सेनाप्रयाणं समुद्रतीरनिवेशश्च

When Hanumān had given his account, exactly and in due order, Rāma, true in valour and great in splendour, answered. "This city of Laṅkā that you describe, the city of that dreadful rākṣasa, I shall swiftly destroy; I tell you this truly. Sugrīva, choose to set out at this very hour. The sun has reached the middle of the sky, and this is the hour called Vijaya, Victory; it is the fitting time. He has carried off Sītā; let him go where he likes, but where can he go and stay alive? When Sītā hears that I am on the march, she will take hope for her life again, like a sick man at the very end of his life who touches and drinks nectar. Today the moon is in Uttarā Phalgunī; tomorrow it will be joined with Hasta. So let us set out today, Sugrīva, with all our forces around us. I see the omens that are appearing: I shall kill Rāvaṇa and bring back Sītā, Janaka's daughter. And my upper eyelid is throbbing, as if to announce that victory and my heart's desire are at hand." The hour when the sun stands at midday is known in astrology as Abhijit or Vijaya, an hour that brings every undertaking to success. Rāma reckons the lunar mansions too: Uttarā Phalgunī is favourable in relation to his birth-star, while tomorrow's Hasta would not be, so there must be no delay. The verse about Sītā opens Rāma's heart: the first purpose of the war is to give her comfort. In saying that she will take hope for her life again, he shows that he knows she had despaired and was close to giving up her life; for her the very news of the march will be nectar. By the lore of omens, a throbbing in the upper part of the right eye is lucky for a man. So Rāma takes three kinds of evidence as signs of victory: the stars, the omens and his own heart's resolve. The drama of this opening deserves notice. For two sargas Rāma had been anxious and had needed comforting by Sugrīva and Hanumān; now he makes the decision himself and waits for no one's approval, and his "this I tell you truly", almost an oath, shows how firm he is. His question about Rāvaṇa, "where can he go and stay alive?", is full of scorn: let the abductor go where he likes, he will not escape Rāma's arrows. His words about Sītā are full of tenderness, for her life hangs on the news of his march. So in a single verse anger at the enemy and compassion for his beloved meet. The image of the dying man drinking nectar also recalls how near to death Sītā had come, as in the Sundara Kāṇḍa when she thought of ending her life. Midday, the lunar mansion and the throbbing eye all favour him, so Rāma will not delay a moment. In this part Sugrīva only listens; the command is Rāma's.

Then, honoured by the king of the monkeys and by Lakṣmaṇa, the righteous Rāma, who well understood what had to be done, spoke again. "Let Nīla go at the head of the army with a hundred thousand swift monkeys to scout the way. Nīla, as commander, lead the army quickly by a road that has fruits and roots, cool woods and water, and honey. Evil-minded rākṣasas might foul the roots, fruits and water along the way; be always on guard and protect the road against them. Let forest-dwellers leap down into the hollows, the thickets and the woods and look out for any force the enemy has hidden. Whatever part of the army is weak, let it stay behind here; ours is a fearsome undertaking, and it must be carried through with valour. Let mighty lion-like monkeys in their hundreds and thousands drive the dreadful vanguard forward like a flood of the ocean. Let Gaja, huge as a mountain, mighty Gavaya and Gavākṣa go in front, like proud bulls at the head of a herd. Let Ṛṣabha, lord of leapers, go guarding the right flank of the monkey host, and let swift Gandhamādana, unassailable as a scent-elephant, take the left flank. I shall ride in the middle of the army, mounted on Hanumān as Indra rides Airāvata, and put heart into the troops. Let Lakṣmaṇa here, like Death himself, ride Aṅgada, as Kubera, lord of wealth and of beings, rides Sārvabhauma. And let Jāmbavān, king of the bears, with Suṣeṇa and the monkey Vegadarśī, guard the flanks of the centre." Hearing Rāghava's words, Sugrīva, commander of the host and bull among monkeys, gave his orders. Here Rāma lays out the army like a skilled general: a pathfinder in front, then the vanguard, guards on either flank, the leader in the middle, and the seasoned elders guarding the centre's flanks. The weak are to be left behind, since they would slow the army down, and there is kindness in this too, for they would not survive the battle. The road's water and food must be guarded, for fear the enemy might poison them, and scouts are sent into the hollows to search out any hidden force. So everything a march through the forest needs, route, food, water, scouting and formation, is gathered into one speech, and Nīla's duties as commander, choosing the road, providing food, guarding against the enemy and sending out scouts, are set out with special care, as the books