightened woman." There is a play on the river's name: the Narmadā is she who gives narma, delight. The sun cool as the moon, the gentle breeze, the river still as a frightened woman — Rāvaṇa thought all three were the fruit of his might. In truth they were only nature's own qualities, but in his conceit he believed everything happened out of fear of him; such self-praise is the mark of his character. Yet with it went devotion, for he was preparing to worship Śiva. "You have been wounded in battle by the weapons of kings equal to Indra, and you are drenched in blood as if with sandal-paste. So bathe in the Narmadā, fair giver of happiness, as the mighty rutting elephants of the quarters, Sārvabhauma and the rest, bathe in the Gaṅgā. Bathing in this great river you will be freed from sin. And I, today, on this bank bright as the autumn moon, will slowly make an offering of flowers to the matted-haired Śiva." The ministers' wounds and blood recalled their earlier battles, and bathing in the river would be both their healing and their cleansing; the image of the elephants of the quarters shows how huge the rākṣasas were. His words about being freed from sin show that he believed in the merit of bathing at a holy place: even a rākṣasa kept the outward forms of dharma.

So bidden by Rāvaṇa, Prahasta, Śuka and Sāraṇa, with Mahodara and Dhūmrākṣa, plunged into the Narmadā. Churned by those elephantine lords of the rākṣasas, the Narmadā looked like the Gaṅgā churned by the great elephants of the quarters, Vāmana, Añjana, Padma and the rest — the four famous elephants Vāmana, Añjana, Padma and Sārvabhauma. Having bathed, those mighty rākṣasas came out of the Narmadā and gathered flowers for Rāvaṇa's offering, and in a moment they had made a mountain of flowers on the lovely bank of the Narmadā, bright as a white cloud. The "mountain" is an exaggeration that shows how many they were and how devoted; "in a moment" shows how eagerly servants prepared for their master's worship. When the flowers had been brought, Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, went down into the river to bathe, like a great elephant entering the Gaṅgā — the greatest among them. Having bathed there in due form and recited the supreme prayer, he came up out of the waters of the Narmadā, cast off his wet garment and put on white clothing, the colour of purity. The purification before worship follows the rules exactly — bath, prayer and a clean dry white garment — and bears out Rāvaṇa's fame as one learned in the Veda and a devotee of Śiva.

As Rāvaṇa went on with joined palms, all the rākṣasas followed him, drawn along in his wake like mountains come to life — an image of their huge bodies and of their devotion to him. Wherever Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, went, a liṅga made of gold was carried along with him. He set that liṅga up in the middle of an altar of sand and worshipped it with sandal-paste and with flowers fragrant as nectar. Then, having worshipped Śaṅkara — the supreme, the excellent giver of boons, who takes away the suffering of the good and wears the rays of the moon as his ornament — the night-rover stretched out his arms before him and sang and danced. His devotion to Śiva is plain here: he carried the golden liṅga everywhere and worshipped it daily, and his singing and dancing show the height of that devotion, his joy breaking out in his very body — which fits his fame as the author of hymns to Śiva. The sarga ends in a different metre, closing the scene. And the drama lies in what follows: in the next sarga this quiet, devout moment will be shattered by Arjuna's sport in the Narmadā.