रावणस्य मन्त्रणा कुम्भकर्णस्य उपालम्भश्च

Rāvaṇa, conqueror in battle, looked over the whole assembly and then turned to Prahasta, commander of the army. "Commander, you should instruct the warriors of the four arms, trained in their skills, to stand guard over the city." Prahasta, disciplined and eager to carry out the king's command, posted the whole army in its places outside and inside the palace, and when he had stationed it all for the city's protection he sat down before the king and said: "The army of your mighty self has been posted outside and within. Now, with an untroubled mind, do quickly whatever you intend." Hearing the words of Prahasta, who sought the good of the kingdom, Rāvaṇa, who sought his own pleasure, spoke among his friends. Before the council begins, Rāvaṇa makes sure of the city's defence, knowing the enemy stands on the far shore of the sea. The four arms are the old fourfold army of chariots, elephants, horsemen and foot-soldiers, and the guards are set both inside and outside the walls. Prahasta is called disciplined, ready to obey. But the word used of Rāvaṇa, "seeking his own pleasure", deserves particular attention: he wants not the good of the kingdom but his own enjoyment, and this is the root of all his misfortune. Prahasta seeks the kingdom's good, Rāvaṇa his own pleasure; the poet draws the contrast with a light touch, and Kumbhakarṇa will soon point to the same fault.

"Members of this assembly, you know how to judge what is pleasant and unpleasant, joy and sorrow, gain and loss, good and ill, and every difficulty touching dharma, pleasure and wealth. Whatever you have undertaken at any time, when charged with counsel and action, has never failed me. Surrounded by you, as Vāsava is surrounded by the Maruts with the moon, the planets and the stars, may I win fortune in full measure. I have long been ready to have you all approve this matter, but I did not raise it because Kumbhakarṇa was asleep. This mighty Kumbhakarṇa, foremost of all who bear arms, has slept for six months and has only now risen." Rāvaṇa first wins the assembly over with praise and only then brings up his business, the method of a skilled speaker. Kumbhakarṇa's sleep is given as the reason the council was delayed, suggesting that Rāvaṇa will make no decision without that great warrior's strength. In likening himself to Indra and his courtiers to the gods he flatters them all. And the qualities he praises are subtle ones: judging between pairs of opposites, pleasant and unpleasant, joy and sorrow, gain and loss, good and ill, is the mark of wise men.

"I carried off Janaka's daughter, Rāma's beloved queen, from the Daṇḍaka forest where the rākṣasas roam. But she, with her languid gait, will not come to my bed, and in the three worlds I see no other woman like Sītā. Slender-waisted, broad-hipped, her face like the autumn moon, gentle, like a golden statue, she is like a magic image made by Maya. When I see her feet, smooth and shapely, their soles deep red and their nails copper-coloured, the desire in my body blazes up. When I look at her, bright as the flame of a sacrificial fire or the light of the sun, and at her face with its fine nose, spotless, lovely, with beautiful eyes, I lose all self-command and fall into the power of desire, a desire that is the same in anger and in joy, that spoils my colour and never leaves me in grief and torment; it has defiled me. That spirited lady, waiting for her husband Rāma, asked me for a year's time, and I promised the lovely-eyed woman what she asked. I am worn out by desire without respite, like a horse on a long road. But how will the forest-dwellers, or those two sons of Daśaratha, cross the unshakeable sea, teeming with creatures and fish? And yet a single monkey did great slaughter among us. The course of events is hard to know; speak, each of you, as you think. We have nothing to fear from a man; still, let it be considered." Here Rāvaṇa shamelessly lays bare his lust before the assembly. In truth Sītā never asked for a year's grace; Rāvaṇa himself set that term, in the Araṇya Kāṇḍa, and here he puts on a false show of generosity before his courtiers. At the end his double mind is plain: on the one hand "nothing to fear from a man", on the other the memory of Hanumān's havoc. His words run through the stages of desire: it blazes up at the sight of her, robs him of self-command, defiles him and wears him out. "A magic image made by Maya" suggests her beauty is not of this world, and the tired horse on a long road conveys his long mental torment. Desire, he says, stays with him in every state, drains his colour and burns him always. The order of his speech is revealing: first the abduction of Sītā, then a long description of her beauty, then his torment of desire, then the promise of a year, and only at the very end his worry about the enemy's approach. So the real business of the council, Rāma's attack, comes last in his speech; what matters most to him is not the kingdom's safety but winning Sītā. His question how they will cross the sea is answered by his own counter-thought that one monkey wrought such slaughter, and hope and fear fight each other in his mind. He asks everyone's opinion, "speak as you think", yet in the very next verses he announces his own decision in advance.

