मायाशिरोदर्शनेन सीताया मोहनप्रयत्नः

The king's spies went to Rāvaṇa in Laṅkā and reported that Rāghava, whose army nothing could shake, was encamped on Mount Suvela. Hearing from them that the mighty Rāma had arrived, Rāvaṇa grew somewhat anxious and said to his ministers, "Let all my counsellors come at once, with their minds collected. Rākṣasas, the time for our council has come." At his command the ministers hurried in, and he took counsel with them. When the invincible king had deliberated with them on what was fitting, he dismissed them and went into his own palace. Then he took with him a rākṣasa named Vidyujjihva, mighty, a master of illusion and great in magic, and went into the pleasure-grove where Maithilī was kept. The lord of the rākṣasas said to Vidyujjihva, who knew the arts of illusion: "The two of us will bewilder Sītā, Janaka's daughter, with an illusion. Make a head by magic, night-rover — the head of Rāghava — and come to me with it, bringing a great bow and arrows too." The opening lines almost repeat those that began the previous sarga, picking up the thread of the story where it left off. What was said in the council is not told, but its fruit is plain: before the battle, an illusion to break Sītā's spirit. Even after consulting his ministers, Rāvaṇa devises the deceit himself; he abandons true valour and takes refuge in trickery. Vidyujjihva is twice described by words for illusion — deceit is his only quality. The bow and arrows matter because Rāma's bow is his very emblem, so it too must be conjured up. The ministers are summoned in haste and dismissed in haste, which suggests the council was a mere formality and the real decision was Rāvaṇa's alone; and this attempt to break the mind of his enemy's wife before the fighting even begins shows how impatient he is.

"So be it," said the night-rover Vidyujjihva, and he showed Rāvaṇa the illusion, skilfully made. Pleased with his craft, the king gave him one of his own ornaments. Then, eager to see Sītā, the mighty lord of the night-rovers went into the Aśoka grove. There the younger brother of Kubera, lord of wealth, saw Sītā, wretched though wretchedness was never meant for her: her face was cast down, she was sunk in grief and sat on the bare ground, and though she was in the Aśoka grove, she thought only of her husband. Not far off, fearsome rākṣasīs kept watch on her. Rāvaṇa went up to her full of delight, loudly proclaiming his own name, and spoke these brazen words to Janaka's daughter: "Good lady, you whom I tried so often to win over with gentle words — the one you relied on when you scorned me..." "Wretched though she did not deserve it" is a poignant phrase: Sītā was not made for misery, but her circumstances had made her miserable. There is irony in the very name of the grove, for aśoka means "free of sorrow," and in it she is sunk in sorrow. Rāvaṇa's delight is out of place, since he comes to show off a victory won by deceit, not by truth, and the word "brazen" marks his shamelessness. The poet sets Sītā's silent, fixed thought against Rāvaṇa's loud rejoicing. His gift of an ornament to Vidyujjihva shows that he takes the success of his trick for granted, and announcing his own name is like a proclamation of his own glory. Sītā's downcast face and her sitting on the ground suggest the life of an ascetic: she will not accept the comforts of the palace. The rākṣasīs around her are a reminder of her captivity, for they always surround her, guard her and threaten her.

"...your husband Rāghava, the slayer of Khara, has been killed in battle. Your root has been cut away entirely, and I have struck down your pride. Through your own misfortune, Sītā, you will become my wife. Give up this notion, you foolish woman; what will you do with a dead man? Be mistress of all my wives, good lady. Hear, you woman of little merit, whose hope is at an end, you fool who think yourself so wise, how your husband was killed — a slaying as dreadful as Vṛtra's. Rāghava, they say, came to the shore of the ocean to kill me, surrounded by a great army that the monkey king had brought. He camped with that great army, pressing upon the ocean's northern shore, as the sun was setting. Then, at midnight, when the army was worn out from the march and sound asleep, my spies went first and scouted it. After that my great army, led by Prahasta, fell upon his army in the night, where Rāma was with Lakṣmaṇa, and destroyed it. The rākṣasas raised again and again and brought down upon the monkeys spears, iron bars, discuses, lances, staves and great weapons, showers of arrows, darts, gleaming hammers and maces, clubs, javelins, pikes, discs and pestles." Rāvaṇa's story is cunningly built: first he announces the outcome — her husband is dead — and then the cause, an attack on sleeping men. When he calls her "you who think yourself so wise," he mocks her steadiness, for she had been confident that Rāma would win. Comparing the killing with Vṛtra's shows his arrogance, for he likens himself to Indra. To attack men asleep at night is no warrior's way, yet Rāvaṇa does not hide this wrong even in his invented story; his question to the spies in the previous sarga, "how does he sleep, how does he keep watch?", now finds its meaning, for killing a sleeping man is exactly what he imagines. The long list of weapons is there to make the tale seem believable: Rāvaṇa wants to make a lie look true by piling on details.

