Rama, his heart full, gazed upon the mountain before him—a wondrous place alive with many kinds of deer and wild beasts, where tigers and bears roamed among the trees, and the air was filled with the calls of harmless creatures and flocks of birds. The slopes were a living tapestry, thickly covered with mango, jambū, asana, lodhra, priyāla, jackfruit, dhava, aṅkola, bhavyatiniśa, bilva, tinduka, and bamboo, their branches heavy with leaves and fruit. There, too, grew kāśmarya, ariṣṭa, varuṇa, madhūka, tilaka, badarī, āmalaka, nīpa, vetra, dhanvana, and bījaka trees, each adding its own beauty and fragrance to the mountain’s bounty. With such an abundance of flowering and fruit-bearing trees, their canopies casting delightful shade, the mountain flourished, radiant in its natural beauty. On its lovely slopes, Rama pointed out to Sita the wondrous kinnaras—mystical, awe-inspiring beings—rejoicing together in pairs, their wisdom shining through their gentle forms. He drew her attention to the swords hanging from tree branches and the splendid garments scattered about, remnants of the enchanting playgrounds of the Vidyādhara women. Waterfalls, springs, and streams tumbled down the mountainsides, glistening like fragrant ichor on a mighty elephant. The mountain breeze, sweet with the scents of countless flowers, wafted gently, bringing delight to the senses—who, Rama wondered aloud, could fail to feel joy here? He told Sita that if he could dwell in such a place for many autumns, with her and Lakshmana by his side, sorrow would never consume him. He found delight in every aspect of this charming mountain, so abundant with flowers, fruits, and birds, its peaks rising in varied splendor. Rama reflected on their exile, recognizing that it had brought him two great fruits: he had fulfilled his duty to his father and had done what would please Bharata. He asked Sita if she, too, found joy here on Chitrakuta, as they beheld the myriad forms of life, each of them practicing restraint in mind, speech, and body. Rama spoke of the royal sages of old, who had declared that true immortality lay in such a life—his own ancestors, too, had gone into the forest seeking spiritual purpose after death. All around, the mountain’s broad rocks shone in their hundreds, dazzling in blue, yellow, white, and red. At night, Rama showed Sita the herbs growing on the mountain, radiant with their own light, shining by the thousands like tongues of sacred fire. Some parts of the mountain resembled dwellings, others appeared as delightful gardens, and some, Sita observed, seemed to be formed from a single, seamless rock. It was as if Chitrakuta itself had sprung up, splitting the earth, its auspicious peak visible in every direction. Rama pointed out the beds of lovers, covered with leaves of kuṣṭha, punnāga, asoka, and bhūrja, adorned with lotus petals. He showed Sita the garlands of lotuses, crushed and cast aside by lovers, and the various fruits scattered about. Rama declared that Chitrakuta, rich in roots, fruits, and water, surpassed even the lotus-filled lakes of the northern Kurus, the fabled abodes of the gods. He told Sita that he would spend this time with her and Lakshmana, delighting in a joy that upheld the noble path, established in the highest self-restraint. Thus, the ninety-fourth sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the ancient and illustrious Rāmāyaṇa, composed by sage Vālmīki, came to its close. Then, descending from the mountain, Rama, the lord of Kosala, led Sita to the beautiful Mandakini river, its waters pure and inviting. With lotus eyes, Rama spoke to the noble princess, whose face shone like the moon. He invited her to behold the Mandakini, charming with its varied sandbanks, frequented by swans and cranes, and adorned with blooming lotuses. He showed her how the river was encircled on every side by trees heavy with flowers and fruit, shining like the lotus pond of a mighty king. At the fords, herds of deer had muddied the waters, which delighted Rama and awakened his joy. At the proper times, he told Sita, sages with matted locks and deer-skin garments entered the Mandakini to bathe, their bark clothing marking their devotion. Rama pointed out the great sages, steadfast in their vows, standing with arms raised in discipline as they worshipped the sun. The mountain’s peaks, shaken by the wind, seemed almost to dance, while the trees shed their leaves and flowers into the flowing river. The Mandakini sparkled: here like a string of jewels, there lined with sandy banks, and in some places crowded with perfected beings. He showed Sita the heaps of flowers scattered by the wind, and the many creatures swimming in the water’s midst. On the banks, the twice-born sages called Rathanga-invokers, their words sweet and melodious, sang beautiful hymns as they ascended from their baths. Rama confessed to Sita that the sight of Chitrakuta and the Mandakini, seen with her, was even more delightful than the city itself. He invited her to enter the ever-stirred waters of the Mandakini, purified by perfected beings endowed with austerity, self-restraint, and tranquility. He urged her to enter the river as she would with a friend, submerging the lotuses and water-lilies, her beauty shining amidst the blooms. Rama gently asked Sita to think of this mountain as Ayodhya, and this river as the Sarayu, just as the people of the city did, so that their hearts would remain content. He took joy in the devotion of Lakshmana, who abided by his command, and in Sita’s loving support; together, they brought him happiness. He spoke of bathing at the three sacred times, eating honey, roots, and fruits, and declared that as long as he was with Sita, he desired neither Ayodhya nor the kingdom. Truly, he said, there was no one who, seeing this delightful river—adorned with herds of deer, drunk by elephants, lions, and monkeys, and decorated with blossoming, flower-bearing trees—would not be filled with happiness and freed from all fatigue.