सीताविलापः रावणस्य युद्धोद्योगः च

Sītā saw the head and that excellent bow, and she remembered the alliance with Sugrīva that Hanūmān had told her about. She looked at the eyes, so like her husband's, at the colour of the face and its shape, at the hair and the brow beneath it, and at the lovely crest-jewel; and recognising Rāma by all these marks, she was overwhelmed with grief. Wailing like an osprey, she cried out against Kaikeyī: "Have your wish, Kaikeyī! The delight of our family is dead. You who love strife have destroyed the whole family. What wrong had noble Rāma ever done Kaikeyī, that she gave him bark garments and sent him into the forest with me?" With these words the young Vaidehī, trembling and wretched, fell to the ground like a plantain tree cut down. After a while she recovered and came to herself, and setting the head beside her, the large-eyed lady lamented: "Alas, mighty-armed one, you who kept the vow of heroes, I am undone! I have seen you in this last state, and I am made a widow." The order of her recognition is carefully drawn: first she sees the bow, then each feature of the face. The crest-jewel is a painful touch — the jewel Hanūmān had carried to Rāma as her token has now been made by magic into the proof of her grief. She remembers the alliance with Sugrīva because it was that alliance which brought Rāma to Laṅkā, and so she believes he came and was killed. Her first outcry is against Kaikeyī, not Rāvaṇa: she goes back to the root cause, the beginning of all their misfortune. "Lover of strife" is sharp, and "what wrong had noble Rāma done?" proclaims his innocence. The image of the felled plantain tree shows her tenderness and how suddenly she fell. So fine was the illusion that even Sītā, devoted as she was to her husband, was deceived after looking at every feature.

"They say it is a woman's misfortune when her husband dies before her. My conduct has been good, and you, whose conduct was good, have died before me. I had fallen into great sorrow, drowning in an ocean of grief, and you who set out to rescue me have been struck down yourself. My mother-in-law Kausalyā, so loving, has lost you, her son, Rāghava, like a cow robbed of her calf. The astrologers foretold a long life for you, Rāghava; their word has proved false, for your life has been short. Or else even a wise man's wisdom fails him, for it is Time, the source of all beings, who brings them to ripeness in this way. You knew the science of policy; you knew the remedies for misfortune and were skilled at avoiding it — how did you meet a death you did not foresee? Cruel, pitiless Night of Doom has taken you in her embrace and torn you away from me, lotus-eyed one. Here you lie, mighty-armed bull among men, abandoning me in my misery and embracing the earth as though she were a beloved woman." When she calls her husband's death a woman's misfortune, Sītā blames herself, as if his death were her own fault. Both of them were of good conduct, and still disaster came. The image of Kausalyā as a cow robbed of her calf shows a mother's tenderness, and even in her own grief Sītā remembers her mother-in-law's. The astrologers' prophecy recalls the long life foretold at the time of his planned consecration. Time "ripening" beings is an image of deeds bearing their fruit, good and bad. The earth embraced like a beloved woman mixes a touch of jealousy with her grief: Rāma lies on the ground as if in a lover's arms, and the embrace of the Night of Doom mirrors it — one a beloved, the other death. In her lament Rāma's virtues come as questions — how could one so wise in policy, so skilled at warding off danger, have died like this? That question is the seed of her disbelief, which will grow in the next sarga through Saramā's words.

"Here is your bow, my hero, adorned with gold and dear to me, which I always worshipped carefully with perfumes and garlands. Sinless one, you have surely joined your father Daśaratha, my father-in-law, and all your ancestors in heaven. Having done a great deed, you now neglect your own holy line of royal sages, which has become a star in the sky. Why do you not look at me, my king? Why do you not answer me, your wife and companion, whom you married when you were a boy and I a girl? Remember, Kākutstha, the promise you made when you took my hand, 'I will walk with you in dharma'; take me with you too, wretched as I am. Why have you gone, best of travellers, abandoning me, leaving this world for the next and leaving me in misery? That beautiful body, which I alone embraced with every loving care, must now be dragged about by flesh-eating beasts. You worshipped with the Agniṣṭoma and other sacrifices, giving generous gifts to the priests — why will you not receive the last rites of the sacred fire?" The Ikṣvāku line, of which she speaks as a star in the sky, was so called because one of its kings, Triśaṅku, shines there as a star, and the whole family was named after him. Her memory of worshipping the bow shows the daily devotion of their life in the forest: she honoured even Rāma's weapon. "When you were a boy and I a girl" recalls their long life together since their marriage in youth. The vow of the marriage rite was to walk together in dharma, and reminding him of it, she begs to go with him even in death. The flesh-eating beasts are a horrifying picture in her imagination: her beloved's body dragged about by scavengers. For a warrior who performed sacrifices, to have no rites of the sacred fire is a great sorrow; that even so righteous a man will have no funeral is her anguish. Twice she says "me too, in my misery" — "take me too," "leaving me too" — and the repetition of the words carries the repetition of her grief. There is irony in calling him "best of travellers," since he has travelled to the next world. And by saying he neglects the line of royal sages, she implies that with his death the tradition of the Ikṣvākus is broken too.

