लक्ष्मणसुमन्त्रसंवादः

When he saw Maithilī Sītā taken into the hermitage, Lakṣmaṇa, sick at heart, fell into terrible anguish. The mighty prince turned to Sumantra, who was not only his charioteer but a counsellor of the royal house, and poured out his grief to him. "Look, charioteer," he said, "at the sorrow that has come to Rāma through Sītā's suffering. What could be more painful for Rāghava than to send away his wife, Janaka's daughter, pure as she is in her conduct? It is plain to me, charioteer, that Rāghava's parting from Vaidehī is the work of fate, for fate is hard to overcome. Rāghava, who in his anger could slay the gods and the gandharvas, the asuras and the rākṣasas, even he must bow to fate. Long ago, at his father's word, Rāma lived for fourteen years in the lonely Daṇḍaka forest, the great forest. Harder still to bear is this banishment of Sītā; done because of what the citizens said, it seems to me cruel. What righteousness, charioteer, can there be in a deed that robs him of his good name, a deed that has fallen on Maithilī through citizens who talk of petty things?" Lakṣmaṇa said plainly that Rāma's deed was cruel: he had obeyed, but his heart could not accept it. Yet he did not blame Rāma; he laid the fault on fate and on the citizens. By recalling Rāma's might, able to destroy gods and demons, he showed that even such a hero is helpless before fate, and in remembering the fourteen years in the forest he felt Rāma's whole life to be a chain of sorrows. The citizens, gossiping about trifles, had become the cause of a great grief; and far from protecting Rāma's name, the abandonment, he thought, would destroy it. His question asked for an answer: was there any reason, any purpose, in this suffering?

The wise Sumantra listened to all Lakṣmaṇa said and answered him gravely and with reverence, not merely to console him. "You should not grieve over Maithilī, Lakṣmaṇa," he said. "This was foreseen long ago by the brahmins in your father's presence: 'Rāma will surely know much sorrow and little happiness; the mighty-armed prince will soon be parted from those he loves. You, and Maithilī, and Śatrughna and Bharata too, the righteous, great-souled one will abandon in the course of a long time.'" Sumantra was the old charioteer whom Daśaratha trusted, and he knew the secrets of the royal house. His answer to Lakṣmaṇa's question about righteousness was that this was fate, foretold long before. The prophecy named each in turn, Lakṣmaṇa, Maithilī, Śatrughna and Bharata: in time Rāma would give up everyone he loved, not at once but after a long while. That Lakṣmaṇa too would be abandoned is a distant hint of what is to come in the story. "Without happiness" sums up Rāma's life. Knowing that the seers had long ago foreseen what fate had ordained did not take away Lakṣmaṇa's grief, but it gave it meaning: this was not Rāma's cruelty but the working of destiny.

"This was not to be told to you, Lakṣmaṇa, nor to Bharata," Sumantra went on. "The king forbade that the words Durvāsā spoke be told to you. The sage spoke them before a great assembly, before me, bull among men, and in the presence of Vasiṣṭha. When he had heard the sage, that bull among men said to me, 'Charioteer, you are never to speak of this in front of people.' Faithful to those words of the world's protector, I would never make them false; that has been my resolve, gentle prince. I ought not to speak of it before you at all; but if you have the faith to hear it, Raghunandana, then listen. Though the king entrusted me with this secret long ago, I will tell it, for fate is hard to overcome, and it is fate that has brought this grief and sorrow about. But you must not speak of it in front of Bharata, or in Śatrughna's presence." Sumantra was caught between two duties: the king's order to keep the secret, and the need to ease Lakṣmaṇa's grief. Keeping secrets was a charioteer's duty and keeping faith with the truth was his vow; between the two he let fate decide, and chose to reveal the secret on one condition, that it should not be told to Bharata and Śatrughna. Hearing his grave and weighty words, Lakṣmaṇa said to the charioteer, "Tell me the truth." The sarga ends in suspense, and the reader, like Lakṣmaṇa, waits eagerly to hear the secret; the story of Durvāsā is told at length in the next sarga.