लङ्कारोधोऽङ्गददौत्यं च

Seeing the marks of battle on Sugrīva's body, Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa's elder brother, embraced him and said: "You did this rash thing without consulting me. Kings do not do reckless deeds like this. You love daring, my hero, but you have caused us great pain by putting me, this army and Vibhīṣaṇa in jeopardy. Do not do such a thing again, subduer of foes. If anything had happened to you, what would Sītā mean to me, or Bharata, or my younger brother Lakṣmaṇa, or Śatrughna, slayer of foes — or my own body? You are like great Indra and Varuṇa, and I knew your valour, yet before you came back my mind was made up: I would kill Rāvaṇa in battle with his sons, his army and his mounts, consecrate Vibhīṣaṇa in Laṅkā, set Bharata on the throne, and then give up my body." To this Sugrīva replied, "Rāghava, knowing my own strength, how could I bear the sight of Rāvaṇa, the one who carried off your wife?" Rāghava commended the hero for these words, and then he spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, rich in good fortune. Rāma's love for his friend is plain here: Sugrīva's life, he says, matters more to him even than Sītā. Even his rebuke comes from affection — first he embraces him, then he speaks. His words are sound statecraft too: a commander or a king should not go alone against the enemy, for if he falls the whole army is in peril. In this scene three feelings of Rāma's come together: anxiety for his friend, displeasure at his rashness, and confidence in his valour. He knew Sugrīva's strength, yet while he was away his mind was in turmoil, and his resolve was extraordinary — to kill Rāvaṇa, crown Vibhīṣaṇa in Laṅkā, set Bharata on the throne of Ayodhyā, and then give up his own life, as if without his friend his life would have no purpose left. So the poet sets friendship on the highest pedestal. Sugrīva had been helped by Rāma when Vālin was killed; now he stakes his life for Rāma, and their friendship is made firm by what each has done for the other. Loving as it is, Rāma's speech is also a lesson: a king should guard his life for his kingdom and his people, not spend it on personal anger. Sugrīva's short answer shows his devotion, his anger and his simple monkey nature — at the sight of the enemy he could not hold his fury in. Rāma understands his feeling and says no more; he praises him instead, so that his friend's heart is not hurt. Then he turns at once to what must be done, planning the battle with Lakṣmaṇa, and the story returns to its main course.

"Lakṣmaṇa," Rāma said, "let us secure cool water and woods full of fruit, divide this great host, draw it up in battle order and stand ready. I see a terrible danger at hand that will bring ruin on the world — the slaughter of the foremost bears, monkeys and rākṣasas. Harsh winds are blowing, the earth trembles, the mountain peaks shake and the mountains roar. Cruel clouds like flesh-eaters, harsh and harsh-voiced, pour down a cruel rain mixed with drops of blood. The twilight is terrible, red as red sandal, and a blazing disc of fire is falling from the sun. Beasts and birds, wretched and wailing, dreadful and ill-omened, howl facing the sun and spread great fear. At night the moon gives no light; rimmed with black and red rays, it burns as it will at the dissolution of the world. Round the sun's disc there is a halo, small, harsh, ill-omened and deep red, and a dark spot is seen on it. The stars do not appear as they should. Look, Lakṣmaṇa — all this proclaims something like the end of an age. Crows, hawks and vultures swoop low, and jackals howl their loud, ill-omened cries. The earth will be covered with rocks, spears and swords hurled by monkeys and rākṣasas, and turned into a mire of flesh and blood. So let us attack now, today, swiftly, surrounded on every side by the monkeys, the unassailable city Rāvaṇa guards." With these words the mighty hero came quickly down from the mountain top, and having come down, righteous Rāghava surveyed his own army, which no enemy could withstand. These portents foretell the great slaughter of the war, and not of the rākṣasas alone — the monkeys too will lose their lives, which is why Rāma names bears, monkeys and rākṣasas together. Rāma is not frightened by the omens; he sees in them a spur to act quickly, "now, today," for delay would give the enemy time to prepare. His speech has two parts: first the practical arrangements — water, fruitful woods, the dividing of the army, the battle order — which show him to be not merely a hero but a skilled commander; then the signs of fate. Distortions of sun and moon, strange cries of beasts and birds and a rain of blood are well-known omens of disaster in the science of the heavens, and here earth, sky, sun, moon, stars, beasts and birds are all disordered, as if the whole of nature were announcing the slaughter to come. Red comes again and again — the sandal-red twilight, the rain mixed with blood, the red halo, the black and red rays of the moon — all signs of bloodshed, and "the end of an age" makes the war as great as the dissolution of the world. Yet Rāma does not lose heart; he takes these as signs of his enemy's ruin. Coming down from the mountain he looks at his own army, which enemies could hardly withstand, and his confidence grows firm. The poet blends dread and eagerness here: terrifying signs in nature, unconquerable zeal in the army.

