As they journeyed through the forest, Rama’s heart was heavy with sorrow and concern. He spoke to Lakshmana of Queen Kaikeyi, saying that, for the sake of the kingdom, she would not hesitate to give up even her life upon seeing Bharata return. Rama wondered aloud what their aged and helpless father, now deprived of Rama’s presence and under Kaikeyi’s sway, would do in his self-indulgence. Witnessing the misfortune that had befallen their family and the king’s confused mind, Rama lamented that desire seemed to outweigh both wealth and righteousness. “Who,” Rama asked, “even if ignorant, would abandon his own son for the sake of a woman, as our father has done to me, Lakshmana, though I have always obeyed her?” He reflected that Bharata, Kaikeyi’s son, was indeed fortunate, for he alone would enjoy the prosperous kingdom of Kosala as sovereign, with their father aged and Rama himself dwelling in the forest. Rama observed that whoever forsakes wealth and righteousness to follow desire quickly falls into misfortune, just as King Dasharatha had. He confided to Lakshmana that he believed Kaikeyi’s actions were meant to bring about Dasharatha’s end, his own exile, and the kingdom for Bharata. Rama worried that Kaikeyi, intoxicated by her newfound fortune, might trouble Kausalya and Sumitra because of him. He hoped that Queen Sumitra would not dwell in sorrow on his account, and advised Lakshmana to return to Ayodhya at the proper time to protect her. Rama declared that he alone would go to Dandaka with Sita, and that Lakshmana should be the support for the mother left behind. He warned that Kaikeyi, acting out of malice, might commit further wrongful deeds, perhaps even handing Kausalya over to Bharata, who knew righteousness. Rama pondered that perhaps, in some other life, women separated from their sons must have done something to deserve such sorrow, for now this suffering had come upon his mother. He lamented that Kausalya, who had raised him with such effort and love, was now deprived of him at the very time she should have enjoyed the fruits of her labor. “Shame on me,” he said, “let no woman ever give birth to a son like me, O Saumitri, who brings endless grief to his mother.” Rama reflected that perhaps even the pet starling was dearer to Kausalya than he was, as she listened to its words and counted the toes of her enemy’s parrot. “What use am I to my mother,” he asked Lakshmana, “when I cannot help her in her grief?” He imagined Kausalya lying overwhelmed by sorrow, lost in an ocean of grief. Rama admitted that, if he wished, he could conquer Ayodhya and even the earth with his arrows, but he knew that valor was pointless. Fearing unrighteousness and the consequences in the world beyond, he said, was the reason he did not anoint himself king. Having spoken these and other sorrowful words in the lonely forest, Rama, his face wet with tears, fell silent as night descended. Seeing his brother thus, like a fire with its flames extinguished or a sea whose waves were stilled, Lakshmana sought to comfort him. “Surely today, O best of warriors,” Lakshmana said, “Ayodhya is without radiance, with you gone—like the night bereft of the moon. It is not fitting that you grieve this way, Rama; for your sorrow casts down Sita and me as well. Neither Sita nor I could live for even a moment without you, just as fish cannot live when taken from water. Truly, I do not wish to see my father, nor Shatrughna, nor even my mother Sumitra, nor even heaven itself, if it is without you.” As Lakshmana spoke, Rama saw Sita seated comfortably not far away. The two righteous brothers then lay down together on a bed of leaves beneath a great banyan tree. Hearing Lakshmana’s excellent and heartfelt words, Rama embraced life in the forest with respect and devoted himself fully to righteousness, practicing supreme austerity for a long time. In that lonely forest, those two mighty scions of the Raghu line felt neither fear nor anxiety, like lions roaming the mountain slopes. Now, listen to the next part of the story. After spending the night safely beneath that great tree, Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita rose when the spotless sun had ascended the sky. They departed from that place and journeyed toward the sacred confluence where the Bhagirathi Ganga meets the Yamuna, entering a vast and dense forest. Along their path, the illustrious trio beheld many lands and delightful places, sights they had never seen before. As they traveled safely, surrounded by many kinds of trees, the day began to wane. Rama turned to Lakshmana and said, “Look, Saumitri, near Prayaga, a column of smoke rises—I think it is the sacred fire of a sage, the sign of the divine Agni. Surely we have reached the confluence of the Ganga and Yamuna, for I hear the sound of water striking against water. Here are logs split by forest dwellers, and in the ashram of Bharadvaja, many kinds of trees can be seen.” Happily, the two archers continued on their way as the day drew to a close, and they reached the sage’s dwelling at the confluence of the Ganga and Yamuna. As Rama arrived at the ashram, his presence startled the deer and birds. After walking for a while, he approached the sage Bharadvaja. Then, having reached the sage’s hermitage, the two heroes, accompanied by Sita and wishing to see the sage, stood respectfully at a distance.