रामेण रावणस्य भर्त्सनं सारथिना रथापवाहनं च

So hard pressed by Kākutstha in the previous sarga, and humiliated in front of his own army, Rāvaṇa, who gloried in battle, fell into a great rage; the epithet recalls the boastfulness that Rāma's words will soon lash. His eyes blazing with indignation, he raised his bow and in towering fury attacked Rāghava with all his might in that great battle. He poured thousands of streams of arrows on Rāghava, filling him with them as a cloud from the sky fills a pond. Yet though covered with the net of arrows from the bow, Kākutstha did not tremble, unshakeable as a great mountain in the rain; the two similes, the cloud filling the pond and the mountain bearing the storm, come together, and Rāma's steadfastness is the foundation of this sarga. Standing firm, warding off the nets of arrows with his own, the valiant one received them as the earth receives the rays of the sun, so calm was his endurance. Then the swift-handed night-roamer in his anger drove thousands of arrows into the chest of the great-souled Rāghava. Smeared with blood, Lakṣmaṇa's elder brother looked like a great kiṃśuka tree in flower in the forest, visible from afar as a lone flowering tree in the woods is, the counterpart of the flowering aśoka to which Rāvaṇa was compared in the previous sarga. The wounds did not weaken him; the blows of the arrows only roused him, and Kākutstha of great splendour, bright as the sun at the end of an age, a sun that brings destruction, foreshadowing the slaughter to come, took up his arrows. Then Rāma and Rāvaṇa, both in fury, could no longer see each other in the darkness of arrows on that battlefield, so thick were the arrows that even the sunlight was blocked, a hyperbole that makes the intensity of the fight vivid in the reader's mind.

Then Rāma, son of Daśaratha, filled with anger, laughed and spoke harsh words to Rāvaṇa: "Vilest of rākṣasas, you carried off my helpless wife from Janasthāna without my knowledge, and so you are no hero. You seized Vaidehī by force when she was without me, forlorn in the great forest, and you think, 'I am a hero.' Hero among women who have no protector! You did the coward's deed of laying hands on another man's wife, and you think, 'I am a hero.' You breaker of bounds, shameless, unsteady in conduct, you have taken death upon yourself out of pride, and you think, 'I am a hero.' A great, praiseworthy and glorious deed indeed, done by a hero, the brother of the Lord of Wealth, with armies at his command! Now reap today the full fruit of that deed, a reproach and a harm, done by one swollen with arrogance. Fool, you think yourself a hero, yet you feel no shame at dragging Sītā away like a thief. Had you laid hands on Sītā by force in my presence, you would have gone to join your brother Khara, slain by my arrows." The refrain "you think, 'I am a hero'" comes three times, sharper with irony each time. The praise of a great and glorious deed is really scorn, spoken by saying the opposite. Rāma reminds him of his family too, that as brother of Kubera he should never have stooped so low, and the mention of Khara recalls Rāma's earlier victory at Janasthāna, where fourteen thousand rākṣasas were slain. The heart of the rebuke is what true heroism is: a hero is one who fights face to face in battle, not one who carries off a helpless woman. Rāvaṇa had boasted of his heroism, so Rāma takes his own word and turns it against him, and "hero among women without protectors" is especially bitter. "You have taken death upon yourself out of pride" means that the abduction of Sītā, which he chose for himself, is the cause of his death. Rāma speaks from dharma: to protect women is a hero's first duty, and to violate it is cowardice. So before his weapons strike, his words shatter his enemy's self-esteem.

"By good fortune, dull-witted one, you have come within my sight," he said, with the satisfaction of one who had long sought his enemy. "Today with sharp arrows I shall send you to Yama's abode. Today let the carrion-eaters drag your head, with its blazing earrings, cut off by my arrows and tossed in the dust of battle. When you lie thrown on the earth, Rāvaṇa, let the vultures swoop on your chest and drink thirstily the blood welling from the wounds of my arrows. Today, when my arrows have split you and you lie lifeless and fallen, let the birds drag out your entrails as eagles drag out serpents," an image that recalls the eagle and serpent weapons of the previous sarga. His words grow more terrible step by step, from Yama's abode to the severed head, the vultures drinking blood and the birds pulling out the entrails, a mingling of the heroic and the furious; and the fourfold "today" shows his firm resolve that it would be done that very day. So speaking, heroic Rāma, destroyer of foes, covered the rākṣasa lord standing near him with showers of arrows. Then an inner change came over him. As he sought his foe's death, Rāma's valour, strength and joy doubled in that battle, and so did the power of his weapons; his joy is the eagerness of battle, not cruelty. All the weapons of that self-knowing hero manifested themselves of their own accord, and in his gladness the great-spirited one grew swifter still of hand. "Self-knowing" suggests that his power lay within him all along and only showed itself when the moment came. Recognising these auspicious signs within himself, not in anything outside, Rāma, destroyer of the rākṣasas, pressed Rāvaṇa harder still.

Struck by volleys of stones from the monkeys, who now joined the fight, and by Rāghava's showers of arrows, Daśagrīva grew bewildered at heart, not only wounded in body but shaken in mind. He no longer took up a weapon, no longer drew his bow, and with a faltering spirit made no answer to Rāma's valour; the arrows and many weapons he had hurled seemed now to be working for his own death, as the poet says, so plainly had fate turned against him, and his hour of death was at hand. For a warrior to take up no weapon and draw no bow is a sign that death is near. Seeing him in that state, his charioteer, who guided the chariot, calmly and slowly drove the chariot out of the battle, carefully, keeping out of the enemy's sight. He was not fleeing in fear but wisely taking his master out of danger; whether that was right will be argued in the next sarga. Turning back at speed that dreadful chariot which rumbled like a cloud, the charioteer, seeing his lord fallen and bereft of his valour, left the field in fear. In the eyes of the world it was flight, but by the rules of war it was the protection of his master. The poet's words that Rāvaṇa's hour of death was at hand prepare the listener for his end.