of statecraft also prescribe. The formation follows the old science of war with its five parts, head, chest, flanks, wings and rear: Nīla at the head as pathfinder, Gaja, Gavaya and Gavākṣa as the striking vanguard, Ṛṣabha and Gandhamādana on the right and left wings, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa in the centre, Jāmbavān, Suṣeṇa and Vegadarśī at its sides. The leader is protected on every side and the army is ready in every direction. Rāma riding Hanumān and Lakṣmaṇa riding Aṅgada is an honour to the two monkeys, for Rāma chooses Hanumān as the finest mount of all. The two comparisons recall the elephants that guard the quarters of heaven, Airāvata of Indra and Sārvabhauma of Kubera; the brothers are likened to Indra and Kubera, the monkeys to the elephants of the quarters. Sugrīva is king, and the army moves only at his command: Rāma advises, Sugrīva orders, an order of propriety kept throughout the poem. Even the road is chosen to suit the monkeys' nature, with honey, fruit and cool water along the way.

Then all those troops of monkeys, full of energy, sprang up from their caves and peaks and bounded swiftly away. Honoured by the king of the monkeys and by Lakṣmaṇa, the righteous Rāma set out with his army towards the south, surrounded by monkeys as big as elephants, in hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands and crores. The vast host followed him, joyful and delighted, under Sugrīva's protection. Leaping, bounding, roaring, shouting and bellowing, the monkeys went on southwards. They ate fragrant honey and fruit and carried great trees heavy with clusters of blossom; proud and reckless, they would suddenly carry one another along or throw one another down, some falling and springing up again, others knocking their fellows over. "Rāvaṇa must die at our hands, and all the night-rovers with him!" the monkeys roared near Rāghava. In front, Ṛṣabha, Nīla and brave Kumuda cleared the path with many monkeys. In the middle went King Sugrīva, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, surrounded by many strong and fearsome monkeys. The heroic Śatabali, with ten crores around him, held and guarded the whole host on his own. Kesarī, Panasa, Gaja and Arka, with a following of a hundred crores and more, guarded one flank. Suṣeṇa and Jāmbavān, with many bears, kept Sugrīva before them and guarded the rear. Their commander Nīla, the heroic bull among monkeys, dashed to and fro and kept the army in order, while Darīmukha, Prajaṅgha, Jambha and Rabhasa went on every side hurrying the stragglers along. So those tigers among monkeys went on, proud of their strength, and they saw Sahya, best of mountains, with its hundreds of lesser hills, its lakes in full bloom and its fine ponds. Knowing the command of Rāma, whose anger is terrible, and as if in fear of it, that great and dreadful monkey army kept away from the neighbourhood of cities and the country districts, and moved on like a flood of the ocean with a roar like the sea. At the side of Daśaratha's son the heroic monkeys, huge as elephants, bounded swiftly on like fine horses urged forward, and the two bulls among men, carried by two monkeys, shone like the Moon and the Sun in conjunction with two great planets. The monkeys stay true to their nature: even on the way to war they play, eat and tumble one another over. Yet Rāma's command holds them firmly, and no village or town is to be harmed. The words "as if in fear" show that even so vast an army was restrained by awe of its leader's order, and avoiding the towns and districts is a mark of Rāma's righteousness: his war is with Rāvaṇa, not with innocent people, who would suffer greatly if such a host passed through their villages. The formation already ordered is now put into practice: Ṛṣabha, Nīla and Kumuda in front, the leaders in the middle, Śatabali everywhere, Kesarī and the others on a flank, Suṣeṇa and Jāmbavān at the rear, while Nīla races about keeping order and Darīmukha and the rest hurry the slow ones on; so vast an army is never disordered. The march is shown in three layers: first the monkeys' natural play, then their roar of resolve to kill Rāvaṇa, and then their keeping of the formation. That cry is like the army's war-cry, fixing a single aim in every mind; their eagerness is not only in their bodies but in their voices. The trees they uproot and carry will be their weapons, and the clusters of blossom suggest that it was spring or a season of flowers, which fits the forest scenes to come. That Śatabali alone could guard the whole host shows his exceptional strength. The numbers named again and again, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, crores, are not a real count but a way of saying the army was beyond measure. The comparison with the Moon and Sun conveys the brothers' radiance, and the "great planets" the greatness of the two monkeys who carry them. With the first sight of Sahya the first stage of the journey is complete.

