समुद्रोपासनं समुद्रक्षोभणं च

After Śuka was released, Rāghava spread darbha grass on the ocean shore and lay down facing east, his hands joined in reverence towards the great ocean. The slayer of foes pillowed his head on his arm, an arm like the coils of a serpent, and the poet describes that arm at length. Once it had been decked with golden ornaments, with armlets of gems and gold and the finest pearls, and caressed again and again by the arms of the noblest women; once it had been tended with sandal and aloe and graced with sandal paste bright as the rising sun; once, in bed, Sītā's head had rested on it. It was like the body of the serpent Takṣaka and had been bathed in the waters of the Gaṅgā. In battle it was like a yoke-pole, adding to the grief of his enemies and the delight of his friends, long, the refuge of the earth to its ocean shores; its skin was hardened by the lash of the bowstring from shooting again and again; it was like a great iron bar, and it had given away thousands of cows. Pillowing his head on that great right arm, the gracious Rāma resolved: "Today either I shall cross the ocean or I shall die." Having made this resolve, the mighty-armed Rāma lay down before the great ocean according to rule, disciplined and self-controlled like a sage. The point of the description is contrast: the arm once adorned with royal luxuries and Sītā's touch is now a pillow on the bare ground among the kuśa grass. In that same arm three things dwell together, generosity, valour and protection. "The gracious one on his right arm" plays on the word dakṣiṇa, which means both gracious and right-hand. Lying like an ascetic shows how firm his resolve is. So the poet shows two stages of Rāma's life in a single arm: the prince's life of ease in Ayodhyā, with ornaments, sandal, aloe and Sītā's company, and the kṣatriya's hard life on the battlefield, with skin toughened by the bowstring, strength like an iron bar and grief for his enemies, and with it the memory of his gifts, the arm that gave away thousands of cows. With all these virtues, Rāma now lies humbly on the ground, like a suppliant before the ocean. "Once graced by Sītā's head" is especially moving: on the very arm where Sītā used to lay her head, Rāma now lies in order to reach her. In the resolve "crossing or death" his purpose is complete: there will be no turning back halfway. The words can also be read as "crossing, or the ocean's death", meaning that if it will not make way it will be dried up; so even in his humility there is firmness.

As Rāma lay on the ground strewn with kuśa grass, watchful in keeping his vow, three nights went by. For three nights he stayed there, wise in policy and devoted to dharma, waiting upon the ocean, lord of rivers. Yet the dull ocean did not show itself to Rāma, though Rāma, disciplined, honoured it as was fitting. Rāma's policy is plain: conciliation must be tried first, and following Vibhīṣaṇa's advice he has sought the ocean's refuge. By calling the ocean dull the poet condemns its indifference and sluggishness. Three nights complete the vow, and after that even anger is righteous. Though lying down, Rāma stays alert, careful in keeping his rule. Lying down while fasting is the form of the old practice of sitting in fast before someone, the most powerful way of making a request in ancient times. Though a king, Rāma treats the ocean as worthy of worship and honours it properly, yet the sluggish ocean ignores him. This establishes that the anger that follows is justified: Rāma is not quick to anger, but waits three nights.

Then Rāma, angry with the ocean, the corners of his eyes turned red, said to Lakṣmaṇa of the auspicious marks, who stood near him: "See the ocean's arrogance: it will not show itself. Calm, forbearance, straightforwardness and gentle speech, the virtues of the good, are taken for weakness by the worthless. The man who praises himself, who is wicked, brazen, rushing here and there and using the rod on everyone, is the one the world honours. By conciliation, Lakṣmaṇa, neither fame nor glory is won in this world, nor victory at the head of battle. Today, Saumitri, you will see the home of sea-monsters with its waters choked by monsters shattered by my arrows, floating everywhere. See, Lakṣmaṇa, the coils of serpents I shall break, the huge bodies of fish and the trunks of sea-elephants, the ocean with its shells and pearl-oysters, its fish and makaras. Today I will dry up the ocean in a great battle. This home of makaras thinks that because I am forbearing I am powerless. A curse on forbearance towards such a one! By conciliation the ocean will not show me its form." Rāma's words state a bitter truth about the world: the wicked respect only punishment, not humility. Forbearance is a virtue, but only towards the deserving; "a curse on forbearance" condemns not forbearance itself but forbearance shown to the unworthy. There is a fine point of policy here: virtues are good by nature, but their fruit depends on who receives them; forbearance breeds love in the good and contempt in the wicked. That the world honours the man who wields the rod is not Rāma's own ideal, but the unhappy way of the world he points to. Then he paints the ocean's coming fate, monsters shattered, serpents' coils broken, fish tossed up, the trunks of sea-elephants torn, shells and oysters scattered, showing Lakṣmaṇa the scene before it happens, and his repeated "see!" drives his words forward.

