सागरदर्शनं नलसेतुबन्धनं च

Then the best of the Raghus spoke harsh words to the ocean. "Today, great sea, I will dry you up, underworld and all. Ocean, when my arrows have burnt up your waters and you lie parched, your creatures dead, a great heap of dust will rise in your place. When my bow's rain of arrows has dried you up, the monkeys will walk to the far shore on foot. Home of dānavas, for all your searching you do not recognise my manhood or my valour; now you will learn from me what torment is." Though Lakṣmaṇa and the sages had held him back in the previous sarga, the ocean's silence rouses Rāma's anger again. His words are a declaration of resolve, their future tenses, "today", "they will go", "you will learn", showing how firm he is. Calling the ocean "home of dānavas" condemns it as the shelter of the asuras. The picture of a heap of dust is especially fearsome: the fathomless treasury of waters will become a dry, dusty waste. Rāma is ready not merely to punish the ocean but to destroy its very nature. Its silence is an insult to his entreaty, so now he sets conciliation aside and turns to force, and his words are like a declaration of war. "For all your searching you do not recognise my valour" is full of irony: the ocean is famed for knowing everything, yet it does not know Rāma's manhood, and so Rāma means to show it plainly.

So saying, the mighty Rāma charged an arrow like Brahmā's rod with the Brahmā weapon, set it on his excellent bow and drew. As Rāghava suddenly drew the bow, heaven and earth seemed to split apart and the mountains shook. Darkness covered the world and the quarters could no longer be seen; lakes and rivers were at once thrown into turmoil. The moon and sun came together aslant with the constellations, and the sky, though lit by the sun's rays, was covered in darkness and lit up by hundreds of meteors, while thunderclaps of unequalled sound rolled out of the sky. Lines of divine winds blew with swelling force; the wind broke trees, drove the clouds on again and again, shattered mountain peaks and broke off summits. Great massed clouds in the sky roared and loosed lightning fires and great thunderbolts. Visible beings cried out with the thunder, and invisible beings gave a terrifying cry. Overpowered, creatures lay prostrate; terrified, they trembled and quaked, and from fear they could not stir. Then, with its creatures, its waves, its serpents and its rākṣasas, the great ocean suddenly surged with terrible force and, though it was no flood of the world's dissolution, overran its shore by a yojana. But Rāma, slayer of enemies, did not give way before the lord of rivers and streams as it rose and overran its bounds. The power of the Brahmā weapon is felt at every level of creation: the planets in the sky, the clouds and winds in the air, the mountains and trees on earth, the ocean and rivers in the waters, all thrown into disorder. The moon and sun meeting aslant is a portent of calamity. The ocean overrunning its shore is a sign of its fear, not its pride. The Brahmā weapon is the supreme weapon of all, to be used only in the direst need, and by turning it on the ocean Rāma shows that its contempt is as grave to him as a crisis. The world is shaken by the mere drawing of the bow, before the arrow has even been loosed, the poet's way of showing Rāma's power at its height: his resolve alone is enough. The portents come in order, first heard, the sound of heaven and earth splitting; then seen, the darkness and the lost quarters; then felt, the wind; and finally the terror of every creature. Both visible and invisible beings are stricken, men and beasts as well as spirits and yakṣas, and fear takes three forms in them: some lie down, some tremble, some cannot move. Yet when the ocean breaks its bounds Rāma stands firm; nature is shaken, but he is not, and this steadiness of mind runs through the whole Yuddha Kāṇḍa. The ocean's overrunning its shore is like its last struggle, after which it yields. The arrow like Brahmā's rod is as inescapable as Yama's staff, and once it was set to the bow even the gods were afraid, for it could bring about the dissolution of creation itself. So the Ocean comes not only to save itself but to save the worlds, and in the end Rāma's anger serves the good of the world: the ocean makes way and the world is protected.