Then the righteous Rāma, honoured by the king of the monkeys and by Lakṣmaṇa, went on with his army towards the south. Lakṣmaṇa, riding on Aṅgada and full of ready insight, spoke auspicious words to Rāma, whose purpose was as good as fulfilled. "You will recover Vaidehī, who was carried off, and swiftly kill Rāvaṇa, and then, your purpose achieved, you will return to a prosperous Ayodhyā. Rāghava, I see great omens in the sky and on the earth, all of them auspicious for you and promising success in everything. A kind wind blows behind the army, gentle, wholesome and pleasant. The beasts and birds are calling in full, sweet voices; every quarter is clear and the sun is spotless. Uśanas, son of Bhṛgu, shines brightly behind you. The Seven Sages are pure and radiant, and all of them shine as they circle the Pole Star, keeping it on their right. The royal sage Triśaṅku, forefather of us great-souled Ikṣvākus, shines spotless before us together with his priest. The two Viśākhās, the chief constellation of our Ikṣvāku line, shine clear and untroubled. But the rākṣasas' constellation, Mūla, whose deity is Nirṛti, is sorely afflicted: the tailed comet has touched it and it is being scorched. All this has come about for the destruction of the rākṣasas, for when people are in the grip of Time, their constellation is afflicted by a planet. The waters are clear and sweet, the woods full of fruit; the breezes carry no overpowering scent, and the trees are flowering in their proper season. The ranked monkey armies shine, my lord, like the armies of the gods in the battle against Tāraka. Seeing all this, noble brother, you should be glad." Lakṣmaṇa's reading of the omens shows a fine knowledge of the heavens. Triśaṅku was of the Ikṣvāku line and was set in the southern sky by Viśvāmitra; Viśākhā is the constellation of the Ikṣvāku family; and Mūla's deity is Nirṛti, goddess of dissolution, so it is the constellation of the rākṣasas. Venus following behind, the Seven Sages circling the Pole Star, a favourable wind: all these are signs of victory for an army on the march. Lakṣmaṇa is not only a brother but a counsellor, and with these omens he clears away the doubt still left in Rāma's mind. His speech is carefully built. He begins with the outcome, Sītā recovered, Rāvaṇa killed and the return to Ayodhyā; then gives the evidence, on earth the wind, beasts, birds, water, woods and flowers, in the sky the sun, Venus, the Seven Sages, Triśaṅku, the Viśākhās and Mūla; and ends by recalling the outcome again, "you should be glad". The outcome at both ends with the evidence between is the best order for persuasion. The repeated word for "purpose achieved" is a deliberate figure: Rāma will have his purpose achieved, and Ayodhyā too will be fulfilled by his return. The two Viśākhās shining clear bode well for Rāma's line, while Mūla scorched by the comet foretells the opposite for the rākṣasas, so that the future of both sides is written in the stars; it was believed that when a family's constellation is afflicted by a planet, that family's ruin is near. On earth, too, the signs are right, for flowers out of season are a bad omen. The comparison with the war against Tāraka, which the gods won, suggests that the monkey army, like the army of the gods, will be victorious. The narrative takes up again the thread broken off by the account of the monkeys' play, and the brothers talk as they travel, Lakṣmaṇa speaking from Aṅgada's shoulders.

