As Rāma journeyed onward, the words of the villagers echoed with worry and compassion: “How will Sītā, the blessed daughter of Janaka, who has always known happiness, now endure suffering?” they wondered aloud. Their hearts ached for her, and for Rāma himself. “Alas,” they lamented, “King Daśaratha, lacking affection, wishes to abandon his blameless and beloved son for the sake of the people.” Hearing these heartfelt laments, the heroic lord of Kosala did not linger. With resolve, he pressed forward on his path. Soon, he crossed the river Vedashrutī, its waters pure and clear, and continued toward the region where the sage Agastya made his home. The road was long, but Rāma traveled swiftly. He crossed the cold waters of the river Gomati, its banks alive with cattle, heading ever closer to the ocean’s expanse. With his swift horses, he forded the Gomati and then traversed the Syandikā river, where the air was filled with the cries of peacocks and swans. As they traveled, Rāma pointed out to Sītā the prosperous lands once bestowed by King Manu upon Ikṣvāku, their ancestor. These realms flourished, rich and thriving. Again and again, the illustrious Rāma, his voice melodious like a swan in drink, addressed the charioteer. “When will I return,” he mused, “to the blossoming forests along the Sarayū, to wander and hunt, united once more with my mother and father?” He continued, “Though I do not long excessively for the hunt in the Sarayū forest, there is no pleasure in the world to compare with it, a joy esteemed by kings and sages alike. Indeed, in this world, forest hunting is arranged for the delight of royal sages, and it is sought by skilled archers at the proper time.” Understanding the spirit of these words, the descendant of Ikṣvāku spoke kindly to the charioteer, instructing him as they set out along their chosen path. Thus concludes the forty-ninth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the first poem, the Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. Having passed through the delightful and vast land of Kosala, Rāma, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, folded his hands and spoke to the charioteer as they journeyed toward Ayodhyā. “I take leave of you, O best of cities, protected by the noble Kakutstha lineage, and of the deities who guard and dwell within your walls. When my exile in the forest is complete, my debt to the king fulfilled, I will see you again, together with my mother and father.” Then, his eyes reddened with unshed tears, Rāma raised his right arm and, his face shadowed with sorrow, addressed the people of the Janapada who had followed him. “You have shown me compassion and kindness as was fitting; but long suffering is worse than evil itself. Go now, so that your purpose may be fulfilled.” With reverence, the people saluted the great-souled Rāma and circled him, their lamentations filling the air. Yet, unsatisfied in their longing, they watched as Rāghava departed from their sight, vanishing like the sun at the approach of night. Onward Rāma traveled, passing through prosperous villages teeming with grain and wealth, where generous and virtuous people lived without fear. The villages were beautiful, encircled by sacrificial posts, adorned with gardens and mango groves, blessed with abundant water, and filled with contented, healthy people and herds of cattle. The tiger among men journeyed through the distinguished lands of the kings, where the air resounded with the chants of Brahmins. In his chariot, Rāma traversed this joyful, flourishing, and beautiful land, crowded with lovely gardens, a kingdom fit for the enjoyment of kings. At last, Rāghava beheld the divine Gaṅgā, flowing in three streams, holy, pure, and free from weeds, frequented by sages. Her banks were adorned by splendid hermitages, and she was graced by joyous Apsarases at the proper time. The sacred river was attended by lakes, beautified by gods, Dānavas, Gandharvas, and Kinnaras, and constantly visited by the wives of Nāgas and Gandharvas. The Gaṅgā was crowded with hundreds of divine playgrounds, adorned with tens of thousands of celestial gardens, renowned as the divine lotus-lake that ascended to the heavens for the sake of the gods. In some places, the river laughed with the crashing of her waters, her smile as pure as foam; elsewhere, her waters were braided, or adorned with swirling eddies. Here she flowed calm and deep; there, she was agitated by swift currents. Sometimes she resounded with a profound roar, at other times with a terrifying noise. In certain stretches, gods bathed in her waters and she shone with spotless lotuses. At times, she spread out in wide sandbanks; elsewhere, her shores were covered in pure sand. Her banks echoed with the calls of swans and cranes, and the cries of chakravaka birds; always, her waters were alive with the joyful songs of intoxicated birds. In some places, she was adorned by riverside trees like garlands; elsewhere, she was covered by blooming lotuses, and in other spots, crowded with clusters of lotus plants. Some stretches were beautified by clusters of kumuda buds; in others, she seemed intoxicated, scattered with the pollen of countless flowers. Free from muddy gatherings, she shone with the clarity of jewels, her banks frequented by wild elephants and the finest tuskers of the region and the forest. Often, the river echoed with the trumpeting of divine elephants, her forests resounding with their calls. Like a beloved woman not yet adorned with her finest ornaments, she was beautiful even without embellishment. Her banks overflowed with fruits, flowers, tender shoots, thickets, and birds; she was inhabited by porpoises, crocodiles, and serpents. This was the divine Gaṅgā, sprung from the feet of Viṣṇu, sinless and the destroyer of sin, fallen from the matted locks of Śaṅkara, blazing with the radiance of the ocean itself. Rāma, mighty-armed, approached this queen of rivers, her banks echoing with the cries of cranes and waterfowl, as he neared the city of Śṛṅgivera. Beholding her swirling waves and eddies, the great chariot-warrior spoke to Sumantra: “Let us stay here tonight.