Then out of the middle of the sea the Ocean himself rose, as the sun rises from the great mountain of dawn or from Meru. He appeared with serpents of blazing mouths about him, glossy as beryl, adorned with ornaments of gold, wearing red garlands and red garments, his eyes like lotus petals, and on his head a heavenly wreath of every kind of flower. Adorned with ornaments of gold and refined gold and with the finest ornaments of gems born of himself, he shone like the Himālaya adorned with its many minerals. On his broad chest, in the middle of a single-strand necklace, he wore a trembling, white-gleaming gem, a brother to the Kaustubha. With his masses of waves whirling, thronged with clouds and winds, surrounded by the rivers led by Gaṅgā and Sindhu, his great crocodiles tossed up and his serpents and rākṣasas in turmoil, the mighty lord Ocean came forward with the lovely river-goddesses of many forms, first addressed the mighty Rāma, and then, with joined palms, spoke to Rāghava, who stood with the arrow in his hand. The Ocean is described like a god: not merely a mass of water but a deity in bodily form. The gems "born of himself" mean that he is adorned with his own jewels, for he is the source of gems; and the Kaustubha too came out of the churning of the ocean, so the gem on his chest is fittingly called its brother. The rivers come with him like wives following their husband, Gaṅgā and Sindhu foremost among them. His rising is likened to sunrise: as the sun rises out of darkness, the Ocean rises from the churning waters, and after the darkness of the previous verses comes light. His red garlands and garments are a festive dress, a sign not of anger but of respect. He first greets Rāma and only then speaks with joined palms, keeping the proper order of courtesy, and the arrow still set in Rāma's hand makes plain why he fears. The Ocean's appearance is the heart of the sarga, with anger and turmoil before it and resolution after. The poet describes him at length, recalling the description of Rāma's arm in the previous sarga; both are adorned with ornaments and radiant with greatness, so that the scene seems a meeting of equals, though the Ocean comes humbly. The serpents who were tormented by the arrows now come with him, calmed. The gems and pearls show the wealth of the treasury of jewels, and the rivers attending him show his lordship.

The Ocean said: "Gentle Rāghava, earth, wind, sky, water and light keep to their own nature, following their eternal course. It is my nature too to be fathomless and impassable; to become fordable would be a perversion of it. This I tell you. Neither from desire nor greed nor fear, son of a king, could I ever make still my waters, teeming as they are with crocodiles and sharks. But I will arrange a means by which you can cross, and I will bear it; the crocodiles will not attack while the army is crossing. Rāma, I will make it like dry land for the monkeys to cross." There is philosophy in the Ocean's words: the five great elements do not give up their own nature, and depth is the ocean's nature. So he will not abandon his nature, yet he shows a way to accomplish Rāma's purpose, and the conflict of duties is neatly resolved: the law of nature is kept, and Rāma's aim achieved. His promise that the crocodiles will not strike is especially apt, since for an army crossing the sea its creatures are the greatest danger. He addresses Rāma as "gentle one", asking for peace. He does not admit any weakness in himself but upholds his own nature, and then promises help, a wise middle way.

Then Rāma said to him: "Hear me, home of Varuṇa: this great arrow never fails. Into what region shall I loose it?" Hearing Rāma's words and seeing that great arrow, the mighty Ocean said to Rāghava: "To my north there is a holy place called Drumakulya, as famous in the world as you are. Many robbers of terrible looks and deeds live there, sinners led by the Ābhīras, and they drink my water. I cannot bear the sinful touch of those evildoers. Let this excellent arrow of yours strike home there, Rāma." Hearing the great Ocean's words, Rāma loosed that blazing arrow at the place the Ocean had shown. The spot where the arrow fell, shining like the thunderbolt, became famous on earth as the desert of Marukāntāra. Pierced by the shaft, the earth roared, and from the mouth of that wound water gushed up from the netherworld. That well became famous as Vraṇa, "the wound", and the water that rises from it without ceasing looks like sea water. There was a terrible sound of splitting, and with the fall of that arrow the waters in the hollows dried up, and from then on the place was famous in the three worlds as the desert of Marukāntāra. When he had dried up that hollow, Rāma, son of Daśaratha, wise and godlike in valour, gave the desert a boon: that it would be good for cattle, little troubled by disease, rich in fruits, roots and juices, abounding in ghee and milk, fragrant and full of healing herbs. Endowed with these many virtues by Rāma's boon, the desert became an auspicious road. When that hollow had been burnt, the Ocean, lord of rivers, spoke again to Rāghava, who knew all the śāstras. Here Rāma's sense of right shows itself twice over: the unfailing arrow is aimed at a land of sinners, not at the innocent, and the very place struck he then makes pleasant again with a boon, so that punishment and grace go together. The story of how the desert came to be is woven in here as well. A problem is neatly solved: once the Brahmā weapon has been set to the bow it must not be wasted, for never failing is its nature. Rāma asks the Ocean where to loose it, honouring the Ocean and keeping the weapon's law at once. The Ocean names the target himself, Drumakulya in his north, where robbers drink his water, so that his grievance is removed and Rāma's weapon finds its mark; and in saying the place is "as famous as you", the Ocean also praises Rāma. The arrow split the earth and water rose from below, the well called "the wound" whose water is like the sea's, and after that the land's pools dried and it became desert. Rāma's compassion shows again: he does not leave the stricken land cursed but grants it a boon, good for cattle, free of disease, rich in fruits and roots, in ghee and milk, fragrant and full of herbs, qualities the desert really has, for herding is easy there, disease is rare and healing plants are many; so legend and geography meet. "An auspicious road" means the land became pleasant for travellers. The moral is clear too: those who take what belongs to another by force meet the punishment of heaven, and the robbers who drank the ocean's water saw their own land dried up. But after punishment comes grace, the ideal of a king's duty. Rāma is called wise and godlike in valour, joining knowledge with strength.