Rāghava, who knew the right moment, made ready the great army of the monkey king together with Sugrīva and, at the proper time, urged it on to battle. Then the mighty-armed bowman set out in front, surrounded by a great army, towards the city of Laṅkā. Vibhīṣaṇa and Sugrīva, Hanūmān, Jāmbavān and Nala, the king of the bears, Nīla and Lakṣmaṇa followed him, and behind them came a vast army of bears and forest-dwellers, covering a great stretch of ground. The monkeys, huge as elephants and able to hold off any enemy, took up mountain peaks and full-grown trees by the hundred. Before long the two brothers Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, subduers of foes, reached Rāvaṇa's city of Laṅkā, garlanded with banners, lovely, graced with gardens and groves, with bright walls, very hard to reach, its ramparts and arches towering high. Urged on by Rāma's command, the forest-dwellers pressed hard on that city, which not even the gods could assail, and took up their positions as they had been ordered. Bow in hand, with his brother, Rāma guarded and blockaded Laṅkā's northern gate, high as a mountain peak. Heroic Rāma, son of Daśaratha, followed by Lakṣmaṇa, laid siege to the city Rāvaṇa ruled, coming to the northern gate where Rāvaṇa himself was stationed; no one but Rāma could have held that gate. Rāvaṇa presided over it as Varuṇa presides over the ocean, and it was terrible, guarded on every side by fearsome armed rākṣasas. Of all the gates the northern was the hardest, because Rāvaṇa himself was there, so Rāma took it himself: the leader bears the heaviest load. "None but Rāma could hold it" praises his matchless power. Trees and mountain peaks were the monkeys' weapons, for they had no others. The order of the march is as before: Rāma in front, then the chief heroes, then the whole host, and "covering a great stretch of ground" paints the earth itself blanketed by the army. Those who follow Rāma — Vibhīṣaṇa, Sugrīva, Hanūmān, Jāmbavān, Nala, Nīla and Lakṣmaṇa — will be the leading figures of the war. Once more Laṅkā is described, with its banners, gardens, bright walls and lofty ramparts, but now it is ringed by enemies. "Unassailable even by the gods" recalls Rāvaṇa's former glory: the city the gods could not conquer is now pressed hard by monkeys. "As they had been ordered" shows their discipline — they take their positions at Rāma's command, not at their own whim. The images of Varuṇa's ocean and of the underworld convey the gate's depth and terror, and it marks Rāma as the true leader that he stands where the enemy is strongest. "Guarded and blockaded" names his double task: protecting his own army and hemming in the enemy.

