Rama, his heart heavy with sorrow, spoke to Lakshmana with deep feeling. “I alone will go to Dandaka with Sita,” he said. “You, Lakshmana, must remain behind to care for our mother, who will be left without support. Be her protector. I fear that Kaikeyi, driven by malice, may act wrongly and might even give my mother into the hands of Bharata, though he himself is righteous. Perhaps, in some past birth, women who were separated from their sons committed some wrong, and now that fate has come upon my own mother. “Kausalya raised me for so long, enduring many hardships, and now, when she should be reaping the reward of her love, she is deprived of me. Shame on me for this! Let no woman ever have a son like me, O Saumitri, a son who brings endless grief to his mother. Sometimes I think the pet starling is dearer to her than I am, for she listens to its words as she counts the toes of her enemy’s parrot. Of what use am I to my mother, O subduer of foes, if I cannot help her at all when she grieves for me? My mother Kausalya, now without me, lies overwhelmed by sorrow, as if she has fallen into a boundless ocean of grief. “If I wished, I could conquer Ayodhya and even the earth with my arrows, Lakshmana, but what use is valor now? It is pointless. I refrain from acting only out of fear of unrighteousness and the consequences in the world beyond, O sinless one. That is why I do not seize the throne for myself.” Having spoken these and many other sorrowful words in the lonely forest, Rama’s face became wet with tears. He sat in silence as the night descended. Seeing Rama thus, his lamentation spent and his spirit subdued—like a fire whose flames are extinguished, like a sea whose waves are stilled—Lakshmana sought to comfort him. “O best of warriors,” Lakshmana said gently, “surely today Ayodhya has lost its radiance, now that you are gone—like the night without the moon. It is not right that you grieve in this way, Rama, for you cast down Sita and me as well, O best of men. 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 the ascetic Sumitra, nor heaven itself, if it means being without you.” As Sita sat nearby, the two brothers, righteous and steadfast, lay down together on a bed of leaves beneath the spreading branches of a banyan tree. Hearing Lakshmana’s heartfelt words, Rama accepted his life in the forest with renewed respect and resolve. The noble Raghava devoted himself fully to righteousness, embracing supreme austerity for a long time. In that lonely forest, the two mighty sons of the Raghu line felt neither fear nor anxiety, like lions roaming the mountain slopes. Now begins the fifty-fourth chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. After spending the night safely beneath that great tree, Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana rose at dawn, as the spotless sun ascended the sky. They departed from that place, journeying toward the sacred meeting place of the Bhagirathi Ganga and the Yamuna. Entering a vast and dense forest, they beheld many lands and delightful sights, marveling at wonders they had never seen before. As they traveled, passing through groves of many kinds of trees, and as the day drew to its close, Rama spoke to Lakshmana. “Look, Saumitri—see that column of smoke rising near Prayaga? I believe it is the sacred fire of a sage, the sign of the divine Agni. We must be near the confluence of the Ganga and Yamuna, for I hear the sound of waters striking against each other. Here are logs split by forest dwellers, and in the ashram of Bharadvaja, many kinds of trees can be seen.” With cheerful hearts, the two archers walked on as the day waned, soon arriving at the sage’s dwelling at the sacred confluence. As Rama entered the ashram, his presence startled the deer and birds, but he pressed on, eager to approach the sage Bharadvaja. Accompanied by Sita and Lakshmana, the two heroes stood at a respectful distance from the great-souled sage, who was surrounded by his disciples, steadfast in his vows and radiant with the fruits of his austerities. Seeing the sacred fire of the sage, Rama, along with Sita and Lakshmana, greeted him reverently with joined palms. Then Rama, the elder brother, introduced himself: “Revered one, we are the sons of Dasharatha—Rama and Lakshmana. This is my wife, Vaidehī, the virtuous daughter of Janaka; she, blameless, has followed me into this lonely forest of asceticism. Saumitra, my dear younger brother, has come with me, sent into exile by our father. He is firm in his vows and has chosen to share my exile. O revered one, instructed by our father, we have entered this forest of austerity, where we shall live righteously, sustained only by roots and fruits.” Hearing these words of the wise prince, the righteous sage Bharadvaja welcomed them warmly. He brought forth a cow, offerings, and water for their comfort. Scorched by his own austerities, the sage provided them with various kinds of forest food—roots and fruits—and prepared a dwelling for them. Surrounded by deer, birds, and other sages, Bharadvaja honored Rama and his companions with great hospitality. After receiving these offerings and being seated, Rama listened as the sage Bharadvaja, full of righteousness, began to speak words of wisdom and welcome.