As Rama prepared to leave for the forest, his heart was heavy with concern, not for himself, but for those he loved. Turning to Lakshmana, he spoke with deep affection, “Let not Queen Sumitra, my mother-in-law, dwell in sorrow because of me. Lakshmana, at the proper time, you must return to Ayodhya and be her comfort.” Rama insisted that he alone would go into the Dandaka forest with Sita, and entrusted Lakshmana with the sacred duty of protecting Sumitra, who would otherwise be left without support. His mind troubled by thoughts of what might befall his mother Kausalya, Rama continued, “Kaikeyi, acting out of malice, may commit wrongful deeds. She might even hand over my mother to Bharata, though he is righteous and knows dharma.” He reflected on fate and suffering, saying, “Surely, in some past life, women separated from their sons must have done something to deserve this, for now such sorrow has come upon my mother.” Rama’s sorrow deepened as he remembered Kausalya’s love and sacrifices. “For so long she raised me with much suffering, and now, when she should reap the reward of her devotion, she is deprived of me. Shame on me,” he lamented. With a heavy sigh, he added, “Let no woman ever give birth to a son like me, Saumitri, one who brings endless grief to his mother.” He mused that perhaps even Kausalya’s pet starling was dearer to her than he, as she listened to its words and counted the toes of her enemy’s parrot. “What use am I to my mother, O subduer of foes, when I cannot help her in her grief?” he asked, his voice full of pain. “Deprived of me, my mother Kausalya lies overwhelmed by the greatest sorrow, as if fallen into an ocean of grief.” Rama knew he had the strength to seize Ayodhya or even the earth itself by force, but he dismissed such thoughts. “Alone, I could conquer Ayodhya and the world with my arrows in anger, Lakshmana, but what is the use of valor? Fearing unrighteousness and the consequences in the world beyond, I will not anoint myself king today, O sinless one.” Having spoken these and many other sorrowful words in the lonely forest, Rama sat silently as night fell, his face wet with tears. Seeing Rama’s anguish and his silent suffering—like a fire whose flames are spent, or a sea whose waves are stilled—Lakshmana sought to comfort his elder brother. “Surely today, O best of warriors, Ayodhya is without radiance, now that you are gone—like the night bereft of the moon,” Lakshmana said gently. “It is not right for you to grieve this way, Rama. By your sorrow, you cast down both Sita and me. Neither Sita nor I could live 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 own mother Sumitra, nor even heaven itself, if it is without you.” With these words, Lakshmana’s devotion and love shone forth. Sita, seated comfortably not far away, watched as the two noble brothers, their hearts eased by their exchange, lay down together on a bed of leaves beneath a great banyan tree. Hearing Lakshmana’s wise and heartfelt words, Rama embraced life in the forest with renewed resolve. He devoted himself to righteousness, practicing supreme austerity for a long time. In that lonely forest, the two mighty scions of the Raghu line felt neither fear nor anxiety, just as lions roaming free on the mountain slopes. Now begins the fifty-fourth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. After spending the night safely beneath the sheltering banyan, the first rays of the spotless sun roused them. Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana arose and set forth from that place, journeying toward the sacred confluence where the holy Bhagirathi Ganga meets the Yamuna. They entered a vast, dense forest, marveling at the unfamiliar lands and delightful sights along their path. As the day wore on and the sun began to set, Rama spoke to Lakshmana, “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.” He listened to the sound of water striking water and said, “Surely we have reached the confluence of the Ganga and Yamuna.” They saw logs split by forest dwellers and many kinds of trees in the ashram of Bharadvaja. With happiness in their hearts, the two archers pressed on, and as evening fell, they reached the sage’s dwelling at the confluence of the holy rivers. Rama, entering the ashram, startled the deer and birds as he walked, before approaching the great sage Bharadvaja. The three—Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana—stood at a respectful distance, wishing to see the sage. Entering, they saw Bharadvaja, steadfast in his vows, surrounded by his disciples, his mind focused, and his vision sharpened by austerity. Rama, together with Saumitri and Sita, offered respectful greetings with joined palms upon seeing the sage’s sacred fire. Introducing themselves, Rama said, “Revered one, we are the sons of Dasharatha—Rama and Lakshmana. This is my wife, Vaidehī, the virtuous daughter of Janaka. She, blameless, has accompanied me into the lonely forest of asceticism. My dear younger brother, Saumitra, sent into exile by our father, is firm in his vows and has come with me to the forest. Instructed by our father, we shall enter the forest of austerity and there practice only righteousness, subsisting on roots and fruits.” Hearing these humble words from Rama, the righteous sage Bharadvaja offered them a cow, water, and various offerings. Scorched by his own austerities, the sage provided Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana with many kinds of forest food, roots, and fruits, and prepared a dwelling for them. Surrounded by deer, birds, and sages on all sides, Bharadvaja welcomed Rama and his companions with honor and heartfelt greeting, thus marking the beginning of their stay at the sacred confluence.