Hearing the heartfelt words of the villagers, Rāma, the heroic lord of Kosala, pressed onward with swift resolve. Soon, he crossed the river Vedashrutī, whose waters ran pure and clear, and continued his journey toward the region where the sage Agastya dwelled. The path was long, but Rāma’s determination did not waver. In time, he reached the cold-flowing Gomati river, its banks frequented by grazing cattle and stretching toward the distant ocean. With his swift horses, Rāma crossed the Gomati and then traversed the lively Syandikā river, whose waters echoed with the calls of peacocks and swans. As they traveled, Rāma pointed out to Sītā the prosperous land that once had been bestowed by King Manu upon Ikṣvāku—land that flourished under the care of his ancestors. Throughout the journey, Rāma, whose voice was as melodious as a swan’s, spoke often to his charioteer, Sumantra. With a gentle longing, he wondered aloud, “When will I return again to the blossoming forest by the Sarayū, to roam and hunt, reunited with my mother and father?” He confessed that while he did not yearn excessively for the hunt, the joy of wandering those woods was unmatched—a pleasure cherished by kings and sages alike. Hunting in the forest, Rāma reflected, was a pastime arranged for the delight of royal sages and was sought after by those skilled with the bow at the proper time. Understanding the place of such pleasures, the noble descendant of Ikṣvāku spoke kindly to Sumantra, guiding him onward along their path. Thus concluded the forty-ninth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the first great poem, the Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. Having journeyed through the delightful and vast expanse of Kosala, Rāma, the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, folded his palms in reverence and spoke to Sumantra as they headed toward Ayodhyā. “I bid you farewell, O best of cities, protected by the noble Kakutstha lineage, and to the deities who guard and dwell within you. When my exile is over and my duty to the king is fulfilled, I shall return to see you again, together with my mother and father.” Tears reddened Rāma’s eyes as he raised his right arm in sorrow and addressed the people of the Janapada who had followed him. “You have shown me compassion and kindness as was fitting; but to endure long suffering is worse than any evil. Go now, so that your purpose may be fulfilled.” The people, their hearts heavy, paid their respects to Rāma, circumambulating him with devotion. Lamenting bitterly, they lingered, unable to let go, until finally, Rāghava departed from their sight, like the sun disappearing at dusk. As he journeyed on, Rāma beheld prosperous villages, filled with grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people who lived without fear. The land was beautiful, encircled by sacrificial posts, and adorned with gardens and mango groves. The people were content and healthy, and herds of cattle roamed freely. Passing through the distinguished domains of kings, Rāma’s chariot rolled through lands that resounded with the sacred chants of Brahmins. The kingdom was joyful, flourishing, and beautiful—crowded with lovely gardens, fit for the enjoyment of kings. Amidst this abundance, Rāma came upon the divine Gaṅgā, flowing in three sacred streams. The river was pure, holy, and free from weeds, her waters frequented by sages and adorned with splendid hermitages. At auspicious times, the joyous Apsarases graced her banks, and sacred lakes attended her. The Gaṅgā was beautified by the presence of gods, Dānavas, Gandharvas, and Kinnaras, and she was constantly attended by the wives of Nāgas and Gandharvas. Her banks were crowded with celestial playgrounds and gardens, famed 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 water, her foam shining like a pure smile; elsewhere, her waters twisted in braids, or danced in swirling eddies. Sometimes she was calm and deep; at other times, her swift currents roared with a profound or terrifying noise. In certain stretches, gods bathed in her waters, and spotless lotuses shone on her surface. Broad sandbanks spread out in some places, while in others, her shores were covered in pure sand. Her banks rang with the calls of swans, cranes, and chakravaka birds, always alive with the joyful songs of intoxicated birds. Riverside trees adorned her like garlands, blooming lotuses covered her in some spots, while clusters of lotus plants and kumuda buds beautified her in others. Sometimes she seemed intoxicated, scattered with the pollen of many flowers. Free from muddy gatherings, her waters sparkled with the clarity of jewels, and her banks were frequented by wild elephants and the finest tuskers from all directions and the forests. Often, the trumpeting of divine elephants echoed through her forests. The river was like a beloved woman, beautiful even without the finest ornaments. She was filled with fruits, flowers, and tender shoots, thickets and birds, and inhabited by porpoises, crocodiles, and serpents. This was the divine Gaṅgā, sprung from Viṣṇu’s feet, sinless and the destroyer of sin, who had fallen from the matted locks of Śaṅkara and blazed with the radiance of the ocean. Drawing near to the Gaṅgā, queen of rivers, whose banks rang with the cries of cranes and waterfowl, Rāma approached the city of Śṛṅgivera. Seeing the river swirling with waves and eddies, the great chariot-warrior said to Sumantra, “Let us stay here tonight. Not far from the river stands a great ingudi tree, abundant with flowers and leaves; let us rest here, charioteer. We will behold the best of rivers, sacred and honored by all, whose waters are revered by gods, demons, gandharvas, beasts, humans, and birds.