The Ocean said: "Gentle one, this is Nala, son of Viśvakarman, glorious, favoured with a boon by his father, and as able as Viśvakarman himself. Let this energetic monkey build a bridge across me, and I will bear it up; he is just like his father." With these words the Ocean vanished. Then Nala, best of monkeys, rose and said to the mighty Rāma: "Relying on my father's power, I will build a bridge across the wide home of sea-monsters; the great Ocean has spoken the truth. In this world, I think, the rod is the best thing a man has; a curse on forbearance, conciliation and gifts towards the ungrateful. This terrible ocean gave Rāghava a way across only out of fear of the rod, and because it wished to see the building of the bridge. On Mount Mandara Viśvakarman gave my mother a boon: 'Goddess, you will have a son equal to me.' I am his own son, equal to Viśvakarman. The great Ocean has reminded me of it and has spoken truly; unasked, I would not have proclaimed my own merits to you. I am able to build a bridge across Varuṇa's home, so let the bulls among monkeys build it this very day." Nala's words mix modesty with ability: he had not spoken of his gifts before, for praising oneself unasked is unbecoming. The Ocean introduces him because Nala would not speak of his own merits, and "just like his father" means that his father's craftsmanship has passed to the son. His praise of the rod is almost an echo of Rāma's earlier words, and his saying that the ocean made way only for fear of punishment confirms that Rāma's anger in the previous sarga was justified. The story of the boon given to his mother on Mandara shows the divine nature of his birth. His modesty, "unasked I would not have spoken", adds to his greatness: he had kept silent, and speaks only now that the Ocean has reminded him. "This very day" shows his urgency: no time must be lost. Viśvakarman is the craftsman of the gods, and his son, though born a monkey, has his father's skill; it suggests that the gods themselves had taken birth as monkeys to help Rāma, as the Bāla Kāṇḍa tells. Nala's confidence, "I am able", is not pride but a true knowledge of his own powers.

Then, sent off by Rāma, the bulls among monkeys sprang joyfully into the great forest on every side in hundreds of thousands. Those leaders of the monkey hosts, huge as mountains, broke down trees and dragged them to the sea. With sāl and aśvakarṇa, dhava and bamboo, kuṭaja, arjuna, palm, tilaka and tiniśa, with bilva, saptaparṇa and flowering karṇikāra, with mango and aśoka trees, the monkeys filled the ocean. Lifting trees with their roots and without, like the banners raised for Indra's festival, the best of the monkeys carried them off; palms, pomegranate bushes, coconut and vibhītaka trees, karīra, bakula and nimba they gathered from all sides. The huge and mighty monkeys uprooted rocks as big as elephants, and mountains, and hauled them along with machines. The water flung up by the hurled mountains rose into the sky and fell back again, and the falling mountains churned up the ocean on every side. Others held lines stretched out a hundred yojanas long. Nala built a great bridge in the midst of the lord of rivers and streams, and the monkeys of terrible deeds worked on it with him. Some held measuring rods, others gathered materials. Putting Rāma's command before everything, monkeys in their hundreds bound it together with cloud-like, mountain-like masses, with grass and timber, and with trees whose tips were in flower. Seizing rocks like mountains and mountain peaks and running to and fro, the monkeys looked like dānavas, and as rocks were hurled and mountains flung down, a tumultuous sound arose in the great ocean. The long list of trees shows how widely the monkeys laboured, and it recalls the forest wealth of southern India. The lines, rods and machines point to an engineer's organisation of the work: measuring, setting posts and means of carrying. The monkeys are "joyful": they do not count their toil but work with delight. The trees raised like Indra's banners bring to mind the tall poles lifted at Indra's festival, and give the scene a festive air. The building is not mere dumping of rocks but ordered work: measuring with lines, fixing with rods, binding with grass and timber, covering with flowering trees. Nala stands in the middle directing, while the others bring the materials; each monkey knows his job, some trees, some rocks, some lines, some rods, and Nala is the one craftsman with the rest as his helpers. So knowledge and labour together make even the impossible possible. The water leaping up and falling back shows how huge the rocks were. The monkeys look like dānavas in strength and size, not in nature, and the tumult of sound lets us hear the speed of the whole work. Everything is done at Rāma's command: the monkeys act not on their own whim but on their master's order. And the Ocean's promise, "I will bear it up", comes true, for the rocks and mountains do not sink but stand as a bridge; the mountains hauled by machines also show the monkeys' skill with contrivances.

