रामविलापः

Bound by that terrible bond of arrows, the two sons of Daśaratha lay drenched in blood, breathing like serpents. All the foremost monkeys, with mighty Sugrīva, stood around the two great heroes, overwhelmed with grief. Meanwhile valiant Rāma, fettered though he was by the arrows, came to his senses through his firmness and strength of spirit. Seeing his brother lying there, bloodied, deeply pierced, his face pale and wretched, he lamented in anguish. Rāma's waking is the fruit of his inner strength, and the poet names its cause plainly — his firmness and strength of spirit: his body was bound, but his mind was steady, and so he was the first to recover. Lakṣmaṇa was still unconscious, his face wan, the arrows driven deep into his body. Rāma's first thought on waking is not for himself but for his brother, which shows how deep his love for him ran. The monkeys' grief is described too, revealing their devotion to their master, and the image of the two brothers breathing like serpents, carried over from the previous sarga, recalls the serpent-noose that binds them.

"What use is Sītā to me, even if I win her back, or life itself, when today I see my brother lying beaten in battle? Search the world of mortals and a woman equal to Sītā could be found, but never a brother like Lakṣmaṇa, my counsellor and comrade in war. If the joy of Sumitrā has gone back to the elements, I will give up my life here, before the monkeys' eyes. What shall I say to my mother Kausalyā, and what to Kaikeyī? How shall I face mother Sumitrā, who longs to see her son? How shall I comfort her, trembling like a cow robbed of her calf, crying like an osprey, if I go back without him? How shall I tell Śatrughna and glorious Bharata, 'He went to the forest with me, and I have come back without him'? I could not bear mother Sumitrā's reproaches. I will give up my body here; I have no heart to live." Rāma's words here are famous — a woman like Sītā might be found, but not a brother like Lakṣmaṇa. They are no slight to Sītā but the excess of grief speaking; love for his brother is what fills him. "Comrade in war" singles out Lakṣmaṇa as his helper in battle. His thought for the mothers shows his sense of duty: he thinks of their sorrow even more than his own, as Sītā in the previous sarga thought of Kausalyā's. The cow robbed of her calf recalls a mother bereft. Sumitrā's reproach is what he dreads most, for it was she who sent Lakṣmaṇa to the forest with Rāma. He names Kaikeyī too; there is no hatred for her in his mind — she too is his mother. This grief reveals Rāma's human side: though he is an incarnation of the divine, he suffers like a man. His vow to give up his life is the depth of despair, yet the word "if" shows that he still does not know whether Lakṣmaṇa is really dead.

"Shame on me, a wrongdoer, ignoble, for whose sake Lakṣmaṇa lies fallen on a bed of arrows as though lifeless! You always comforted me, Lakṣmaṇa, when I was most downcast; now, your life gone, you cannot speak to me in my distress. On the very ground where today you killed so many rākṣasas in battle, you now lie, my hero, struck down yourself. Lying on this bed of arrows, streaming with blood, turned into a mass of arrows, you shine like the sun as it goes down. With your vitals pierced by arrows you cannot speak, but though pain keeps you silent, the redness of your eyes tells what you feel. As that radiant one followed me when I went to the forest, so I will follow him to the house of Yama. He who loved his kin and was always devoted to me has come to this through the folly of an ignoble man like me. I cannot remember ever hearing a harsh or unkind word from heroic Lakṣmaṇa, not even when he was very angry. He could loose five hundred arrows in a single burst; in archery he surpassed even Kārtavīrya. He could destroy with his own weapons the weapons even of great Indra — and he lies dead on the ground, he who deserved the finest of beds." Three of Lakṣmaṇa's virtues are praised here: his comforting, his devotion and his prowess with weapons. That Rāma never heard a harsh word from him, even in anger, is the highest proof of his humility. Rāma calls himself a wrongdoer and ignoble because it was for his sake that his brother went to the forest. The setting sun, red as it goes down, is the image for Lakṣmaṇa red with blood. Kārtavīrya Arjuna, the thousand-armed, was a famous archer, and to surpass him is high praise. "You always comforted me" calls up every scene of the exile — when Sītā was carried off, when Jaṭāyu died, on the shores of Pampā — it was always Lakṣmaṇa who consoled Rāma; today he is silent, and Rāma's grief is doubled. The detail of the red eyes is subtle: Lakṣmaṇa cannot speak, but his eyes tell his pain. "As he followed me, so I will follow him" shows the give and take of brotherly duty. His mastery of arms is stressed again and again to heighten the wonder of his fall — even such a hero brought down by illusion — and the costly bed a prince deserves stands against the bare ground he lies on.

"And that promise I made, which now proves idle, will surely burn me: I have not made Vibhīṣaṇa king of the rākṣasas. Sugrīva, you must go back from here this very moment; thinking you are without me, Rāvaṇa will overpower you, my king. Put Aṅgada at your head and cross the ocean with your army and your followers, with Nīla and Nala. A very great deed has been done in battle, one that no one else could have done. I am grateful to the king of the bears and to the lord of the apes. Aṅgada has done great deeds, and Mainda and Dvivida; Kesarin and Sampāti fought a terrible fight; Gavaya, Gavākṣa, Śarabha, Gaja and other monkeys fought for my sake without a thought for their lives. But men cannot overstep fate, Sugrīva. Whatever the utmost a companion or a friend could do, you have done it all, you who fear to stray from dharma. You have done the work of friendship, bulls among monkeys; you all have my leave to go wherever you wish." All the monkeys who heard his lament shed tears from their tawny eyes. Gratitude is foremost here: even in his grief Rāma thanks each helper by name. His unkept promise to Vibhīṣaṇa burns him, for to Rāma, true to his word, a failed promise is worse than death. That promise recalls how, on the seashore when Vibhīṣaṇa came for refuge, Rāma had consecrated him king of Laṅkā with the water of the sea. He worries too for Sugrīva's safety, fearing Rāvaṇa will fall on him once he is weakened. His admission that men cannot overstep fate shows his human side. Aṅgada is put in front because after Sugrīva he is heir to the monkey kingdom, and Nīla and Nala are named because they built the bridge by which the army can return. The king of the bears is Jāmbavān, the lord of the apes Gavākṣa, and Kesarin is Hanumān's father; Rāma forgets no one's service. He calls their help "the work of friendship," the fruit of friendship, not a debt. And the monkeys' tears prove their love: they do not want to leave Rāma, and even hearing his leave they only weep, which shows their help came not from a king's command alone but from their hearts.

Then Vibhīṣaṇa, having set all the troops in their places, came hurrying, mace in hand, to where Rāghava was. Seeing him hurrying towards them, dark as a heap of black collyrium, all the monkeys fled, thinking he was Rāvaṇa's son. Vibhīṣaṇa was as dark as Indrajit and a rākṣasa too, so the mistake was natural, and it shows how deep the monkeys' fear ran: at the mere thought of Indrajit they ran. This scene prepares for the next sarga, where Sugrīva, Aṅgada and Jāmbavān will clear up the mistake, and then Garuḍa will come.