इन्द्रजितः हर्षः, विभीषणकृतं सुग्रीवसान्त्वनं च

When the ten monkeys came back from searching sky and earth, they found Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa covered all over with arrows. And when the rākṣasa had done his work and stopped, as the rain-god stops once he has poured his rain, Vibhīṣaṇa and Sugrīva came to the spot. Nīla, Dvivida, Mainda, Suṣeṇa, Kumuda and Aṅgada, with Hanumān, quickly began to grieve for the two Rāghavas. The brothers lay motionless, breathing faintly, drenched in blood, studded with a net of arrows, stiff on a bed of arrows. Breathing like serpents, their valour grown faint, their limbs smeared with streaming blood, they looked like two fallen golden standards. As they lay on the hero's bed, their own troop-leaders stood round them, eyes blurred with tears, and all the monkeys, with Vibhīṣaṇa, were stricken with distress. Again and again they scanned the sky and every quarter, but they could not see Rāvaṇa's son, hidden as he was by magic. Vibhīṣaṇa, however, searching by magic of his own, saw his brother's son standing there before him, a warrior of matchless deeds without a rival in battle; endowed with brilliance, fame and valour, he saw that hidden hero through the power of a boon. The poet's point is that the only counter to illusion is illusion: only Vibhīṣaṇa, born a rākṣasa, can see through rākṣasa magic. In the previous sarga Indrajit, invisible, bound the brothers with serpent-arrows; here we see what came of it. Wherever the monkeys look, the enemy is not to be found, which shows the power of his magic. The poet uses two images for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa: serpents breathing, and fallen golden standards. The first shows how faint their breath is; the second shows the radiance still left in them — a fallen standard is still golden. So the reader knows they are not dead, only unconscious; their valour is "grown faint," not destroyed. The troop-leaders' tears come from their devotion to their master. Vibhīṣaṇa's sight matters greatly here: by the power of a boon he can see through illusion, and so he becomes the army's eyes, the one who knows where the enemy is. Sugrīva and Vibhīṣaṇa come together, for both are Rāma's friends and the kingdoms of both depend on his victory. The monkey leaders are named again, showing that every chief of the army was there. The sight of the two brothers stiff and pierced with arrows pains the reader too, for those who protect the whole world now lie helpless themselves.

Surveying his handiwork and the two brothers lying there, Indrajit, in the greatest delight, spoke to cheer all the rākṣasas: "Look! The two mighty slayers of Khara and Dūṣaṇa, the brothers Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, have been felled by my arrows. Not all the gods and asuras together, with the hosts of seers, could free them from this bond of arrows. The one on whose account my father, anxious and grief-stricken, has passed whole nights without his body touching a bed; the one on whose account all Laṅkā has been as turbulent as a river in the rains — that calamity, which would have destroyed us all root and branch, I have laid to rest. The feats of Rāma, of Lakṣmaṇa and of all the forest-dwellers have come to nothing, like clouds in autumn." Having said this, with all the rākṣasas looking on, Rāvaṇa's son struck at the troop-leaders as well. He hit Nīla with nine arrows, and tormented Mainda and Dvivida with three fine shafts each. He pierced Jāmbavān in the chest with one arrow and loosed ten at the swift Hanumān. He pierced Gavākṣa and Śarabha, both of boundless valour, with two arrows each, and then, in haste, pierced the lord of the apes and Aṅgada, son of Vālin, with many arrows. Having pierced those foremost monkeys with arrows like tongues of fire, the mighty and great-spirited son of Rāvaṇa roared. When he had harried and terrified the monkeys with floods of arrows, the mighty-armed rākṣasa laughed aloud and said, "Look, rākṣasas, at these two brothers, bound together by me at the head of their army with a terrible bond of arrows!" His image of autumn clouds is especially cutting: they thunder but give no rain — a mockery of his enemies. His speech falls into three parts: he recalls the prowess of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, announces his own victory, and mocks his enemies' feats. The killing of Khara and Dūṣaṇa was Rāma's famous deed, and by saying he has felled their slayers he sets himself above them. The picture of his father's sleepless nights is touching — Rāvaṇa could not sleep for worry over Rāma — and Laṅkā turbulent as a river in flood shows the city's fear. He calls Rāma "the calamity that would destroy us root and branch," and without knowing it he speaks the truth, for Rāma will indeed destroy the rākṣasa race. Not content with words, he strikes the troop-leaders too — Nīla, Mainda, Dvivida, Jāmbavān, Hanumān, Gavākṣa, Śarabha and Aṅgada, touching every chief of the army — and the poet counts even the arrows, nine, three, one, ten, two, to give the fight precision. His laughter is the height of his arrogance, and by calling on the rākṣasas to "look" he makes them witnesses. The drama of the scene lies in this: Indrajit speaks and strikes while unseen; the monkeys hear his voice and feel his arrows but cannot see him, and an unseen enemy is more frightening than one who can be seen. Old Jāmbavān, swift Hanumān and the crown prince Aṅgada all suffer alike, yet the poet does not say that any troop-leader fled; wounded as they were, all held their ground. And the poet calls Indrajit "great-spirited": Vālmīki's fairness does not belittle even an enemy's strength.

