As Rāma journeyed onward, the voices of villagers lingered in the air, their words heavy with sorrow and disbelief: “Alas, King Daśaratha, lacking affection, wishes to abandon Rāma, his blameless and beloved son, for the sake of the people.” Hearing these laments, the heroic lord of Kosala, resolute in purpose, pressed swiftly forward, undeterred. Continuing his journey, Rāma crossed the river Vedashrutī, whose waters ran clear and pure, and made his way toward the region where the sage Agastya dwelled. After traveling a great distance, he came to the cold-flowing Gomati river, its banks alive with grazing cattle, and pressed on toward the sea. With swift horses, he crossed the Gomati and then traversed the Syandikā river, whose banks rang with the calls of peacocks and swans. Along the way, Rāma showed Sītā the prosperous lands once bestowed by King Manu upon Ikṣvāku, lands flourishing with abundance and thriving realms. Speaking often to his charioteer, Rāma—his voice melodious as a drunken swan—shared his thoughts: “When will I once again return to the blossoming forests by the Sarayū, to roam and hunt, reunited with my mother and father?” He continued, “Though I do not excessively long for hunting in the Sarayū forest, the joy found there is incomparable in this world, cherished by kings and sages alike. For in truth, hunting in the forest is arranged for the pleasure of royal sages, and is sought by skilled archers at the right time.” Understanding the customs and the longing in his heart, the descendant of Ikṣvāku spoke gently to the charioteer, giving him instructions as they set out along their path. Thus concludes the forty-ninth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the first poem, the Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. After traversing the delightful and vast Kosala, Rāma, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, folded his palms in reverence and spoke to the charioteer as their journey turned toward Ayodhyā: “I take leave of you, O best of cities, protected by the Kakutstha lineage, and of the deities who guard and dwell within you. When my exile in the forest is complete, and I am free from my debt to the king, I will see you again, together with my mother and father.” With eyes reddened by tears, Rāma raised his right arm, his face sorrowful, and addressed the people of the Janapada: “You have shown me compassion and kindness as was fitting. But long suffering is worse than evil—go now, so that your purpose may be fulfilled.” The people, lamenting terribly, offered him their salutations and circumambulated him, standing here and there in grief. Unsatisfied in their longing, they watched as Rāghava departed from their sight, like the sun vanishing at nightfall. Onward he traveled, passing through prosperous villages rich in grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people, untroubled by fear, and adorned with sacrificial posts. He saw villages graced with gardens and mango groves, blessed with abundant water, filled with content and healthy people, and served by herds of cattle. The tiger among men passed through the distinguished lands of kings, where the air resounded with the chants of Brahmins, riding in his chariot through this flourishing, beautiful country—a land fit for the enjoyment of kings. Amidst these joyful lands, Rāghava beheld the sacred Gaṅgā, flowing in three streams—holy, pure, untainted by weeds, and frequented by sages. The river’s banks were adorned with splendid hermitages and graced by the joyous dances of Apsarases at the proper times, attended by serene lakes. The divine river shone with the presence of gods, Dānavas, Gandharvas, and Kinnaras, and was ever attended by the wives of Nāgas and Gandharvas. Her waters were crowded with hundreds of celestial playgrounds and tens of thousands of divine gardens, famed as the lotus-lake of the gods, ascending to the heavens for their sake. In places, the Gaṅgā laughed with the crashing of her waters, her smile as pure as foam; elsewhere, her waters braided together or swirled in eddies. Sometimes she was calm and deep, at other times agitated by swift currents; here she resounded with a profound roar, there with a terrifying noise. In some stretches, gods bathed in her spotless waters; elsewhere she spread wide over gleaming sandbanks or flowed between shores covered in pure sand. Her banks rang with the calls of swans and cranes, the cries of chakravaka birds, and the joyful songs of intoxicated birds. In places, she was adorned by riverside trees like garlands; elsewhere, she was covered by blooming lotuses or 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 jewel-like clarity, her banks frequented by wild elephants and the finest tuskers of the forests and the four directions. Often, her forests echoed with the trumpeting of divine elephants; even without ornamentation, she was beautiful, like a beloved woman not yet adorned with her finest jewels. The river abounded with fruits, flowers, and tender shoots, with thickets and birds, and was home to 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. The mighty-armed Rāma approached the Gaṅgā, queen of rivers, whose banks echoed with the cries of cranes and waterfowl, as he neared the city of Śṛṅgivera. Beholding her swirling waves and eddies, the great chariot-warrior said to Sumantra, “Let us stay here tonight.” Indicating a great ingudi tree not far from the river, abundant with flowers and leaves, he added, “Let us stay right here, charioteer.