Having comforted his brother, the son of Sumitrā spoke on gladly. Then the monkey host moved on, covering the whole earth. The bears and monkeys, those tigers among beasts whose weapons are claws and fangs, raised with their hands and feet a dust so dreadful that it shut out the sunlight and hid the world. Covering the southern quarter, its mountains, forests and sky, the fearsome host went on like a bank of clouds covering the heavens. As the army crossed river after river, league upon league without pause, the streams all seemed to flow backwards. Lakes of clear water, tree-covered mountains, level tracts of land and fruitful woods, it entered them all, through the middle, all round, across and below. Covering the whole earth, the great army marched on. With joyful faces and the speed of the wind, their valour roused in Rāghava's cause, the monkeys went on, showing one another their delight, their prowess and their surpassing strength. In the pride of youthful high spirits they played in all sorts of ways along the road. Some ran fast, others sprang into the air; forest monkeys shrieked "kila-kila", lashed their tails and stamped their feet. Others flung out their arms and smashed rocks and trees, and mountain monkeys climbed to the peaks. Some gave great roars, others war-cries, and with the force of their thighs they crushed many tangles of creepers. The bold monkeys stretched and yawned and played with rocks and trees. The earth was splendidly covered with fearsome monkeys by hundreds of thousands, by thousands and by crores, and day and night that great host went on. Joyful and delighted, protected by Sugrīva and eager for battle, they pressed on swiftly, and in their longing to set Sītā free they did not stop anywhere even for a moment. The dust that hides the sun and the rivers that seem to run backwards are exaggerations that show the army to be beyond counting, and "through the middle, all round, across and below" shows it spreading everywhere, leaving no stretch of land uncovered. The monkeys' play is not mere fickleness: the poet's phrase about the pride of youth points to their youth and high spirits, which left no room for fear of battle. He watches their nature closely, the shrieks of "kila-kila", the lashing of tails, the stamping of feet, the flinging out of arms, the stretching and yawning, all natural to monkeys. Yet this play is not idle, for all their eagerness is given to Rāma's cause, and in showing one another their strength each monkey is vying to outdo the rest. Marching day and night without stopping shows their urgency to free Sītā, and the earth covered by monkeys is called splendid, adorned rather than oppressed. And at the end of the passage Sītā is remembered again: all this eagerness is for her release.

Reaching Mount Sahya, dense with trees and joined to many forests, the monkeys climbed it, and Rāma went on, gazing at the varied woods, rivers and waterfalls of Sahya and Malaya. The monkeys broke campaka, tilaka, mango, aśoka, sinduvāra, tiniśa and karavīra trees; they broke aṅkola and karañja, plakṣa and banyan, jambū, āmalaka and nīpa. On the lovely rocky slopes the forest trees, tossed by the wind, showered them with flowers. A breeze pleasant to the touch and cool as sandal blew through woods fragrant with honey and humming with bees. The king of mountains was richly adorned with minerals, and the coloured dust blown off them by the wind covered the vast monkey army on every side. All over the lovely slopes were ketakīs, sinduvāras and charming vāsantīs, fragrant mādhavīs and kunda bushes in full bloom; ciribilvas, madhūkas, vañjulas, bakulas, rañjakas, tilakas and nāgavṛkṣas, mango, pāṭalī and kovidāra, mucukunda, arjuna, śiṃśapā and kuṭaja, hintāla, tiniśa, cūrṇaka and nīpaka, blue aśokas, saralas, aṅkolas and padmakas, all in flower, and all thrown into disorder by the delighted monkeys. On that mountain were lovely wells and pools, visited by cakravāka birds and kāraṇḍavas, thronged with waterfowl and cranes, haunted by boars and deer, and by bears, hyenas, lions, fearsome tigers and many dreadful beasts of prey; and there were lakes lovely with lotuses, saugandhika lilies, white water-lilies, blue lotuses and many other water-flowers. Flocks of birds of every kind sang on its slopes. The monkeys bathed there, drank the water and played in it, splashing one another; climbing the mountain, drunk with excitement, they broke off fruits fragrant as nectar, roots and flowers. They drank from honeycombs