That gate, full of rākṣasas like the underworld full of dānavas, struck terror into the weak. Rāma saw the many and various stores of weapons and armour laid out there for the warriors. Nīla, the valiant commander of the monkey army, came to the eastern gate and took his stand there with Mainda and Dvivida. The mighty Aṅgada occupied the southern gate with Ṛṣabha, Gavākṣa, Gaja and Gavaya. The strong monkey Hanūmān guarded the western gate, joined by Pramāthin, Praghasa and other heroes. Sugrīva himself took his stand in the central post with all the best monkeys, swift as Garuḍa and the wind, and thirty-six crores of monkeys, renowned troop-leaders, pressed close around Laṅkā and camped where Sugrīva was. At Rāma's command Lakṣmaṇa, with Vibhīṣaṇa, posted crores upon crores of monkeys at every gate. Not far to the west of Rāma, in the central post, stood Suṣeṇa with Jāmbavān, followed by a great force. Those tigers among monkeys, fanged like tigers, took up trees and mountain tops and stood ready for battle, full of delight. Their tails were twisted in fury, fangs and claws were their weapons, their bright limbs and their faces were distorted with rage. Some had the strength of ten elephants, some ten times more, some were equal in valour to a thousand elephants; some had the strength of a flood, some a hundred times more, and other troop-leaders there had strength beyond measure. That gathering of the monkey armies was wonderful and strange, like a rising swarm of locusts. Rāma's battle plan is clear: at the four gates four chief commanders, Sugrīva in the centre, and Suṣeṇa and Jāmbavān near Rāma in support — Nīla with Mainda and Dvivida in the east, Aṅgada with Ṛṣabha, Gavākṣa, Gaja and Gavaya in the south, Hanūmān with Pramāthin and Praghasa in the west, Rāma with Lakṣmaṇa in the north. This is the very division Rāma had laid down in the thirty-seventh sarga, now put into effect. Hanūmān's posting to the western gate is especially fitting, since Vibhīṣaṇa had said Indrajit held it, and a warrior of Hanūmān's strength was needed there. Vibhīṣaṇa helps Lakṣmaṇa post the troops, for he knows Laṅkā from within. The figure of thirty-six crores is an exaggeration, but it conveys the greatness of the army. The monkeys bear no weapons; fangs and claws are their arms, and trees and peaks their missiles, and their tails, faces and limbs twisted with fury show their eagerness for battle. Their strength rises step by step, from ten elephants to strength beyond measure, and "the strength of a flood" suggests a force as irresistible as rushing water. The locust swarm conveys both their number and their speed. So the poet describes in turn the army's numbers, its order, its appearance and its strength, and sets the whole picture before the reader before the battle begins.

With the monkeys camped around Laṅkā and others rushing towards it, the sky seemed full and the earth covered. A hundred hundred-thousands of bears and monkeys came up to Laṅkā's gates, and others went round on every side to fight. The mountain was surrounded on all sides by those monkeys, and a thousand ten-thousands advanced on the city. Hemmed in on every side by strong monkeys with trees in their hands, Laṅkā became hard for even the wind to enter. The rākṣasas, suddenly besieged by monkeys like clouds, with valour like Indra's, were amazed. From that advancing host rose a great noise, like the roar of the waters when the ocean bursts its bounds, and at that great noise all Laṅkā shook, with its ramparts and arches, its hills, woods and groves. Guarded by Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa and Sugrīva, that army was harder to assail than all the gods and asuras together. The poet counts the monkey army again and again to show that it has no end, and "hard even for the wind to enter" shows how complete the siege was: Laṅkā, which Hanūmān once entered alone, was now closed on every side. The rākṣasas had never seen enemies in their own city before, so their amazement was natural. The army's roar is like the sound of the ocean bursting its shores — the host of the man who bridged the sea now roars like the sea itself — and it recalls the great deluge. Laṅkā shaking with its ramparts and arches is like an earthquake, and in the rākṣasas' minds fear begins. The poet proclaims the army invincible, "harder to assail than all the gods and asuras," and its strength rests not on numbers alone but on the protection of Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa and Sugrīva; the phrase already foretells the outcome of the war. Above and below, sky and earth, there seemed to be nothing but monkeys; like clouds in colour and in roar, like Indra in valour, they made the people of Laṅkā feel, for the first time, their city under siege.

