Understanding the purpose of his journey, the noble descendant of Ikṣvāku, Rāma, spoke kindly to his charioteer Sumantra and set out upon the path, giving him gentle instructions. Thus concluded the forty-ninth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the great poem of Vālmīki. Having traversed the delightful and vast lands of Kosala, Rāma—the wise elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa—joined his palms in reverence and addressed Sumantra as they drew nearer to Ayodhyā. With heartfelt words, Rāma took leave of the city, praising it as the best of cities protected by the lineage of Kakutstha, and offered salutations to the deities who guarded and dwelled within its walls. He spoke of his hope to return once his exile in the forest was fulfilled, free from any debt to the king, and to see Ayodhyā again accompanied by his mother and father. Overcome with sorrow, Rāma's eyes reddened with tears. Raising his right arm, his face heavy with grief, he addressed the people of Janapada who had followed him out of compassion and kindness. He thanked them for their fitting display of love, but urged them to depart, explaining that prolonged suffering is even worse than wrongdoing; he wished them to go so that their own purpose might be fulfilled. The people, lamenting terribly, saluted Rāma and circumambulated him with reverence. They stood here and there, unable to contain their grief, longing for him but unsatisfied. As their lamentations rose, Rāghava departed from their sight, vanishing like the sun at the approach of night. Journeying onward, Rāma saw prosperous villages filled with grain and wealth, inhabited by generous and virtuous people, untroubled by fear, beautiful and surrounded by sacrificial posts. These villages were adorned with gardens and mango groves, blessed with abundant water, crowded with contented and healthy folk, and served by herds of cattle. Passing through the distinguished lands of kings, Rāma’s chariot resounded with the chants of Brahmins. Amidst this flourishing and beautiful kingdom, crowded with lovely gardens and fit for the enjoyment of kings, the steadfast Rāma continued his journey. There, Rāghava beheld the divine Gaṅgā, flowing in three streams—holy, pure, free from weeds, and frequented by sages. The sacred river was adorned by splendid hermitages and graced by joyous Apsarases at the proper time, attended by lakes. Its banks were beautified by gods, Dānavas, Gandharvas, and Kinnaras, and constantly attended by the wives of Nāgas and Gandharvas. The river was crowded with hundreds of divine playgrounds, adorned with tens of thousands of celestial gardens, famed as the divine lotus-lake, ascending to the heavens for the sake of the gods. In some places, the river seemed to laugh with the crashing of water, her smile pure as foam; elsewhere, her waters were braided and adorned with swirling 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 certain stretches, gods bathed in her waters, and she shone with spotless lotuses; sometimes she spread out in broad sandbanks, elsewhere her shores were covered in pure sand. Her banks echoed with the calls of swans, cranes, and chakravaka birds, always filled with the joyful songs of intoxicated birds. In places, she was adorned by riverside trees like garlands; elsewhere, covered by blooming lotuses and crowded with clusters of lotus plants. In some spots, clusters of kumuda buds beautified her; in others, she appeared as if intoxicated, scattered with the pollen of many flowers. Free from muddy gatherings, she shone with the clarity of jewels; her banks were frequented by wild elephants and the finest tuskers of the directions and forest. Often, she echoed with the trumpeting of divine elephants, her forests resounding; like a beloved woman not yet adorned with the finest ornaments, she was beautiful even without embellishment. The river was filled with fruits, flowers, tender shoots, thickets, and birds; inhabited by porpoises, crocodiles, and serpents. She was the divine Ganga, sprung from Vishnu’s feet, 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, Rāma neared the city of Shringibera. Seeing the river swirling with waves and eddies, the great chariot-warrior said to Sumantra, “Let us stay here tonight.” He pointed to a great ingudi tree not far from the river, abundant with flowers and leaves, and suggested they rest beneath its shade. Rāma spoke of his desire to 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 agreed, and brought the horses to the ingudi tree. Rāma, the joy of the Ikshvakus, approached the lovely tree, and, together with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, descended from the chariot. Sumantra also dismounted, unyoked the noble horses, and, with joined palms, stood near Rāma who had gone to the foot of the tree. At that moment, Guha, king of the Nishādas, renowned for his strength and equal to Rāma in friendship, approached. Hearing that Rāma had entered his territory, Guha, surrounded by his aged ministers and accompanied by his kinsmen, came forth. Seeing Guha standing at a distance, Rāma, together with Saumitri, approached him. Distressed, Guha embraced Rāghava and said, “This land is yours as much as Ayodhyā, Rāma; what can I do for you?” Who, he exclaimed, would gain such a beloved guest as Rāma? Guha quickly brought various kinds of excellent food and drink, offered water for washing, and spoke words of welcome: “Welcome to you, mighty-armed one! This entire land is yours. We are your servants; you are our lord. Rule our kingdom well.