"In the war of the gods and asuras long ago, I conquered with your help, and you are the same men now. Those two princes have found Sītā's trail and, with Sugrīva and the monkeys before them, have reached the far shore of the sea, the home of Varuṇa. Sītā is not to be given back, and the sons of Daśaratha are to be killed: consult together how this can be done, and tell me a sound plan. I see no one else in the world with the power to cross the sea with monkeys and defeat me; victory will certainly be mine." So even Rāvaṇa's council is decided beforehand: Sītā is not to be returned and Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa must die, and the courtiers are summoned only to say how. It is not real counsel but a request that they endorse his own decision. By recalling the war of the gods and asuras he hopes to fire their spirits. He admits that the enemy is near, on the shore of the sea, and that they have found where Sītā is, yet proclaims "victory will certainly be mine": fear and boasting are mixed together.

When he heard the lament of that king consumed by desire, Kumbhakarṇa grew angry and said: "When you carried off Sītā here by force from Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, that was the moment to weigh the matter once and settle it firmly, as the Yamunā fills her basin only once. All this you have done, great king, is unfitting; it should have been settled with us at the very start of the undertaking. The king who conducts the affairs of state by right method, Ten-faced one, and holds to what has been decided, has no regrets afterwards. Deeds done by wrong means and against the rules are spoiled in the doing, like oblations offered by the impure. He who wants to do later what should be done first, and first what should be done later, knows neither sound policy nor unsound. When enemies see that even a greater power is fickle in its undertakings, they find its weak spot, as birds found the gap in the Krauñca mountain." Kumbhakarṇa's chief reproach is that the time for counsel is past: to take counsel after the deed is done is useless, and his words about doing first things last state a basic rule of statecraft. The image of the Yamunā means this: as the river prepared to descend to earth, she filled a certain basin on the mountain of her source with her waters, and once her rush had subsided she never filled it again; so too the time for deliberation comes only once. The gap in the Krauñca mountain was made by Kārttikeya's spear, and birds fly through it. Kumbhakarṇa sets out in turn the deed done by right method, the deed done by wrong means, and the deed done against the rules.

"You began this great undertaking without thinking it through. It is your good luck that Rāma did not kill you, as poisoned meat kills the one who eats it. So, sinless one, I will set right this deed you have begun against your enemies, unmatched as it is, by killing your foes. Night-rover, even if they were Śakra and Vivasvat, Fire and Wind, even Kubera and Varuṇa, I would fight them and destroy your enemies. When I, huge as a mountain, fighting with my great iron bar, roar with my sharp teeth, even Purandara would take fright. Before Rāma can strike me with a second arrow, I shall drink his blood; rest assured of it. I will strive to win you a happy victory by killing Daśaratha's son, and when I have killed Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa I will eat up all the leaders of the monkey hosts. Enjoy yourself as you please, drink the finest wine, see to your affairs free of care; once I have sent Rāma to Yama's realm, Sītā will be yours for a long time to come." Kumbhakarṇa's character is double: he states Rāvaṇa's fault plainly, yet out of love for his brother he is ready to fight on his side. As poisoned food takes the life of the eater, so this thoughtless deed could have destroyed Rāvaṇa. His boasts, that even Indra would fear him and that Rāma would never get to loose a second arrow, show his boundless strength and confidence. "I will set it right" means he will make the crooked deed straight and wash away his brother's fault with his own strength. The sarga begins with reproach and ends with reassurance, the promise that Rāvaṇa's desire will be fulfilled. Kumbhakarṇa blames Rāvaṇa but does not abandon him, and that is his duty as a brother.