Having thus stationed his army for the destruction of the rākṣasas, Rāghava took counsel with his ministers and weighed his decision again and again. He wished to take the next proper step, for he understood how an aim is won by applying the means of policy in due order — conciliation first, and force only last. So, with Vibhīṣaṇa's approval and mindful of the duty of kings, he summoned Aṅgada, son of Vālin, and said: "Go, my good monkey, leap over the city of Laṅkā, without fear or anxiety, and speak to the ten-necked one for me. He has lost his fortune and his power, and his mind is ruined by a longing for death. Tell him this: 'Night-ranger, rākṣasa, puffed up with pride, you have in your folly done evil to seers and gods, to gandharvas and apsarases, to nāgas and yakṣas and to kings. Surely your arrogance, born of the Self-existent's boon, is gone; the dreadful fruit of your sin has come today. I, whom you have wounded by carrying off my wife, stand at the gate of Laṅkā holding the rod of punishment over you. Stand firm in battle, rākṣasa, and you will go the way of the gods, the great seers and all the royal seers. Vilest of rākṣasas, show me that strength by which you got past me and carried off Sītā by trickery. Unless you bring back Maithilī and come to me for refuge, I will rid this world of rākṣasas with my sharp arrows. The righteous Vibhīṣaṇa, best of rākṣasas, has come over to me, and he will surely receive the lordship of Laṅkā, free of all thorns. A sinner like you, with fools for helpers and no knowledge of yourself, cannot enjoy a kingdom won by wrong for even a moment. Fight, rākṣasa; take heart and stand on your courage. Brought to rest by my arrows in battle, you will be made pure. Even if you turned into a bird and flew through the three worlds, night-ranger, once you come within my sight you will not go back alive. I tell you this for your own good: have your funeral rites performed, and take a good last look at Laṅkā. Your life is in my hands.'" Rāma sends an envoy before the battle because the duty of kings requires that the enemy first be given a chance of peace; his message offers two choices — surrender and the return of Sītā, or war and death. "Brought to rest by my arrows, you will be made pure" shows Rāma thinking even of his enemy's release. The announcement that Vibhīṣaṇa's kingship is certain is a crushing blow to Rāvaṇa. Aṅgada is a fitting choice, the son of Vālin, who had once defeated Rāvaṇa. Rāma's message contains every element of royal duty: first the charge — his crimes against seers, gods and the rest; then the proclamation of punishment — "I stand at your gate with the rod"; then the challenge — "show your strength, fight"; then the choice — "come for refuge, give back Sītā"; then the consequence — "Vibhīṣaṇa will have the kingdom"; and last, advice for his good — "perform your funeral rites, look well at Laṅkā." That last is irony: he will never see the city again. The bird flying through the three worlds means that even flight will be cut off. Rāma calls him a man "with fools for helpers" because his counsellors would not tell him what was good for him; only Vibhīṣaṇa did, and he was driven out. And "you cannot enjoy a kingdom by wrong for even a moment" recalls the eternal law of dharma.

When Rāma, of tireless deeds, had spoken, Aṅgada, Tārā's son, rose into the sky and went, like the fire-god in bodily form. In a moment that glorious monkey had crossed over to Rāvaṇa's palace, and he saw Rāvaṇa sitting at his ease with his ministers. Aṅgada of the golden armlets, that bull among monkeys, alighted not far from him and stood there like a blazing fire. He announced himself, and then made Rāvaṇa and his ministers hear the whole of Rāma's excellent message, neither less nor more: "I am the envoy of Rāma, lord of Kosala, whose deeds are tireless — Aṅgada by name, son of Vālin, if you have heard of me. Rāghava, Rāma, who increases Kausalyā's joy, says this to you: 'Come out and fight, cruel one; be a man. I will kill you with your ministers, your sons, your kinsmen and relations, and with you dead the three worlds will be free from fear. Today I will root you out — you, the enemy of gods, dānavas, yakṣas, gandharvas, serpents and rākṣasas, the thorn in the side of the seers. Unless you honour Vaidehī, bow down and give her back, you will die and the lordship will be Vibhīṣaṇa's.'" Aṅgada keeps the duty of an envoy, giving Rāma's words neither less nor more, in Rāma's own words and only a little shortened. He introduces himself first, and the very name "son of Vālin" stirs the memory of Vālin in Rāvaṇa's mind; "if you have heard of me" is ironic, for Rāvaṇa had certainly heard of Vālin's son — the story went that Vālin once tucked Rāvaṇa under his arm and carried him round the four oceans. So Aṅgada's mere presence recalls Rāvaṇa's old defeat. "Be a man" implies that Rāvaṇa is a coward, for he took Sītā by trickery, not in battle, and "come out and fight" means fight outside the city, not hiding behind its walls. Aṅgada moves like the fire-god in bodily form, radiant and swift. Rāvaṇa "sitting at his ease" shows his pride: his city is surrounded, yet he sits calmly with his ministers. Aṅgada alights right beside him instead of speaking from a distance, which shows his fearlessness. The names for Rāma — lord of Kosala, of tireless deeds, joy of Kausalyā — speak of his royal line, his power in action and his love for his mother. "The three worlds will be free from fear" establishes that killing Rāvaṇa is for the good of the world: it is not Rāma's private revenge but the removal of a thorn from the world's side.

