गरुडागमनं रामलक्ष्मणयोः मोक्षश्च

Then the mighty and brilliant king of the monkeys, Sugrīva, asked, "Why is this army in such distress, drifting like a ship on the water when the wind has failed?" Hearing him, Aṅgada, son of Vālin, replied, "Don't you see Rāma and the great chariot-warrior Lakṣmaṇa — the two heroic, great-souled sons of Daśaratha, studded with nets of arrows, lying drenched in blood on a bed of arrows?" But Sugrīva, lord of the monkeys, said to his son Aṅgada, "I don't think this is without some other cause; there must be a fresh fright. These monkeys, their faces downcast, their weapons thrown away, are fleeing in every direction, eyes wide with terror. They feel no shame before one another; they don't look back; they drag each other along and leap over those who have fallen." Meanwhile the hero Vibhīṣaṇa, mace in hand, came up and greeted Sugrīva and Rāghava with a blessing of victory. Seeing Vibhīṣaṇa, the monkeys' terror, Sugrīva said to the great-souled king of the bears, who stood nearby: "It is Vibhīṣaṇa who has come, and the bulls among monkeys are running away in fright at the sight of him, taking him for Rāvaṇa's son. Quickly rally these terrified monkeys scattered everywhere, and tell them that it is Vibhīṣaṇa who has come." At Sugrīva's word Jāmbavān, king of the bears, turned back the fleeing monkeys and calmed them, and hearing the bear king's words and seeing Vibhīṣaṇa, all the monkeys came back, their alarm gone. The psychology of the army is subtly drawn here: panic-stricken soldiers lose all shame, leap over a fallen comrade, never look behind them. A ship whose wind has failed drifts this way and that. Sugrīva, an experienced leader, reads the cause of fear from the army's behaviour. Aṅgada's answer is short and sharp — he answers his father's question with a question, "don't you see?", the young prince's voice charged with grief. But Sugrīva stays calm and looks for the cause: the brothers' fall was already known, so some new fright must have arisen — and he is right, for it is Vibhīṣaṇa's arrival. That is leadership: to see not only the fear but its root, and to find the remedy; the monkeys' fear is blind, the leader's sight discerning. Sending Jāmbavān is wise, for the aged king of the bears is respected by all, bears and monkeys alike, and they trust his word. Vibhīṣaṇa's blessing of victory shows his hopefulness even in the crisis. There is a pun in "the monkeys' terror" (vānara-bhīṣaṇa), echoing his name Vibhīṣaṇa, and an irony the poet quietly notes: Rāma's own devotee is the one who frightens the monkeys. The previous sarga ended with the monkeys in flight, and this one opens with Sugrīva seeing it, so the two sargas join seamlessly. At the end their alarm is gone and the army is steady again, preparing the ground for Garuḍa's coming. The whole scene shows how a leader's fall destroys an army's spirit.

But the righteous Vibhīṣaṇa, seeing the bodies of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa heaped with arrows, was deeply distressed. He wiped their eyes with a hand wet with water, and his mind overwhelmed with grief, he wept and lamented: "These two, so full of strength, so valiant, who delighted in battle, have been brought to this by rākṣasas who fight by deceit. These two, whose valour is straightforward, have been tricked by the crooked rākṣasa cunning of this wicked son, my brother's son. Pierced right through with arrows and bathed in blood, they lie on the ground looking like two porcupines. These bulls among men, on whose valour I relied for my future, lie asleep in the sleep that destroys the body. Alive, I am undone today, my hope of the kingdom lost; the enemy Rāvaṇa has fulfilled his vow and got what he wanted." Self-reproach lies hidden in his lament: Indrajit is his own nephew, and he condemns him as a wicked son. "Crooked cunning" and "straightforward valour" set trickery against righteous war — Rāma fights face to face, Indrajit deceives while unseen. The porcupine, covered in quills, is the image for the two brothers bristling with arrows. "Alive, I am undone" describes his state exactly: he left his brother to come here, and now his support is gone — he has no place in Laṅkā, nor among the monkeys. In the previous sarga he comforted Sugrīva; in this one he is the one who needs comfort, and so the poet shows friends leaning on one another. Wiping their eyes with water, as he had done for Sugrīva, is an act of service. He admits openly that he hoped for his own establishment, not hiding that the kingdom was among his aims; yet his grief is not merely selfish, for he first remembers the brothers' virtues — their strength and valour — and only then his own loss.

