निशायुद्धं नागपाशबन्धश्च

While the monkeys and rākṣasas were still fighting, the sun set, and night came on, the taker of lives. Then a battle by night began between the fierce monkeys and rākṣasas, bound to one another in enmity and each eager for victory. In that terrible darkness the monkeys cried "You're a rākṣasa!" and the rākṣasas cried "You're a monkey!" and they struck at one another. "Kill! Tear! Come on! Why are you running?" — such was the uproar heard throughout the army. In that darkness the black rākṣasas in their golden armour looked like great mountains whose forests are lit by glowing herbs. In the impenetrable darkness the rākṣasas, beside themselves with rage and moving at great speed, fell upon the monkeys and devoured them; and the monkeys, terrible in their wrath, leapt at the rākṣasas' horses with their golden crests and at their banners like venomous snakes, and tore them apart with their sharp teeth. The chief trouble of a night battle is the darkness: one cannot tell friend from foe, so they call out to one another "rākṣasa or monkey?" — a cry that shows the chaos and horror of the fight. The rākṣasas' golden armour gleams in the dark like the glowing herbs on mountains at night, a well-known image of the Himalaya that will return later in the story of the mountain of healing herbs. The rākṣasas are night-rangers and their strength grows at night; they devour the monkeys in their cruelty, and the monkeys answer with their teeth. Calling the night "the taker of lives" foreshadows the slaughter to come, and "why are you running?" is a taunt, for to flee the battlefield is cowardice. At the end of the previous sarga the rākṣasas longed for sunset; now their wish is granted and night has come. Fighting by night was generally shunned in the ancient rules of war, but here the enmity was so bitter that the battle did not stop even with darkness.

The mighty monkeys threw the rākṣasa army into turmoil. Beside themselves with rage, they dragged about elephants and their riders and chariots with their flags and banners, and bit them with their teeth. Lakṣmaṇa and Rāma, with arrows like venomous serpents, struck down the foremost rākṣasas, seen and unseen. The dust churned up by the horses' hooves and the chariot wheels choked the ears and eyes of the fighters. As that dreadful, hair-raising battle went on, torrents of blood flowed there like rivers. The sound of kettledrums, tabors and drums, mixed with the sound of conches and chariot wheels, was wonderful to hear, and terrible were the cries of rākṣasas struck down and groaning and of monkeys wounded. With the chief monkeys struck down by spears, pikes and axes, and the slain rākṣasas, huge as mountains, who could take any form, the battleground, strewn with weapons like a floor strewn with offerings of flowers, was hard to make out, hard to set foot on, a mire of flowing blood. "Seen and unseen" hints at the rākṣasas' magic: some fought invisibly, yet the arrows of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa found them too. The dust in the eyes and ears added to the darkness, so the gloom was doubled. The image of weapons strewn like flowers is striking: as flowers are scattered on the ground in worship, so weapons lie scattered on the battlefield, as if the battle were a sacrifice and the earth its altar. The ground was hard to make out and hard even to step on. The mingling of sounds — instruments, the wounded, the dying — shows the war's pitiful and terrible face. The monkeys drag the rākṣasas' elephants, horses and chariots with their teeth, a fearlessness never seen before. Here Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa enter the fight directly: in the previous sarga Rāma had killed only four rākṣasas, but now both brothers kill many. Note the "arrows like venomous serpents": at the end of this very sarga Indrajit's arrows will become serpents and bind Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, and the poet sows the seed of it at the start.

