After hearing the words of Nārada, the virtuous and eloquent sage Vālmīki, together with his disciples, honored the great sage with reverence. Now begins the second chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Bālakāṇḍa, which is to be heard. After a short while, when Nārada had departed for the world of the gods, Vālmīki made his way to the bank of the Tamasā river, not far from the sacred Jahnavī. Upon reaching the bank, he observed the ford—free from mud, delightful, with clear water, pleasing to the minds of good people. Turning to his disciple Bharadvāja, he said, “See, Bharadvāja, this ford is free from mud, delightful, with clear water, pleasing to the mind of good people. Set down the water pot, dear one, and hand me my bark garment; I wish to bathe here at this excellent ford of the Tamasā.” Thus addressed by the great-souled Vālmīki, Bharadvāja, ever disciplined, handed his teacher the bark garment. Taking it from his disciple’s hand, Vālmīki, self-controlled, wandered about, observing the vast forest in every direction. Nearby, he saw a pair of krauñcha birds moving together, inseparable, their calls sweet and lovely. But suddenly, a hunter with evil intent killed the male of the pair, the seat of enmity, as the sage watched. Seeing her mate struck down, his body stained with blood and writhing on the ground, the female cried out in a voice of deep sorrow. Separated from her companion, that twice-born bird, with his coppery head, intoxicated and adorned with feathers, she mourned bitterly. Witnessing the bird struck down by the hunter, compassion arose in the heart of the righteous sage. Moved by this feeling, Vālmīki thought, “This is unrighteous,” and, seeing the weeping krauñcha, spoke these words: “Hunter, may you never attain enduring fame, since you killed one of the krauñcha pair, driven by lust.” As he spoke thus, a thought arose in his heart as he gazed: “What is this utterance I have spoken, overwhelmed by the bird’s grief?” Reflecting deeply, the wise and thoughtful sage composed his mind and spoke to his disciple: “Bound in meter, with syllables arranged, and joined with melody—let this verse, born of my grief, be so and not otherwise.” As Vālmīki spoke these excellent words, his disciple joyfully accepted them, and the teacher was pleased. Then, having performed his ablutions at that holy place according to custom, the sage returned, his mind dwelling on the event he had witnessed. Bharadvāja, his obedient and learned disciple, took up a full water pot and followed behind his teacher. Entering the hermitage with his disciple, the sage, versed in righteousness, sat down, engaged in other conversations, and settled into meditation. At that moment, Brahmā, the creator of the worlds, the lord himself, four-faced and radiant, came to see that foremost of sages. Vālmīki, seeing him, immediately rose, controlled his speech, joined his palms in reverence, and stood, filled with utmost wonder. He honored the god with offerings of water for the feet, arghya, a seat, and salutations, and, having bowed properly, inquired after his well-being. The blessed one, having seated himself on the highly honored seat, offered a seat in turn to the sage Vālmīki. Having received Brahmā’s approval, Vālmīki too took his seat; and when he was seated, the Lord of all beings sat visibly before him. With his mind absorbed in the event of the krauñcha’s sorrow, Vālmīki entered into meditation, pondering the cruel deed committed by the wicked-hearted hunter, whose mind was set on enmity. As he mourned how such a lovely-voiced krauñcha bird was slain without cause, he again sang the verse in lament for the female krauñcha. Once more, his mind withdrawn inward and immersed in sorrow, Brahmā, smiling, addressed the foremost of sages. “Let this verse remain as it is composed; there is no need for deliberation here. By my will alone, O sage, this Sarasvatī has arisen in you. Compose the entire story of Rāma, O best of sages, the righteous and wise Lord, for the world. Tell the account of the steadfast one, as you heard it from Nārada, both the secret and the open events that befell that wise man. Whatever happened to Rāma, to Saumitri, to all the rākṣasas, and to Vaidehī—whether openly or in secret— all that is unknown will become known to you; no falsehood will enter your speech in this poem. Compose the sacred story of Rāma, bound in verses and delightful, for as long as mountains and rivers endure upon the earth. So long as the tale of Rāma, created by you, is told, the story of the Rāmāyaṇa will circulate among people. For that duration, above and below, you will dwell among people.” Having spoken thus, the blessed Brahmā vanished there, and the venerable sage, with his disciples, departed in wonder. Then all his disciples repeatedly sang that verse, delighted and greatly astonished. That which was sung by the great sage in four-footed meter, through repeated recitation, sorrow was transformed into verse.