Journeying together, Rāma and Sītā, with Lakṣmaṇa by their side, made their way to the enchanting mountain of Citrakūṭa—a place that delighted the heart and soothed the mind. Upon arriving, they beheld a landscape alive with the calls of many birds, abundant with roots and fruits, and graced by beautiful lakes and clear waters. Rāma turned to Sītā, pointing out the lovely riverbank, its gentle slopes draped with trees and vines, rich in the nourishing gifts of the forest. “See, gentle one,” he said, “how well this place is suited for our life in the woods.” He noted the presence of great sages dwelling on the rocky heights and suggested, “Let us make our home here, dear one, and find joy in this peaceful refuge.” With hands joined in reverence, Sītā, Rāma, and Lakṣmaṇa approached the hermitage and greeted the sage Vālmīki. The great sage, radiant with delight and wisdom, welcomed them warmly, inviting them to be seated and honoring them with kind words. After properly introducing himself to the sage, Rāma addressed Lakṣmaṇa: “Bring strong and excellent wood, dear brother. My heart delights in this place—let us build a dwelling here.” Obedient and swift, Lakṣmaṇa gathered various kinds of wood and constructed a leaf-thatched hut, skillfully bound and pleasing to the eye. Seeing the finished shelter, Rāma spoke with gratitude to his attentive brother, “Let us now offer the meat of a deer here in our new home, for those who wish for long life must perform the sacred rite prescribed in the scriptures.” He instructed Lakṣmaṇa, “Go, kill a deer and bring it quickly. Remember the righteous rule set down by the wise.” Understanding his brother’s command, Lakṣmaṇa, ever the subduer of enemies, did as he was told. Rāma then said, “Prepare the black antelope as an offering. Let us perform the sacrifice without delay, for the moment is fleeting and the day draws to a close.” Lakṣmaṇa, powerful son of Sumitrā, found a pure black antelope, slew it, and cast it into the blazing fire. When it was thoroughly roasted and free of blood, Lakṣmaṇa spoke to Rāma, “O noble one, the offering is ready, prepared as it should be. You, who are skilled in sacred rites, may now perform the sacrifice.” Rāma, self-controlled and learned in the Vedas, bathed and recited the concluding mantras, worshipping all the hosts of gods. Pure and radiant, he entered the shelter, his mind filled with joy. He performed the Vaiśvadeva offering, as well as the fierce and Vaiṣṇava rites, beginning the auspicious ceremonies to sanctify their dwelling. Having bathed in the river and recited the prayers as prescribed, Rāma performed the highest offerings to remove any trace of sin. He established altars, shrines, and sanctuaries appropriate to their hermitage. With forest garlands, fruits, roots, ripe meats, water for libations, sacred darbha grass, and kindling—just as taught in the Vedas—Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, together with Sītā, satisfied the beings of the forest. Marked by auspicious signs, they entered their beautiful shelter. The delightful leaf-thatched hut, well-built and sheltered from the wind, became their home—like the gods entering their celestial assembly. In that excellent forest, vibrant with the sounds of wild beasts, filled with many kinds of deer and birds, and adorned with trees blooming in clusters of varied flowers, the three rejoiced, their senses at peace. Having reached the charming mountain and the sacred river Mālyavatī, where deer and birds played, Rāma felt his heart uplifted and, for a time, let go of the sorrow that exile from his beloved city had brought. Meanwhile, after a long and sorrowful conversation with Sumantra, Guha returned to his own home once Rāma had crossed to the southern bank. The journey to Bharadvāja’s hermitage, their stay at Prayāga, and their ascent of the mountain were all observed by those present. Now, having received permission, Sumantra yoked his excellent horses and, his heart heavy with grief, set out for Ayodhyā. Speeding along, he passed fragrant forests, rivers, and lakes, as well as villages and cities. On the evening of the third day, he reached Ayodhyā, only to find it bereft of joy. The city, silent and deserted, filled Sumantra with sorrow and anxious thoughts. He wondered if the city, with its elephants, horses, people, and rulers, had been consumed by the fire of grief for Rāma. Troubled and lost in thought, Sumantra hurried his swift-footed horses through the city gates. As he approached, hundreds and thousands of men rushed toward him, crying, “Where is Rāma?” Sumantra replied, “After taking leave of Raghava at the Ganga, I was permitted to return by that righteous, great-souled one.” Hearing that Rāma had crossed the river, the people’s faces filled with tears. They sighed, “Alas! Fie!” and cried out, “Ah, Rāma!” Sumantra heard their words as they stood together in sorrow, lamenting, “Truly, we are ruined, for we do not see Raghava here.