That night, the slayer of monkeys and rākṣasas, was terrible, like the Night of Doom at the end of the world, which no creature can pass through. Then in that terrible darkness the rākṣasas, full of glee, advanced on Rāma himself with showers of arrows, and the noise of their charge as they came on, raging and roaring, was like the roar of the seven oceans overflowing at the end of an age. In the twinkling of an eye Rāma struck six of those night-rangers with six arrows like tongues of fire: the unassailable Yajñaśatru, Mahāpārśva and Mahodara, the huge Vajradaṃṣṭra, and Śuka and Sāraṇa. Pierced in all their vital parts by Rāma's volleys of arrows, they slipped away from the battle, escaping with some remnant of life. In the twinkling of an eye the great chariot-warrior cleared the directions, principal and intermediate, with terrible arrows like tongues of fire, and the other heroic rākṣasas who stood facing him perished like moths that fly into the fire. With his gold-feathered arrows flying on every side, the night grew bright, like an autumn night full of fireflies, and with the roars of the rākṣasas and the din of the kettledrums that dreadful night grew more dreadful still. The Night of Doom is the night of universal dissolution, when everything perishes; this night was like it. The rākṣasas make Rāma their target, knowing that killing the commander decides a battle. Rāma "struck" the six, but they were not killed: they fled the fight, and so their lives were spared. These six are among Rāvaṇa's chief men — Śuka and Sāraṇa had been his spies, and Mahāpārśva and Mahodara will be killed later in the war. The gold-feathered arrows like fireflies make a lovely picture of the night battle, beauty even in the midst of death, and the moths flying into fire show the rākṣasas' folly as they rush at Rāma. Rāma fights alone here, holding off every attacker and clearing the directions; "in the twinkling of an eye," said twice, praises the speed of his hand. And the night's horror grows step by step: first terrible, then like the Night of Doom, and at last more terrible still.

With that great noise swelling on every side, Mount Trikūṭa with its many caves seemed to cry out in answer. The huge ape-like monkeys, dark as the darkness itself, clasped the night-rangers in their arms and devoured them. Aṅgada, ready in battle to kill his foes, quickly killed the charioteer and horses of Rāvaṇa's son Indrajit, and Indrajit, his horses and charioteer slain, abandoned his chariot and, huge as he was, vanished on the spot because of Aṅgada. The mountain answering the noise is a fancy that even the mountain cries out in fear of the war. The dark apes, invisible in the gloom, seize the rākṣasas — their answer to the rākṣasas devouring the monkeys. This is Aṅgada's second clash with Indrajit: in the previous sarga he destroyed his chariot, and now he kills his charioteer and horses. Indrajit vanishes "because of Aṅgada," as if in fear of him, and this is the peak of Aṅgada's heroism. Indrajit's disappearance looks like flight after defeat, but it is really the beginning of his war of illusion, and it is a turning point in the story, for from here the nature of the fighting changes: his invisibility will turn his defeat into victory, and not even Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa will be able to see him.

All the gods with the seers, and Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa too, praised that deed of Vālin's son, who deserved all honour. Every being knew Indrajit's power in battle, so they were delighted to see that great warrior overcome. The monkeys, with Sugrīva and Vibhīṣaṇa, rejoiced to see their enemy defeated and cried "Well done, well done!" But Indrajit, beaten in battle by Vālin's son of fearsome deeds, fell into a terrible rage. Vanished from sight, the wicked son of Rāvaṇa, galled by his defeat, the hero who had a boon from Brahmā, was beside himself with fury, and, invisible, he let fly sharp arrows as bright as the thunderbolt. Aṅgada is praised four ways — by the gods, the seers, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, and the monkeys — because defeating Indrajit was rare: this was the warrior who had conquered Indra himself, so his defeat was all the more astonishing. Yet the poet hints that the victory is fleeting, for Indrajit's power of invisibility was a boon from Brahmā. The poet calls him "wicked," because fighting while invisible is no righteous war, and "galled by his defeat" explains his rage. His arrows bright as the thunderbolt will soon become serpents. The praise of gods and seers shows that this war concerns not men alone: the world of the gods is watching and wants dharma to win. The monkeys' "well done!" shows their simple joy, but their joy is short-lived.

Enraged, the rākṣasa pierced Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa in every limb with terrible arrows made of serpents. Wrapped in illusion, bewildering the two Rāghavas, invisible to every creature, the night-ranger who fought by trickery bound the two brothers in a bond of arrows. The monkeys saw those two heroes, tigers among men, suddenly struck down by his furious arrows like venomous snakes. Since the son of the rākṣasa king could not harm them fighting in open view, the wicked one turned to illusion and bound the two princes. "Fighting by trickery" — the poet reminds us again and again that Indrajit's way of war is against dharma. The serpent-arrows are the noose of serpents: the arrows turn into snakes and coil around the body. Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, who had conquered everyone, are now bound by the trickery of an unseen foe, and the monkeys can only look on, helpless, because their enemy cannot be seen. The closing verse sums up the sarga: defeated in open battle, Indrajit wins by illusion. With this begins the sorrowful episode of the next sarga.