"Bring my bow, Saumitri, and my arrows like venomous serpents. I will dry up the ocean, and the monkeys shall walk across to the far shore on foot. Today in my anger I will stir up even the unshakeable ocean, for all that it keeps its bounds at the shore and tosses with a thousand waves. With my arrows I will make Varuṇa's home burst its bounds, and I will churn the great ocean with all its mighty dānavas." The shore is the ocean's boundary, and Rāma is ready to break it, able to overturn even the law of creation. "Let them walk across on foot" shows his confidence that not even a bridge would be needed. "I will stir up even the unshakeable" is a paradox that shows his irresistible power: the ocean is famed as unshakeable, and Rāma can break even that fame. And by calling it full of mighty dānavas he makes the powers hidden in its depths his target too.

Having said this, bow in hand, his eyes wide with anger, Rāma became unassailable, blazing like the fire at the end of an age. Drawing his terrible bow and making the world tremble with his arrows, he loosed fierce shafts, as Indra of the hundred sacrifices looses his thunderbolts. Those excellent arrows, blazing with energy and of great speed, entered the water, and the serpents in it were terrified. The mighty surge of the ocean, with its fish and makaras, became most terrible, roaring with the roar of the wind. Spread with garlands of great waves and covered with shells and pearl-oysters, the great ocean suddenly smoked, its waves whirling. The serpents with blazing mouths and eyes were tormented, and so were the mighty dānavas who live in the underworld. The waves of the lord of rivers rose in thousands like the Vindhya and Mandara mountains, carrying crocodiles and makaras, and Varuṇa's home roared, its masses of waves whirling, its serpents and rākṣasas in panic, its great crocodiles tossed up. The poet builds the upheaval step by step: first the arrows enter, then the surge, then the smoke, then the torment of the underworld's dwellers, and finally waves as big as mountains. The smoke comes from the fiery energy of the arrows. Not only the water but the creatures within the sea tremble at Rāma's anger. The fire at the end of an age recalls the dissolution of the world, and Indra's thunderbolts his battle with Vṛtra, so that the two images show Rāma's anger as divine and world-destroying. Serpents, dānavas and rākṣasas live in the underworld, and Rāma's arrows disturb even the world below the earth. The waves are compared with the Vindhya and with Mandara, the one a mountain standing on earth, the other the mountain that once churned the ocean itself, so that Mandara calls to mind the churning for the nectar. Yet the Ocean still has not appeared in person; this upheaval is its only answer.

Then, as Rāghava drew that immeasurable bow with fierce force, sighing heavily, Saumitri sprang forward and caught hold of it, crying "No, no! Even without this, bravest of heroes, your purpose with the ocean will be accomplished today. Men like you do not fall into the power of anger. Look to the good course that sees far ahead." And the brahmarṣis and the sages of the gods, hidden in the sky, cried out "Alas!" and "No, no!" in a great voice. Lakṣmaṇa is usually the quick-tempered one, but here it is he who calms Rāma, and the brothers' roles are reversed. The sages' "alas!" shows their fear that the worlds will be destroyed, and so the stage is set for the Ocean's coming in the next sarga. Lakṣmaṇa's words are brief but weighty: "men like you do not fall into the power of anger" reminds Rāma of his own nature, that he is the master of anger, not its slave. "Look far ahead" is advice to see the consequences: destroying the ocean would destroy all its creatures and the worlds as well, which would be a calamity. His assurance that "even without this your purpose will be accomplished" foreshadows the Ocean's coming of its own accord. The sages speak unseen, and their "no, no!" is like an echo of Lakṣmaṇa's.