As the sage sat absorbed in the beauty of the forest, he witnessed a poignant scene unfold before his eyes. From a pair of krauñcha birds, a hunter with a heart set on cruelty suddenly loosed his arrow, striking down the male bird. The sage watched as the bird, now the victim of enmity, fell to the ground, his body stained with blood. The female krauñcha, seeing her beloved mate writhing on the earth, gave voice to her anguish. Her cries, filled with deep sorrow, echoed through the woods. Separated from her companion, this twice-born bird, adorned with coppery head and radiant feathers, intoxicated with the joy of life, now mourned in utter desolation. Witnessing this grief, compassion welled up in the sage’s heart. He, righteous and gentle by nature, was moved by the suffering before him. Thinking, “This is unrighteous,” and seeing the weeping krauñcha, he spoke out, his voice trembling with emotion: “Hunter, may you never attain lasting fame, for you have killed one of the krauñcha pair, driven by lust.” As these words escaped his lips, the sage was startled by what he had uttered. He wondered, “What is this utterance I have spoken, overwhelmed by the bird’s grief?” Reflecting deeply, the wise and thoughtful sage composed himself and turned to his disciple, saying, “Bound in meter, with syllables arranged, and joined with melody—let this verse, born of my sorrow, remain just as it is.” His disciple received these words with joy, and the sage was pleased by his acceptance. After performing his ritual ablutions at the sacred spot, the sage returned to his hermitage, his mind still dwelling on the event he had witnessed. His devoted disciple, Bharadvāja, took up a full water pot and followed respectfully behind his teacher. Upon entering the hermitage, the sage, ever righteous, settled himself and engaged in other conversations before turning inward in meditation. At that moment, Brahmā—the creator of the worlds, lord of all beings, radiant and four-faced—arrived to see the great sage. Valmiki, beholding Brahmā, immediately rose, controlled his speech, and with joined palms stood in reverence, filled with awe. He honored the divine guest with offerings of water for the feet, arghya, a seat, and salutations, and having bowed properly, inquired after his well-being. Brahmā, seated upon the honored seat, invited Valmiki also to sit. With Brahmā’s permission, the sage took his place, and the Lord of all beings was visibly present before him. Even as he sat, Valmiki’s mind was absorbed in the memory of the cruel deed he had witnessed—the wicked-hearted hunter’s act of enmity. As he pondered the senseless slaying of the lovely-voiced krauñcha, he once more recited the verse, lamenting for the bereaved female bird. Then, as Valmiki’s mind turned inward, immersed in sorrow, Brahmā smiled and addressed him: “Let this verse remain as you have composed it; there is no need for further deliberation. By my will alone, O sage, this inspiration has arisen in you. Now, compose the entire story of Rāma, the righteous and wise Lord, for the benefit of the world. “Tell the tale of the steadfast one, as you heard it from Nārada—both the secret and 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 delightful verses, 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 them.” Having spoken thus, the blessed Brahmā vanished, and the venerable sage, filled with wonder, remained with his disciples. His disciples, delighted and astonished, repeatedly sang the verse composed by their teacher. Through their recitation, the sorrow that had inspired the verse was transformed into poetry, set in the four-footed meter. A resolve took root in Valmiki’s purified mind: “I will compose the entire Rāmāyaṇa in such verses.” With noble themes, meanings, and words, delightful to the mind, he wove together the fame of Rāma. In hundreds of verses of equal measure, the illustrious sage composed a poem that brought glory to Rāma’s name. With carefully arranged compounds and conjunctions, and sweet, well-constructed sentences, Valmiki shaped the story of Raghu’s scion and the slaying of the ten-headed Rāvaṇa. Thus, the third section of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Bāla Kāṇḍa, the third sarga, is revealed. Having heard all these events, with their righteous, meaningful, and beneficial aspects, the sage again sought to know clearly what happened to that wise one. After ritually purifying himself with water, Valmiki stood with joined palms upon darbha grass, its tips facing east, and sought the course of events according to dharma. He observed everything—smiling, speaking, movement, and all actions—thoroughly and properly, guided by the strength of righteousness. Whatever befell Rama, steadfast in truth, as he wandered in the forest with his wife and brother, all this he examined. Established in yoga, that righteous-souled sage perceived all that had happened in the past as clearly as one sees a fruit in the palm of his hand.