As Vibhīṣaṇa lamented like this, Sugrīva, king of the monkeys, full of courage, embraced him and said, "You will have the kingdom of Laṅkā, you who know dharma; there is no doubt of it. Rāvaṇa and his son will not get what they want here. Under Garuḍa's care, Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa will shake off their swoon and kill Rāvaṇa and his hosts in battle." When he had consoled and comforted the rākṣasa, Sugrīva said to his father-in-law Suṣeṇa, who stood beside him: "When the two brothers Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, subduers of foes, have come to, take them with the valiant monkey troops and go to Kiṣkindhā. As for me, I will kill Rāvaṇa with his sons and kinsmen and bring back Maithilī, as Indra won back his lost Fortune." See how Sugrīva has changed: in the previous sarga he wept in fear, and now he comforts others and vows to fight himself; seeing his friend's grief, he has grown firm. In his words "under Garuḍa's care" he foreshadows Garuḍa's coming. Suṣeṇa, Tārā's father and Sugrīva's father-in-law, is skilled in medicine, so the brothers are entrusted to him. As Indra won back the Fortune the asuras had stolen, so Sugrīva will win back Sītā; his vow to finish his friend's work himself shows how firm his friendship is. And by calling Vibhīṣaṇa "you who know dharma," he acknowledges that his leaving his brother was rooted in dharma, and that alone eases Vibhīṣaṇa's shame.

Hearing this from the lord of the monkeys, Suṣeṇa said: "I have seen the great war of the gods and asuras of old. Then the dānavas, skilled in the use of arrows, struck down the gods, learned in weapons though they were, covering them again and again with arrows. And Bṛhaspati used to treat them, stricken, senseless and lifeless as they were, with lore joined to spells and with healing herbs. Let monkeys such as Sampāti and Panasa go swiftly to the Ocean of Milk to fetch those herbs. The monkeys know the two great mountain herbs, the divine Sañjīvakaraṇī and Viśalyā, fashioned by the gods. In the Ocean of Milk, best of seas, where the nectar was churned, stand two mountains called Candra and Droṇa, and those supreme herbs grow there; the gods placed those two mountains there in the great ocean. Let Hanumān, son of the Wind, go there, my king." Suṣeṇa's speech has three parts: a precedent from the past, Bṛhaspati's healing of the gods; the herbs themselves; and the place to find them. Sañjīvakaraṇī restores even the dead to life, and Viśalyā draws arrows out of the body — both were needed here. The two mountains in the Ocean of Milk recall the churning for the nectar. "I have seen it" — Suṣeṇa vouches from his own experience, not hearsay, and he names Sampāti, Panasa and the others because they are swift. Here we glimpse the ancient art of healing, where lore joined to spells and herbs work together. Hanumān's name is mentioned here for the first time in this connection; later, when Lakṣmaṇa is struck by the spear, he really will bring the mountain of herbs, so Suṣeṇa's proposal is not wasted. The physician does not despair but looks for a remedy, as his duty demands — though this time the remedy will not be needed, for at that very moment Garuḍa comes.

Meanwhile a wind arose, with clouds and lightning; it tossed the waters of the ocean and seemed to shake the mountains. With the great wind of his wings, the great trees of all the islands fell into the salt sea, their branches broken. The serpents living there were terrified, and all the sea-creatures quickly dived deep into the salt ocean. Then, in a moment, all the monkeys saw Garuḍa, the mighty son of Vinatā, blazing like fire. Seeing him come, the serpents that had bound the two men in the form of mighty arrows fled away. Then Suparṇa touched the two Kākutsthas, greeted them, and stroked their moon-bright faces with his hands. At the touch of Vinatā's son their wounds closed up, and at once their bodies became golden and glossy. Their splendour, valour, strength, vigour and energy, their great virtues, their perception, understanding and memory were doubled. Raising up the two brothers, who were equal to Indra, the brilliant Garuḍa joyfully embraced them both, and Rāma spoke to him. Garuḍa's arrival begins with an upheaval of nature — wind, clouds, lightning, the sea's waves, the falling trees — all the work of the wind of his wings, which announces his greatness before he appears. The poet describes his coming first by sound, then by sight, heightening the reader's suspense. Serpents and sea-creatures alike take fright, for Garuḍa is their terror; the nāgas are his natural enemies, and they flee the moment they see him — and so the secret of the serpent-noose is revealed: the arrows really were serpents. His touch works like medicine: the wounds heal at once and every virtue is doubled — not only the body's but the mind's too, perception, understanding and memory — so that divine grace nourishes body and mind alike, and the disaster turns out in the end to their gain. "Blazing like fire" shows his golden radiance, and the "golden and glossy" bodies show the glow of those restored to health. Garuḍa's embrace is the first sign of friendship.

