Having crossed the Gomati river with swift horses, Rama journeyed onward, traversing the Syandikā, whose waters echoed with the vibrant calls of peacocks and swans. As he traveled, Rama pointed out to Sita the prosperous lands they passed—territories once bestowed by King Manu upon Ikshvaku, now flourishing and filled with thriving kingdoms. Rama, his voice gentle and melodious like a swan in its cups, often addressed his charioteer as they moved along. With longing, he wondered aloud, “When will I return to the blossoming forests by the Sarayū, to wander and hunt, reunited with my mother and father?” Yet, he added, “Though I do not yearn excessively for the hunt, the pleasure of roaming those woods is unparalleled in this world, cherished by kings and sages alike. Indeed, such pastimes in the forest are arranged for the delight of royal sages, and are sought after by skilled archers at the proper time.” Understanding his purpose, the noble descendant of Ikshvaku spoke kindly to the charioteer, guiding the journey onward. Thus concludes the forty-ninth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the first poem, the Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. Having traversed the delightful and vast land of Kosala, Rama, the wise elder brother of Lakshmana, joined his palms and spoke to the charioteer as they neared Ayodhyā. “I take my 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, my duty to the king fulfilled, I shall see you again, together with my mother and father.” With eyes reddened by tears, Rama raised his right arm, his face sorrowful, and addressed the people of the land: “You have shown me compassion and kindness as was right; but prolonged suffering is worse than misfortune. Go now, so that you may fulfill your own purposes.” The people, lamenting deeply, saluted the great-souled Rama and circled him in reverence, standing here and there in grief. As their sorrowful cries lingered, Rama departed from their sight, fading away like the sun at the approach of night. As he continued his journey, Rama beheld prosperous villages, abundant with grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people who lived without fear. The villages were beautiful, encircled by sacrificial posts, adorned with gardens and mango groves, blessed with ample water, and crowded with joyful, healthy people and herds of cattle. Rama, the tiger among men, passed through the distinguished lands of kings, where the air resonated with the chants of Brahmins. In his chariot, he traveled through this flourishing, beautiful land, crowded with lovely gardens—a kingdom fit for the enjoyment of kings. In due course, Rama beheld the divine Ganga, flowing in three streams—holy, pure, free from weeds, and frequented by sages. The riverbanks were adorned with splendid hermitages and graced by joyous Apsarases at the proper times, while sacred lakes attended her waters. The Ganga was beautified by the presence of gods, Dānavas, Gandharvas, and Kinnaras, and was constantly visited by the wives of Nāgas and Gandharvas. Her banks were crowded with hundreds of divine playgrounds, adorned with tens of thousands of celestial gardens, and famed as the divine lotus-lake, ascending to the heavens for the sake of the gods. In some places, the river laughed with the sparkling crash of water, her smile bright as foam; elsewhere, her waters were braided or adorned with swirling eddies. At times, she was calm and deep; elsewhere, she surged with swift currents, roaring with either a deep or a fearsome sound. Gods bathed in her waters, and she shone with spotless lotuses. She spread out in broad sandbanks or displayed shores covered in pure, white sand. Her banks resounded with the calls of swans and cranes, as well as the cries of chakravaka birds, always alive with the joyful songs of intoxicated birds. In some places, she was adorned with riverside trees like garlands; elsewhere, she was covered with blooming lotuses or crowded with clusters of lotus plants. Clusters of kumuda buds beautified her in some stretches, while in others, she seemed intoxicated, scattered with the pollen of countless flowers. Unmarred by mud, she shone with gem-like clarity; her banks frequented by wild elephants, the finest tuskers of the directions and the forest. Often, her forests echoed with the trumpeting of divine elephants. Even without the finest ornaments, she was beautiful—like a beloved woman not yet adorned. The Ganga was filled with fruits, flowers, tender shoots, thickets, and birds, and was home to porpoises, crocodiles, and serpents. She was the divine river, sprung from the feet of Vishnu, sinless and destroyer of sin, fallen from the matted locks of Shankara, blazing with the radiance of the ocean. Approaching the Ganga, queen of rivers, whose banks echoed with the cries of cranes and waterfowl, Rama neared the city of Shringibera. Gazing upon her swirling 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 beneath it, 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.” Lakshmana and Sumantra replied, “So be it,” and led the horses to the ingudi tree. Rama, the joy of the Ikshvakus, approached the lovely tree and, together with Sita and Lakshmana, descended from the chariot. Sumantra also dismounted, unyoked the noble horses, and, with hands joined in reverence, stood near Rama, who had settled at the foot of the tree.