At these words the rākṣasas who fought by deceit were filled with wonder and delighted by his feat. They all roared great roars like thunderclouds and, believing Rāma was dead, honoured Rāvaṇa's son. Seeing the brothers Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa lying motionless and breathless on the ground, Indrajit himself took them to be dead, and filled with joy, the victor in battle entered the city of Laṅkā, gladdening all the rākṣasas. Meanwhile, seeing Rāma's and Lakṣmaṇa's bodies with every limb, great and small, heaped with arrows, Sugrīva was seized by great fear. By calling the rākṣasas "those who fight by deceit," the poet condemns their way of war: to strike while made invisible by magic is not courage. Their shared jubilation roared like thunder. Note that Indrajit only "took them to be dead"; he did not know it for certain, and this mistake will later lead to his defeat. Sugrīva's fear is natural, for Rāma was his whole support; yet it is not selfish, for he is Rāma's friend, bound by his promise, and Rāma's fall is a crisis for the duty of friendship too.

Vibhīṣaṇa spoke to the terrified lord of the monkeys, whose face was wet with tears and whose eyes were troubled with grief: "Enough of fear, Sugrīva; hold back this flood of tears. Battles are like this; victory is never certain. If any of our good fortune remains, my hero, these two great and mighty ones will shake off their swoon. Steady yourself, monkey, and steady me too, for I have no other protector. Those devoted to truth and dharma need have no fear of death." With these words Vibhīṣaṇa wiped Sugrīva's fair eyes with a hand wet with water; then, taking water again and consecrating it with a spell, the righteous Vibhīṣaṇa bathed Sugrīva's eyes. When he had wiped the monkey king's face, he spoke calmly the words the moment called for: "This is no time, lord of monkey kings, to give way to weakness; at a time like this even too much affection can lead to death. So cast off this faintness of heart, which ruins every undertaking, and think of the welfare of the armies Rāma leads. Or rather, let Rāma be guarded while he is unconscious; once the two Kākutsthas come to, they will drive away our fear. This is nothing to Rāma, and Rāma is not dying; the radiance that deserts those whose life is spent has not left him. So comfort yourself and your army, while I set all the troops in order again. These monkeys, their eyes wide with terror, are whispering from ear to ear. When they see me running about among them, let them cast off their fear like a garland already worn." Having consoled Sugrīva, Vibhīṣaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, rallied the fleeing monkey army once more. Though he came from the enemy's side, in this crisis Vibhīṣaṇa became the pillar of the army's courage — proof of his loyalty. His counsel has three parts: a general truth, that in war victory and defeat are both possible; a particular reassurance, that Rāma is not dying; and a duty, that the army must be rallied. "Victory is never certain" is the essence of the art of war: beaten today, one wins tomorrow. "Even too much affection can lead to death" is profound: if grief born of love stops a man from doing his duty, it too brings ruin. His reasoning that the radiance which leaves the dying is still on Rāma's face — so he must be alive — is the same that Trijaṭā will use with Sītā. Wiping Sugrīva's eyes with water blessed by a spell shows Vibhīṣaṇa's learning; he is not only a counsellor but versed in the arts of magic. The garland already worn is a lovely image: as a used garland is thrown away as worthless, so let the monkeys throw away their fear. The poet stresses that he spoke "calmly": even in crisis his composure does not waver. There is practical wisdom here too: if the commander weeps, the soldiers flee, so first Sugrīva's tears are dried and then the army is steadied. The monkeys whispering from ear to ear show how fear spreads — rumour alone can destroy an army — and Vibhīṣaṇa runs among them himself so that they know their leaders are still on the field. "Steady me too, who have no protector" is moving: cast out by his brother, he had taken refuge with Rāma, and with Rāma fallen he too is without protection; yet he does not show his own grief but comforts others. Speaking of the welfare of the armies Rāma leads, he reminds Sugrīva of a king's duty to think of his people, and "they will dispel our fear" joins Sugrīva to himself, as if the two shared one fate.

Meanwhile Indrajit, master of great illusion, surrounded by his whole army, entered the city of Laṅkā and went to his father. Coming before Rāvaṇa, he saluted him with joined palms and told his father the welcome news that Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa were dead. Hearing that his enemies had been struck down, Rāvaṇa leapt up in joy among the rākṣasas and embraced his son. He kissed his head and, with a glad heart, asked him what had happened, and Indrajit told his father all of it — how the two had been made motionless and lustreless by the bond of arrows. Hearing the words of that great chariot-warrior, swept away by a rush of joy, Rāvaṇa cast off the fever that Daśaratha's son had caused him, and welcomed his son with delighted words. The poet describes Rāvaṇa's joy at length because in the sargas that follow it will be overturned, when Garuḍa comes and frees Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. Kissing the head is the ancient sign of a father's love. The "fever" is especially apt: Rāma had burned in Rāvaṇa's heart like a fever, and now it had cooled — but only for a moment, for in the next sarga Sītā is taken to the battlefield in the Puṣpaka, and then Garuḍa arrives. There is irony in "welcome news": what pleased the father was not true. Indrajit was deceived himself, so he spoke not a lie but a mistake. Rāvaṇa leaping up among the rākṣasas shows him casting off a king's dignity, so great was his joy. The sarga ends in celebration, but the reader knows it will be short-lived.