"Then, as Rāma lay asleep, Prahasta, crusher of foes, whose hand never misses, cut off his head cleanly with a great sword. Vibhīṣaṇa leapt up and happened to be captured, and Lakṣmaṇa was driven off in all directions with the monkey troops. Sugrīva, lord of the monkeys, lies with his neck broken, Sītā; Hanūmān, his jaw smashed, has been killed by the rākṣasas. Jāmbavān, as he sprang up on his knees, was cut down in battle, hacked by many spears, like a felled tree. Mainda and Dvivida, those bulls among monkeys, slayers of their foes, lie stretched out, gasping and weeping, drenched in blood, cut through the middle with a sword. Panasa lies breathing his last on the ground like a split, overripe jackfruit. Darīmukha lies in a cave, pierced by many iron arrows, and Kumuda of great energy has fallen, struck by arrows, without a cry. Aṅgada was cut down by many arrows and fell to the ground spewing blood all around. Monkeys lie crushed by elephants and by masses of chariots, scattered like clouds by the force of the wind. Others fled in terror, struck down from behind, chased by the rākṣasas as great elephants are chased by lions. Some fell into the sea, others took to the sky, and the bears climbed trees, behaving like monkeys. On the shores of the ocean, on the mountains and in the forests, the hideous-eyed rākṣasas killed many tawny monkeys. So your husband has been killed along with his army by my forces, and here is his head, wet with blood and fouled with dust." Each hero's death is invented to fit his name: Hanūmān's jaw (hanu), Sugrīva's neck (grīvā), Jāmbavān's knees (jānu), Darīmukha falling into a cave (darī), and Panasa, whose name means jackfruit, split open like the fruit; Rāvaṇa is mocking their very names. The reader knows all this is invented, but Sītā hears it as truth, and that is the depth of her pain. The order of the story is deliberate: first Rāma's death, then his allies — Vibhīṣaṇa, Lakṣmaṇa, Sugrīva, Hanūmān — then Jāmbavān and the others, and last the ordinary monkeys; one by one he cuts away the roots of all her hopes. Vibhīṣaṇa, he says, was captured alive, because Rāvaṇa wants to punish his brother himself; by inventing Lakṣmaṇa's flight he mocks his courage too. There is irony in the bears climbing trees "like monkeys," taking the monkeys' road of flight. Tawny is the monkeys' colour, hideous-eyed the rākṣasas' epithet, and the shore, the mountains and the forests together show how widespread the slaughter was — no one anywhere was left alive. Panasa "breathing his last" draws slow, dying breaths; Kumuda dies silently; Aṅgada falls spewing blood on every side. Through Rāvaṇa's own mouth the poet paints the horror of the war — yet the whole picture is the future turned inside out, for in truth it is the rākṣasas who will die like this. And the tale ends with its proof, "here is his head," so that Sītā has no room for disbelief.

Then Rāvaṇa, the unassailable lord of the rākṣasas, said to a rākṣasī, while Sītā listened, "Bring the rākṣasa Vidyujjihva of cruel deeds, who himself brought Rāghava's head from the battlefield." Vidyujjihva came carrying the head and the bow, bowed his head in greeting and stood before Rāvaṇa. The king said to the long-tongued Vidyujjihva, who stood waiting close by, "Quickly set the head of Daśaratha's son in front of Sītā. Let the poor woman have a good look at her husband's final state." The rākṣasa set down that beloved head near Sītā and at once vanished. And Rāvaṇa threw down the great gleaming bow, famous in the three worlds, saying, "This is Rāma's. This is your Rāma's bow, still strung; Prahasta brought it here after killing that man in the night." Then, having thrown the head and the bow down on the ground, Rāvaṇa said to the glorious daughter of the king of Videha, "Now submit to my will." The word "beloved" is heartbreaking: the face dearest to Sītā has been made by magic into the cause of her grief. With "her husband's final state" Rāvaṇa's cruelty reaches its height. Vidyujjihva's vanishing fits the nature of an illusion — the trickster disappears before questions can be asked. The bow completes the proof, so that Sītā should have no doubt. Rāvaṇa has a rākṣasī fetch the head rather than going himself, which heightens the drama and makes Sītā endure the torment of waiting. "Long-tongued" spells out the meaning of Vidyujjihva's name, "lightning-tongue." Rāvaṇa himself says the bow is famous in the three worlds, for he too knows the renown of his enemy's weapon. And the bow comes still strung, which means Rāma was ready for battle — a quiet contradiction of the story that he was killed asleep. Rāvaṇa's last words, "submit to my will," reveal the purpose of the whole deception. The sarga ends without Sītā's reply; her lament comes in the next.