When that bull among monkeys spoke such harsh words, the lord of the night-rangers was overcome with fury, and in his rage the foolish king ordered his ministers again and again, "Seize him! Kill him!" At Rāvaṇa's words four fearsome night-rangers seized Aṅgada, who blazed with energy like fire. Self-possessed and heroic, Tārā's son let himself be seized, so as to show his strength among the host of rākṣasas. Then, carrying them clinging to his two arms like birds, Aṅgada sprang up onto the palace, which stood like a mountain, and shaken off by the force of his leap, the rākṣasas all fell to the ground as the rākṣasa king looked on. Then Vālin's mighty son strode onto the pinnacle of the rākṣasa king's palace, lofty as a mountain peak, and under his tread it split apart as ten-necked Rāvaṇa watched, as a peak of the Himalaya was once split by the thunderbolt. Having broken the palace pinnacle, Aṅgada proclaimed his name, roared a great roar and sprang into the sky. Tormenting all the rākṣasas and delighting the monkeys, he came back to Rāma's side in the midst of the monkeys. Rāvaṇa was furious at this outrage to his palace, and, foreseeing his own destruction, he fell to heavy sighing. Rāvaṇa reacts true to his nature: without a thought he orders "seize him, kill him," though killing an envoy is forbidden by the rules of kingship, as Vibhīṣaṇa had said before in Hanūmān's case; the poet calls him "foolish" to show that his judgment is gone. Aṅgada lets himself be caught on purpose, a shrewd move to show how little the rākṣasas' strength is worth — much as Hanūmān had accepted his bonds to test the enemy. The four rākṣasas dangling from his arms like birds are a humiliation for Rāvaṇa's court, and as he leaps they drop off like fruit from a shaken tree. The breaking of the palace pinnacle, likened to Indra's thunderbolt splitting a Himalayan peak, is a symbol of the breaking of Rāvaṇa's pride, and the repeated "as Rāvaṇa watched" shows his helplessness. Proclaiming his name — "I am Aṅgada, son of Vālin" — Aṅgada once more stirs the memory of Vālin in Rāvaṇa's court, as Hanūmān had proclaimed "Victory to Rāma" in the Sundara Kāṇḍa. Rāvaṇa's anger and sighing reveal his fear within: he sees his ruin coming, yet out of pride he will not give Sītā back, and that is the root of his tragedy.

But Rāma, surrounded by many exultant, roaring monkeys, eager to kill his enemy, advanced to battle. The monkey Suṣeṇa, of great valour and like a mountain peak, surrounded by many monkeys who could take any form, secured the gates at Sugrīva's command and went round them, unassailable, as the moon goes round among the stars. Seeing a hundred akṣauhiṇīs of forest-dwellers camped round Laṅkā and stretching to the very sea, some rākṣasas were astonished, others were terrified, and others, eager for the fight, were filled with joy. The whole space between rampart and moat was filled with monkeys; the wretched rākṣasas saw their rampart turned, as it were, into monkeys, and in their fear they raised a cry of woe. When that dreadful uproar began, the warriors of the rākṣasa king took up great weapons and ranged about like the winds at the end of an age. The poet subtly draws three reactions among the rākṣasas — astonishment, terror and delight — for they are not all alike, and some true warriors are glad of a fight; the cry of woe is the sound of their fear. "The rampart turned into monkeys" means the wall seemed to be made of monkeys. Encouraged by Aṅgada's return, the monkeys roar, and Rāma advances ready to kill his enemy. Suṣeṇa goes round the gates like the moon among the stars to see that every monkey is at his post, and "a hundred akṣauhiṇīs" stretching to the sea again shows the vastness of the army. In the end the rākṣasa warriors take up their great weapons and range about like the winds of doom: the fighting is about to begin. So the sarga moves step by step from a quiet conversation to the very threshold of war, and the battle itself begins in the next.