hanging from the trees, each as big as a droṇa measure, and went on at their ease, honey-coloured monkeys, breaking down trees, dragging creepers and shaking the great mountains as they went. Some, drunk on honey, roared from the trees; some climbed into them, others drank deep. The earth was so full of those foremost monkeys that it looked like land covered with fields of ripe rice. Then lotus-eyed, mighty-armed Rāma reached Mahendra and climbed its tree-clad summit, and from there Rāma, son of Daśaratha, beheld the ocean, full of tortoises and fish. The long lists of trees, flowers, birds and beasts show the richness of the southern country and the monkeys' delight in it. The mountains named are real southern ranges: Sahya is the Western Ghats, Malaya its southern part famous for sandalwood forests, which is why the breeze is cool as sandal, and Mahendra stands on the sea-coast; the route runs from Sahya to Malaya, from Malaya to Mahendra and from Mahendra to the shore. The forest is full of both beauty and terror. The monkeys' honey-drinking recalls the episode of the Madhuvana in the Sundara Kāṇḍa, and "honey-coloured" likens their tawny colour to honey. Yet though they drink, they go on "at their ease", not wild with drink, which speaks of the army's discipline. The honeycombs as big as a droṇa measure are an exaggeration that shows how rich the forest was. The monkeys break the trees, but the trees answer with a shower of blossoms rather than anger, as if nature herself were welcoming Rāma's army; the mineral dust colours the monkeys as if they had been painted with red ochre; and bathing, drinking and splashing wash away the weariness of the march. The comparison with fields of ripe rice matches the monkeys' tawny colour to golden paddy. Rāma, though he sees all this beauty, does not stop: "he went on, gazing" shows how single-minded he was. Perhaps the forest reminded him of the one he had seen with Sītā at Pañcavaṭī, though the poet does not say so. For the monkeys the forest is home; they play, eat, bathe and drink as they please. Rāma's climbing of Mahendra has its own meaning: it was from Mahendra that Hanumān leapt across the sea, and from Mahendra that Rāma first sees it. This first description of the ocean, full of tortoises and fish, is simple; it will be enlarged later. Such a forest description, with mountain, woods, pools, birds and season all together, is counted a necessary part of a great poem, and whatever its origin, every tree and bird here helps paint a living picture of the southern forest.

Passing beyond Sahya and the great mountain Malaya, they came in due course to the ocean with its dreadful roar. Rāma, who delights all hearts, came down from the mountain and went quickly with Sugrīva and Lakṣmaṇa to the matchless forest on the shore. Reaching the broad beach, whose rocky floor was washed by sudden surges of water, Rāma said: "Here we have reached Varuṇa's home, Sugrīva, and the worry that faced us before has come back again. Beyond this point lies the ocean, lord of rivers, with no shore in sight; this sea cannot be crossed without some means. So let us camp right here, and let counsel be taken here on how this monkey army may reach the far shore." So spoke the mighty-armed Rāma, worn thin by Sītā's abduction, and when he reached the ocean he gave orders to make camp. "Let all the armies be encamped on the shore, bull among monkeys. The time has come for us to take counsel about crossing the sea. Let no one leave his own troop and go off anywhere; let the brave monkeys go to their places. We must reckon with hidden danger." At Rāma's words Sugrīva, with Lakṣmaṇa, encamped the army on the tree-lined shore. Lying beside the ocean, that army shone like a second glorious ocean whose waters were the tawny colour of honey. The foremost monkeys settled in the forest by the shore, longing for the far side of the great sea, and as they encamped, the din of the army's preparations drowned even the great roar of the ocean. That vast bannered army of monkeys, protected by Sugrīva and devoted to Rāma's cause, was camped in three divisions, and the monkey host, rejoicing to have reached the ocean, gazed out at the great sea tossed by the wind. Rāma's anxiety is plain again: "no shore in sight" speaks of despair, but "not without some means" shows that he has not given up the search for a way. Calling for counsel is a king's duty, for in a hard task he must deliberate with his ministers. His warning of hidden danger is