The poem, vibrant with the full range of human emotion—love and compassion, humor and fury, terror and heroism, and more—was sung by two remarkable brothers. Skilled in the science of music and the art of intonation, their melodious voices and graceful modulation made them seem like incarnate Gandharvas, celestial musicians come to earth. Their beauty and auspicious marks were evident, and their speech as sweet as nectar; it was as if they were living images sprung from the very body of Rāma himself. These two royal sons had mastered the entire noble and righteous narrative, and they rendered the poem flawlessly, their recitation beyond reproach. In gatherings of sages, twice-borns, and the virtuous, they sang as they had been instructed, with unwavering concentration and deep understanding of the poem’s essence. Great-souled and greatly fortunate, adorned with all auspicious marks, the two brothers would, at times, perform among assemblies of sages whose minds were purified by austerity. Standing in the midst of such venerable gatherings, the brothers sang the poem. As their voices filled the air, all the assembled sages found their eyes brimming with tears. Overcome with wonder, they exclaimed, “Excellent! Excellent!” Their hearts, devoted to righteousness, overflowed with joy. They praised the two Kuśīlava singers, declaring them worthy of all commendation: “Ah, the sweetness of this song, and especially of these verses!” Though the events recounted were from long ago, the brothers’ performance made them vivid—present before the very eyes of the listeners. They sang with harmony and passion, their melody accomplished and sweet, so much so that the great sages, renowned for their austerity, heaped praises upon them. As the brothers sang with ever greater passion and extraordinary sweetness, a delighted sage, standing nearby, offered them a water pot in gratitude. Another sage, pleased and famous, gave them bark garments; another gifted a black antelope skin, another a sacred thread. One sage offered a water vessel, another a girdle of muñja grass, yet another a staff, and another a loincloth. The outpouring of gifts continued: an axe from one delighted sage, ochre robes from another, and yet another garment of bark. One sage joyfully gave a matted hair band and a wooden rope; another presented ritual vessels, and yet another brought a bundle of firewood. Someone gave a staff of udumbara wood, while others offered blessings and words of long life. Thus, all the truth-speaking sages bestowed gifts upon the brothers, saying, “This wondrous tale has been proclaimed by the sage.” For this poem is the supreme foundation of poets, completed in proper order and sung by those skilled in all songs. It brings long life, generates strength, and delights all who hear it. Wherever the two singers performed, they were praised by all. On the streets and royal roads, Rāma—the elder brother of Bharata—saw the two Kuśīlavas and brought them to his own house. Rāma, destroyer of enemies, honored the two who were worthy of honor. Seated on a divine golden throne, the lord paid them homage. Surrounded by his counselors and brothers, Rāma beheld the two, their handsome forms and gentle manners shining brightly. He turned to Lakṣmaṇa, Śatrughna, and Bharata, saying, “Let us hear the story of these two, radiant as gods.” He encouraged the brothers to perform the tale, rich in meaning and expression. They sang sweetly and passionately, their voices flowing from the depths of their hearts. Their performance was marked by perfect harmony of strings and rhythm, the meaning clear and the melody delightful to every ear, mind, and heart. In the assembly, their song shone brightly. “These two ascetics, marked by royal birth, are also skilled singers and great in austerity,” Rāma declared. “They are wondrous, even in my eyes. Now, listen to the noble story of their mighty deeds.” Thus prompted by Rāma’s words, the brothers began to sing, following the proper method. Seated among the assembly, Rāma gradually became absorbed in the desire to listen. Now, hear the fifth chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Bāla Kāṇḍa. All this earth once belonged entirely to those ancient kings, victorious in battle, beginning with Prajāpati himself. Among them was Sagara, famed for having dug the ocean, accompanied by his sixty thousand sons as he journeyed. In the line of those great-souled kings of the Ikṣvāku dynasty, this great tale arose, known as the Rāmāyaṇa. Now, the story shall be recounted from the very beginning, accompanied by righteousness, desire, and wealth; it is to be heard without envy. There was a city called Ayodhyā, famed throughout the world, which was built by Manu, the lord of men, himself. That splendid city stretched twelve yojanas in length and three in breadth, its main roads well-divided and orderly. Ayodhyā was adorned with a great royal road, beautifully laid out, always strewn with fresh flowers and sprinkled with water. King Daśaratha, increaser of his great realm, dwelled in that city as the lord of the gods dwells in heaven. The city was furnished with gates and archways, with well-planned marketplaces, filled with all kinds of machines and weapons, and inhabited by every kind of artisan. It was crowded with charioteers and bards, possessed of unmatched splendor, with tall mansions and fluttering banners, and thronged with hundreds of engines of war. All around, troupes of actresses and dancers performed; gardens and mango groves adorned the city, which was encircled by a great belt of śāla trees.