On the first day the monkeys, huge as elephants, working joyfully and in haste, made fourteen yojanas. On the second day the mighty leapers, terrible in body, swiftly made twenty yojanas; on the third, working in haste, the huge monkeys made twenty-one yojanas in the sea; on the fourth, with great speed, they made twenty-two more; and on the fifth day the swift-working monkeys made twenty-three yojanas, reaching as far as Mount Suvela. So Nala, the glorious and mighty son of Viśvakarman, best of monkeys, built a bridge across the ocean just as his father would have done. That fair and splendid bridge Nala built across the home of sea-monsters shone like the path of Svāti in the sky. Then the gods with the gandharvas, the siddhas and the supreme sages came and stood in the sky, eager to see the wonder, and the gods and gandharvas gazed at Nala's bridge, ten yojanas wide and a hundred long, so hard to build. The monkeys leapt and bounded and roared, and all beings saw that inconceivable, overwhelming, wondrous, hair-raising bridging of the ocean. Building the bridge, those thousands of crores of mighty monkeys crossed to the far shore of the great sea. Wide, well made, splendid, with a good surface and firmly set, the great bridge shone in the ocean like the parting in a woman's hair. The day's lengths, fourteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two and twenty-three yojanas, add up to a hundred, matching the bridge's length. The daily figures grow as practice makes the monkeys faster, as it does with any skilled workmen, and each day the monkeys are described anew, joyful and elephant-sized, terrible in body and mighty, huge, of great speed, swift-working, so that all their qualities are shown in turn. On the fifth day the bridge reaches Mount Suvela, close to Laṅkā, where Rāma will later camp. The bridge's beauty is compared to the path of Svāti, as the Milky Way shines across the sky with its stars, and to the parting of a woman's hair dividing the sea in two, a lovely image. The gods, gandharvas, siddhas and sages look on from the sky, for this deed is a wonder even to the gods; they come at the end of the fifth day, when the work is done, to see the result rather than the process. The four words, inconceivable, overwhelming, wondrous and hair-raising, describe the feelings of those who watch. The thousands of crores of monkeys is an exaggeration, but it conveys how vast the army was. The bridge's five qualities, wide, well made, splendid, with a good surface and firmly set, prove the builder's skill; its good surface means that it was level, so that the army could walk across with ease, and its width of ten yojanas was needed to bear so great an army. Nala is again said to have built "just as his father would", and the Ocean's words have come true.

Then on the far shore of the sea Vibhīṣaṇa, mace in hand, stood with his ministers, ready to strike down the enemy. Sugrīva said to Rāma, whose valour is true: "Mount Hanumān, and let Lakṣmaṇa mount Aṅgada. This ocean, home of sea-monsters, is vast, hero; these two monkeys who travel through the sky will carry you both." So glorious, righteous Rāma went at the head of the army, bow in hand, with Lakṣmaṇa and Sugrīva. Some monkeys went along the middle of the bridge and others along its sides; some plunged into the water, others kept to the path, and some flew through the sky like Garuḍa. With its great roar the terrible monkey host drowned the ocean's own terrible, rising roar as it crossed. Having crossed by Nala's bridge, the army encamped at the king's command on a shore rich in roots, fruit and water. Seeing that marvellous and difficult deed of Rāghava's, the gods with the siddhas, cāraṇas and great sages at once came to Rāma and consecrated him one by one with most auspicious waters. "Conquer your enemies, god among men; rule the earth and its oceans for endless years": with many such auspicious words they honoured Rāma. Vibhīṣaṇa had gone ahead to the far shore to guard the army, since as a rākṣasa he knew the enemy's ways. Sugrīva's offer is for Rāma's and Lakṣmaṇa's comfort, as the bridge is long and walking it would be wearying, and Hanumān and Aṅgada, who travel through the sky, are swift. Rāma goes at the head of the army, for a leader is always in front. The monkeys cross in three ways, by the bridge, through the water and through the air, showing their many powers, and the army's roar outdoes even the sea's, proof of their spirit. The far shore, rich in fruit, roots and water, is fit for the army's camp. The gods' consecration of Rāma acknowledges his divinity, a blessing of victory before the war has even begun. They call him "god among men", a god in human form, and the blessing "rule the earth and its oceans" is especially fitting: he who has mastered the ocean deserves to be king of the sea-girt earth. "For endless years" wishes him a long reign, a wish fulfilled in the Uttara Kāṇḍa. So the sarga of the bridge ends with a promise of victory before the fighting begins. Sugrīva's help, Vibhīṣaṇa's guard, the service of Hanumān and Aṅgada: every helper stands in his proper place, and that order is the fruit of Rāma's leadership.