रावणेन सारथेः निन्दा सारथिना आत्मसमर्थनं च

Driven by the power of Death and furious in his delusion, Rāvaṇa, his eyes red with rage, said to his charioteer: "You act on your own judgment and despise me, fool, as though I had no valour, no strength, no manhood, as though I were a timid, feeble, spiritless creature without splendour, as though I had lost my magic and been cut off from my weapons. Why, despising me and ignoring my wishes, have you driven my chariot away in full view of the enemy? Base one, today you have destroyed the fame, valour, splendour and trust I earned over a long time. With my enemy looking on, a warrior of famed prowess who delights others with his deeds, you have made me, who hunger for battle, into a coward. Since in your delusion, fool, you will not drive the chariot on, my suspicion must be true: you have been bought by the enemy. This is not the act of a friend who wishes me well; what you have done befits an enemy. Turn the chariot back at once, before my enemy gets away, if you have lived long with me and if you remember my kindness." From the start the poet signals that Rāvaṇa's mind is now driven by death. His charges grow sharper one by one: first contempt, then the ruin of his fame, and at last the suspicion of a bribe. Note the repeated "as though": he did not think himself weak or feeble, but the charioteer's act made him look so, and that is what galls him. In his eyes retreat was the height of disgrace, so he condemns even the saving of his own life; fame is everything to him and life counts for less, and that pride is his weakness. In appealing to the long years the charioteer has lived with him and to his favours, he tries to recall him to his duty.

So harshly addressed by his unwise master, the charioteer, who meant him well, answered with beneficial and conciliatory words, restrained and modest, first rejecting each charge and then giving his reasons. "I am not afraid," he said, "I am not deluded, I have not been suborned by the enemy; I am not careless, I do not lack affection, and I have not forgotten your favours." So he disposed of every accusation, fear, folly, treachery, negligence, lack of love and ingratitude, one by one. "But wishing your good and guarding your fame, my heart moist with affection, I did something unwelcome because it was for your good." That what is good for one may be unwelcome is a well-known principle of statecraft, and his heart "moist with affection" shows his loyalty. "In this matter, great king, you should not find fault with me, who am devoted to your welfare, as if I were some petty, ignoble man. Listen, and I will tell you why I turned the chariot back in battle, as a river's flood is turned back by its own waters." That is, it was the situation that turned it back, not his own whim. "I saw how weary you were from the great labour of battle; I could not see your ardour or your superiority in valour. And my chariot horses are worn out from drawing the chariot, broken down, wretched and exhausted by the heat, like cows beaten by the rain." He spoke plainly of Rāvaṇa's fatigue, an unwelcome truth, and the pitiful picture of the horses also tells how long the fighting had gone on.

"And in the many omens that appear to us," he went on, "as each one arises I see ill fortune. A charioteer must know place and time, signs and gestures, dejection, joy and weariness, and the strength and weakness of his warrior; high and low ground, level and uneven; the time for battle and the enemy's weak points; when to advance and when to withdraw, when to stand and when to fall back. All this the charioteer must know, for he has the chariot in his care as a man has his family. For your rest, and for these chariot horses, to spare you a dreadful exhaustion, I did what was fitting. It was not of my own will, hero, that I drove the chariot away; what I did, my lord, I did out of devotion to my master. Now command me as you truly wish, destroyer of foes; whatever you tell me I will do, with a heart set on repaying my debt to you." Here is a list of a charioteer's duties that sums up the ancient art of war. A charioteer is not merely a driver but the warrior's helper and counsellor, watching place, time and ground, the enemy's weakness and his master's state of mind, and above all looking for the enemy's moment of weakness; reading the omens is part of his task too. The unusual phrase that the chariot is his family means that guarding it is his duty. He wants to be free of his debt to his master, a debt paid only by obedience, and so he asks again for his orders; his modesty and loyalty are complete, and Rāvaṇa's false suspicion is laid to rest. The episode suggests that victory in war comes not from courage alone but from judgment too.

Pleased with the charioteer's words, Rāvaṇa, still eager for battle, praised him in many ways and said: "Drive this chariot quickly towards Rāghava, charioteer; Rāvaṇa will not turn back without killing his enemies in battle." With that, the lord of the rākṣasas gave the charioteer standing in the chariot a single fine, beautiful bracelet, a mark of a king's generosity and an honour to his servant, as if in amends for his earlier abuse. Hearing Rāvaṇa's words, the charioteer turned back, and urged on by them he drove the horses swiftly, so that in a moment the great chariot of the rākṣasa lord stood before Rāma at the front of the battle. The charioteer's sensible words calmed Rāvaṇa's anger, but his resolve did not change, and his vow not to turn back without killing his enemy would be the cause of his end. He accepted the proof of the charioteer's loyalty but ignored his advice, the need for rest and the evil omens, and so his chariot went back to face Rāma along the path of fate. Rāvaṇa was driven by Death, as the sarga began, and the charioteer was driven by Rāvaṇa. In this sarga the fighting pauses and the exchange between master and servant takes its place, a lull in the middle of the great battle that prepares for the decisive fight to come.