Rāma said, "By your grace, and by this means, we have overcome the great disaster Rāvaṇa's son brought on us, and have quickly been made strong again. Meeting you, my heart is as glad as if I had met my father Daśaratha or my grandfather Aja. Who are you, so handsome, wearing heavenly garlands and unguents, spotless clothes and heavenly ornaments?" The brilliant and mighty son of Vinatā, king of birds, glad at heart, answered Rāma, whose eyes were bright with joy: "I am your friend, Kākutstha, your dear life-breath moving outside you. I am Garuḍa, come here to help you both. Neither the mighty asuras nor the powerful dānavas, nor the gods with the gandharvas led by Indra, could have freed you from this terrible bond of arrows that the cruel Indrajit made by the power of magic. These are nāgas, sons of Kadrū, sharp-fanged and deadly with poison, who by the power of rākṣasa magic became arrows and clung to you. You are fortunate, Rāma, knower of dharma, of true valour, you and your brother Lakṣmaṇa, slayer of foes in battle. When I heard what had happened, I came at once, in haste, out of affection for you both and keeping faith with our friendship. You have been freed from this most terrible bondage of arrows; now you must both always be on your guard. By nature all rākṣasas fight by deceit in battle, while the strength of pure-hearted heroes like you is your straightforwardness. So never trust the rākṣasas on the battlefield; let this very example teach you that rākṣasas are always crooked." Rāma's gratitude shows in his words "as glad as if I had met my father," and his mention of Daśaratha and Aja reveals both his pride in his line and a son's reverence for Garuḍa. His question "who are you?" is natural, for he does not know Garuḍa; he is playing his human part. Garuḍa's answer is mysterious: "your friend," "your life-breath moving outside you" — hinting at his eternal bond with Rāma, since Garuḍa is the mount of Viṣṇu, without saying so openly; and later he will tell Rāma not to be curious about their friendship, so the secret is kept. The sons of Kadrū are the nāgas, sons of the rival co-wife of Garuḍa's mother Vinatā, and their enmity with Garuḍa is famous in the old stories. The conversation covers three things: the cause of their release, who the serpents were, and advice for the future. "Not even the gods could free you" shows both the power of Indrajit's magic and Garuḍa's unique might. His advice is the essence of the art of war — righteous warriors are straightforward, so they must beware of those who fight by trickery. "Straightforwardness is your strength" praises Rāma, yet hints at a weakness too: the straightforward are easily deceived. "Always be on your guard" is a rule for every warrior, and Garuḍa makes the serpent-noose itself the example, so that lessons are learned from experience; Rāma accepts it and is watchful in the battles to come. Garuḍa's words blend affection and teaching — he loves like a friend and advises like a teacher — and "pure-hearted" sets the brothers' innocence against the rākṣasas' crookedness.

Having said this to Rāma, the mighty Suparṇa embraced him warmly and began to take his leave. "Rāghava, my friend, knower of dharma, kind even to your enemies, I would ask your leave; I shall go my way. Do not be curious about our friendship, Rāghava; when you have done your work in battle, my hero, you will understand it. With the waves of your arrows you will leave Laṅkā with none but its children and old people, you will kill your enemy Rāvaṇa, and you will win back Sītā." With these words the swift Suparṇa, having made Rāma whole there among the forest-dwellers, walked around him in reverence and embraced him, and then, entering the sky, the valiant bird went away like the wind. "Kind even to your enemies" speaks of Rāma's compassion, which will be proved later with Vibhīṣaṇa and with Rāvaṇa — Rāma will even permit the funeral rites of the dead Rāvaṇa. Garuḍa's prophecy, that Laṅkā will be left with only children and the old, foretells the outcome of the war, and "the waves of your arrows" pictures the arrows flooding Laṅkā like the waves of the sea. Garuḍa asks leave as a courtesy, treating Rāma as his master, yet "I shall go my way" shows his freedom. Walking around Rāma in reverence and embracing him are marks of honour for a friend. As suddenly as he came, he goes, once his work is done, and "like the wind" shows his speed. All this took place among the monkeys, so every one of them was a witness.

Seeing the two Rāghavas free from pain, the monkey troop-leaders roared lion-roars and lashed their tails. Then they beat kettledrums and sounded tabors, and in their delight they blew conches and shouted as they had before. Other valiant monkeys who fought with trees slapped their arms, tore up trees of every kind, and stood there in their hundreds of thousands. Letting out great roars and terrifying the night-rangers, the monkeys, eager to fight, came up to the gates of Laṅkā. The roaring of those monkey troop-leaders was terrible and tumultuous, like the terrible thunder of clouds rumbling at midnight at the end of summer. This joyful scene contrasts with the grief before it; "as they had before" shows the monkeys' old zeal restored. The drums, tabors and conches are both music of celebration and a call to battle, and the monkeys standing with uprooted trees are ready to fight. Their coming up to Laṅkā's gates is the start of a counter-attack: from now on the monkeys take the offensive. The image of the first rain-clouds at the end of summer marks a new beginning: the summer of grief is over and the rains of zeal have begun, and the monkeys' thunderous roar strikes fear into the rākṣasas' hearts. In the next sarga Rāvaṇa hears this roar, and it plunges him into anxiety.