Trijaṭa, radiant like the great sages Bhrigu and Angiras, made his way undeterred through the enclosures of the royal assembly, passing even the fifth, for none could stop his advance. Approaching Rāma, he spoke humbly, “O Prince, mighty one, I am poor and burdened with many children.” He explained, “I live by tilling the forest; please consider my plight.” Hearing this, Rāma smiled and replied with gentle humor, “I have not yet given even a single one out of a thousand cows. But as many as you can encircle with your staff, that much you shall receive.” Eagerly, Trijaṭa girded his cloth around his waist, seized his staff, and hurled it with all his strength. The staff flew from his hand, soared over the Sarayu river, and landed amidst a great herd of cows, near the oxen. Rāma, righteous and generous, embraced Trijaṭa on the riverbank and led those cows toward the sage’s hermitage. Then Rāma addressed the descendant of Garga with gentle words, consoling him, “Do not be angry; this was only a jest of mine. Truly, your power is insurmountable. I wished to witness it, and for this reason, I encouraged you. Now, choose any other boon you desire. I speak truthfully—you shall not be restrained by me. Whatever wealth of mine you wish, let it be properly given to you, so that I may gain both merit and fame.” The great sage Trijaṭa, with his wife by his side, joyfully accepted the herd of cows and, in return, offered blessings to Rāma, increasing his fame, strength, and happiness. Rāma, ever magnanimous and complete in manliness, distributed the great wealth he had righteously acquired among his friends, prompted by words of proper honor. Whether a twice-born companion, a servant, or a poor beggar, none were left unsatisfied—each received gifts and honors as was fitting. Now, listen to the next sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Having bestowed abundant wealth upon the brāhmaṇas and, together with Sītā, the two noble sons of Raghu set out to see their father. Their weapons were carried by two attendants, and Sītā, adorned with garlands and ornaments, shone with radiant beauty beside them. As they proceeded, people climbed onto palaces, mansions, and the tops of towers, eager to catch sight of the illustrious Rāma passing by. The streets, crowded with sorrowful citizens, were impassable, so the people watched from the rooftops as Rāghava walked below. Seeing Rāma on foot with his brother and Sītā, the hearts of the people were overcome with grief, and many spoke words of sorrow and admiration. “He, whom once a great fourfold army followed, now has only Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā by his side. He who knew the pleasures of sovereignty and never spoke falsely, out of reverence for dharma, now walks in exile.” They lamented for Sītā as well: “She whom even the beings of the sky could not see before, today is beheld by all on the royal road. Sītā, accustomed to fragrant ointments and red sandalwood, will soon lose her color beneath the heat and cold of the wilderness.” The people questioned the king’s judgment: “Surely today, King Daśaratha speaks as if possessed; for what king would banish his beloved son? How could there be exile even for a son lacking virtues? What then of one whose conduct alone has won over the world?” They praised Rāma’s virtues: “Compassion, kindness, learning, good character, self-restraint, and tranquility—these six adorn Rāghava, the foremost among men. Because of his suffering, the people are afflicted, like creatures of the waters when the ponds dry up in summer. All the world is harmed by the pain of this lord, just as a tree is injured when its root is struck. He is indeed the root of mankind, the very essence of righteousness, radiant in glory; all others are but the flowers, fruits, leaves, and branches.” In their grief and devotion, the people declared, “Let us, like Lakṣmaṇa, quickly follow Rāghava, with our wives and relatives, wherever he goes. Abandoning gardens, fields, and homes, united in joy and sorrow, let us follow Rāma, the righteous one. Let the treasures of the sea, the ruined courtyards, the gathered wealth and grain, lose all value. Let our houses, covered in dust, abandoned by the gods, overrun by mice and their holes, devoid of water and smoke, uncleansed, with lost taxes, sacrifices, mantras, offerings, and recitations, become as if broken by a harsh season, with shattered vessels, abandoned by us—let Kaikeyī take possession of them.” “Let the forest become the city, wherever Rāghava goes, and the city we abandon become the forest. Let all the creatures of the wild—burrowing animals, beasts, birds, elephants, and lions—flee the forests in fear of our presence. Let them take what we leave behind and abandon what we inhabit—the land of grass, meat, fruit, and wild creatures. Let Kaikeyī and her kin inherit the city; we will live happily in the forest with Rāghava.” Thus, Rāghava heard these many words, spoken out of love and sorrow by the people of Ayodhyā, but his mind remained steadfast and unshaken by their lamentations.