"Of the three of us who went into exile, Kausalyā, overcome with grief, will see only Lakṣmaṇa come back. When she questions him, he will tell her how your allies' army was slaughtered by the rākṣasas in the night, and how you died. When she learns that you were killed in your sleep and that I have been carried off to a rākṣasa's house, her heart will break and she will die, Rāghava. For my sake, unworthy as I am, the sinless and valiant prince Rāma crossed the ocean only to be killed in a puddle. I, the disgrace of my family, was married by Daśaratha's son in his blindness; the noble prince's wife has turned out to be his death. Surely in some other life I stood in the way of a great gift, since I, the wife of a man who welcomed every guest, am grieving today. Rāvaṇa, kill me quickly, and do it properly, on top of Rāma's body; unite husband and wife and do me this great kindness. Join my head to his head and my body to his body. I will follow the path of my great-souled husband." So the large-eyed daughter of Janaka lamented, burning with grief, as she gazed at her husband's head and bow. "Killed in a puddle" — literally, in the water of a cow's hoofprint — is a sharp image: having crossed the great ocean, he drowned, as it were, in a hoofprint of water, destroyed by a trivial danger. Her self-reproach reaches its peak in "his wife has turned out to be his death." She thinks her suffering the result of having obstructed a gift in an earlier birth, an echo of the law that deeds bear fruit. Imagining Lakṣmaṇa's lonely return, she widens her pity beyond her own sorrow to Kausalyā's, which shows the generosity of her nature. "Carried off to a rākṣasa's house" she says in shame: she was taken by force, yet in the world's eyes it seems a stain. Calling herself the disgrace of her family is the extreme of her self-blame, though she is its ornament. Her last plea is addressed to Rāvaṇa himself — kill me and join me to my husband — for even in death she wants to be one with Rāma and never Rāvaṇa's wife; and there is irony in begging "this great kindness" from the very author of her sorrow.

While Sītā was lamenting like this, a rākṣasa from the army came up to his master with joined palms. Greeting him with "Victory, noble lord," and making obeisance, he announced that Prahasta, the commander of the army, had arrived. "Prahasta has come to you with all the ministers, my lord, and wishing to see you he has sent me. Surely, great king, patient as you are, there is some urgent matter of state; please grant them an audience." Hearing what the rākṣasa reported, ten-necked Rāvaṇa left the Aśoka grove and went to see his ministers. He settled with them everything he meant to do, and knowing Rāma's prowess, he entered the assembly hall and made his arrangements. The word "urgent" signals that war is close — a matter that cannot wait. Rāvaṇa's illusion is left unfinished: Sītā has not yielded, and affairs of state draw him away. The messenger addresses him as "noble lord," a respectful title of the high-born. Here the story shifts from the pathos of the inner palace to the heroic mood of the council hall. Knowing Rāma's valour puts even Rāvaṇa on his guard; now he resolves to answer him not with magic but with force. His going between the Aśoka grove and the council hall shows his double life — desire in one place, kingship in the other. Prahasta is commander of the army, so Rāvaṇa knows his coming must concern the war.

The moment Rāvaṇa left, the head and that excellent bow vanished; the illusion lasted only as long as he was there. Then the lord of the rākṣasas, with his ministers of fearsome prowess, confirmed his decision about what was to be done against Rāma. He spoke to all his loyal army commanders standing close by, words that were like Death: "Quickly assemble the troops with the loud sound of drums beaten with sticks — but the reason is not to be told." The messengers accepted his command, saying "So be it," and at once gathered a great army, and they reported to their master, who was eager for battle, that it had assembled. For Sītā the vanishing of the head remains a mystery; in the next sarga Saramā will dispel her delusion. The order to keep the reason secret shows Rāvaṇa's secretiveness: the troops will not know why they fight, only that the king commands it. His words "like Death" hint at the destruction to come. Drums beaten with sticks were the traditional signal of war, and the speed with which the messengers gathered the army shows how ready Laṅkā's forces were.