prudence, since the rākṣasas are masters of illusion and the army must not be scattered. His orders are three: to camp, to take counsel on how to cross, and to keep watch by staying each in his place in case the enemy attacks by stealth, all basic to the conduct of war. The poet adds that Rāma spoke as a man worn down by Sītā's abduction; his concern is not only a soldier's but his own. Rāma is called "he who delights all hearts", yet at this moment his own heart is full of care, and the poet lets the contrast speak. The tawny army lying beside the blue sea looks like a second ocean, an image that prepares for the description of the sea that follows. The monkeys long for the far shore, their eyes already on Laṅkā. That the army's din drowns the ocean's roar is another way of showing its numbers; and the three divisions, the commentators say, were separate camps for the bears, the gopuccha monkeys and the other monkeys. The ocean is first heard, with its dreadful roar, before it is reached, and the beach's rocks washed by the waves are finely observed; the noise of the camp and the roar of the sea seem to vie with each other. So the march is over, but the problem of crossing remains.

The monkey chiefs sat down and gazed at Varuṇa's home, its far shore distant and nothing to stop the eye, haunted by hosts of rākṣasas. At nightfall, as the day ended, it was terrible with fierce crocodiles and sharks; it seemed to laugh with its masses of foam and to dance with its waves. At moonrise it swelled up, full of reflections of the moon, strewn with sharks swift as the gale and with whales and whale-swallowing monsters, as though covered with serpents with blazing hoods, full of great creatures and crowded with many rocks. Impassable and pathless, fathomless, the home of the asuras, its masses of water, pierced by sea-monsters and serpents' coils and tossed by the wind, rose and fell as if in joy. It looked as though sprinkled with fiery dust, its water and great serpents shining, the terrible dwelling of the enemies of the gods and forever the realm of the underworld. The ocean looked like the sky and the sky like the ocean, and there was no telling one from the other; water merged with sky and sky with water, and both looked the same, one filled with stars, the other with gems. Between the sky with its rising clouds and the ocean with its rows of waves there was no difference at all. The waves of the king of rivers struck and clung to one another and roared with a terrible sound, like great drums in the sky. The great-souled monkeys saw that expanse of water, roaring with its gems, as if held fast by the wind, rising up as if in anger, crowded with sea-creatures, beaten by the gale and tossed up into the sky as if leaping with its waves. And they stood there struck with wonder, gazing at the ocean as it roared with its whirling waves and seemed to sway. The poet draws out the likeness between sea and sky: gems in the sea and stars in the sky, waves in the one and clouds in the other, great serpents in the sea and the demon planets in the sky, the sea the home of the asuras and the sky their roaming-ground, until no difference is left between them. The verse "the ocean looked like the sky and the sky like the ocean" is among the famous verses of the poem and is quoted as a model of the figure in which a thing can be compared only with itself; at night the horizon vanishes, stars and gems shine alike, and clouds and waves move alike. The time is dusk and moonrise, when the tide rises, which is why the sea swells. The sea laughing with foam, dancing with waves and rising in anger comes alive, standing before the monkeys like an enemy, and these images of a living ocean prepare for the Ocean god's appearance in person later on. The fiery dust describes the glow seen in the sea's foam at night, and the roar like great drums in the sky recalls the war-drums, as if the sea itself were calling to battle. The ocean has two faces here, terrible with its monsters, its asuras and its nearness to the underworld, and lovely with its moonlight, gems, foam and dancing waves, the very nature of Laṅkā itself, beautiful and terrifying. The sarga that began with Rāma's firm resolve ends with the monkeys' wonder: they had come eager for battle and stand stunned by the sight of the sea. Crossing it will be no simple matter, and how to cross will be the chief subject of the sargas that follow; the more fearsome the ocean, the more wonderful the bridge that will span it.