The slopes of Chitrakuta dazzled in the sunlight, their broad rocks gleaming in every direction, each stone painted in vivid hues—blue, yellow, white, and red—like the work of a celestial artist. As night descended, the mountain transformed: countless herbs, radiant with their own inner light, glimmered across the peaks. Their glow resembled tongues of sacred fire flickering upon the lordly mountain, casting a mystical aura over the land. In some places, Chitrakuta appeared as if shaped into dwellings; elsewhere, it unfolded like lush gardens. Certain stretches shone as though carved from a single, seamless rock, their beauty captivating to behold. It was as if the mountain itself had burst forth from the earth’s depths, its auspicious peak visible in every direction, blessing the entire horizon. Beds where lovers had rested lay scattered with leaves from kuṣṭha, punnāga, aśoka, and bhūrja trees, adorned further with delicate lotus petals. Garlands of lotuses, once worn and now discarded by those lovers, lay crushed upon the ground, mingling with an abundance of scattered fruits. Chitrakuta’s bounty was unmatched: roots, fruits, and clear waters abounded, surpassing even the legendary lotus-filled lakes of the northern Kurus, famed as the dwellings of the gods themselves. Rama, moved by the mountain’s splendor, turned to Sita and said with warmth, “O lovely one, I shall spend this time here with you and with Lakshmana, delighting in a joy that upholds the noble path, established in the highest self-restraint.” Thus concluded the ninety-fourth sarga of the glorious Ayodhya Kanda of the ancient Ramayana. Descending from the mountain, Rama, lord of Kosala, brought Sita to the banks of the beautiful Mandakini river, whose waters ran clear and pure. With eyes like lotuses, Rama addressed the noble princess, daughter of King Janaka, whose face shone like the full moon. “Behold the Mandakini,” he said, “charming with her varied sandbanks, graced by swans and cranes, and adorned with blooming lotuses. See how she is embraced on all sides by trees heavy with flowers and fruit, shining like a royal lotus pond.” He pointed out the fords where herds of deer had muddied the waters, a sight that filled him with delight. At the proper times, ascetic sages—hair matted, clad in bark and deer skins—would enter the Mandakini to bathe. “Look, wide-eyed one,” Rama continued, “those great sages, steadfast in their vows, stand with arms uplifted in discipline, worshipping the sun.” The wind swept over the mountain, shaking its peaks so that the trees shed their leaves and flowers into the river, making it seem as if the mountain itself danced. The Mandakini sparkled in places like a string of jewels, was bordered elsewhere by sandy banks, and in certain spots was crowded with perfected beings. Heaps of flowers, scattered by the playful wind, floated upon the water, while a variety of creatures swam amidst their petals. “O auspicious one,” Rama said, “see how the twice-born sages known as Rathanga-invokers, whose words are sweet as nectar, ascend the banks of the river, singing beautiful hymns. Truly, the sight of Chitrakuta and the Mandakini, seen with you, is more delightful to me than the city itself.” He invited Sita: “Let us enter these ever-stirred waters together, purified by perfected beings endowed with austerity, self-restraint, and tranquility. O Sita, enter the Mandakini as you would with a friend, submerging the lotuses and water-lilies, O beautiful one. Think of this mountain as Ayodhya and this river as the Sarayu, just as the people of the city do. Lakshmana, ever righteous, abides by my command, and you, Vaidehi, are steadfast in your support; you both bring me joy.” Rama continued, “Bathing at the three sacred times, eating honey, roots, and fruits, I desire neither Ayodhya nor the kingdom, so long as I am with you. Who, seeing this delightful river, adorned with herds of deer, drunk by elephants, lions, and monkeys, and decorated with blossoming, flower-laden trees, could fail to be happy and free from fatigue?” So, speaking many such words to his beloved Sita about the river, Rama, the glory of the Raghu line, wandered about the beautiful Chitrakuta, radiant as collyrium to the eyes. Thus ended the ninety-fifth sarga of the Ayodhya Kanda in the holy Ramayana. After showing Sita the wonders of the river, Rama sat with her on the mountain’s slope, offering her meat to please her. He said gently, “This is pure, this is tasty, this is well-roasted in the fire.” As they sat together in contentment, a great dust cloud and the thunderous sound of an approaching army rose into the sky. Startled by the noise, herds of wild animals—alarmed and distressed—fled in every direction, their leaders urging them on. Rama heard the tumult and saw the chiefs of the herds in panic. Turning to Lakshmana, Rama, blazing with energy, said, “Look, Lakshmana, noble son of Sumitra! A terrible, thunderous, deep, tumultuous sound is heard. Perhaps it is herds of elephants or buffaloes, frightened by lions, that have scattered the animals so suddenly.” He considered further: “Perhaps a king or a royal minister is hunting in the forest, or perhaps it is some other wild beast. O Sumitra’s son, you should find out. This mountain is so difficult that even birds struggle to cross it; quickly ascertain the truth of all this.” Lakshmana, swift and vigilant, climbed a flowering śāla tree. From its heights, he looked out in every direction, his gaze fixed toward the eastern quarter, seeking the source of the commotion.