Once, Rama, remembering his father’s kindness, lamented to Bharata, “When my father saw me behave well, he would speak gentle words to comfort me—how will I ever again hear those pleasing words?” After expressing this sorrow, Rama, tormented by grief, approached Sita, whose face shone like the full moon, and spoke to her. “Sita, your father-in-law has died; you are bereft of a father, Lakshmana. Bharata sorrowfully tells us the king has gone to heaven.” As Rama spoke these words, abundant tears welled up in the eyes of the illustrious princes. All the brothers, greatly consoling Rama, said, “Let the water-rite be performed for our father, the lord of the earth.” When Sita heard that her father-in-law, the king, had passed to the heavenly realms, her eyes filled with tears and she could not bear to look at her husband. Rama, consoling Janaka’s daughter as she wept, spoke to Lakshmana, himself sorrowful, to his sorrowful brother: “Bring me a cake of ingudi flour and fetch an upper garment of bark; I will go to perform the water-rite for my great-souled father. Let Sita go ahead, and you walk beside her; I will follow behind, for this path is exceedingly harsh.” Sumitra’s son, Lakshmana—ever devoted, self-controlled, gentle, peaceful, and firm in his devotion to Rama, wise and understanding—joined them. Sumantara, together with the princes, comforted Rama and helped him descend to the auspicious Mandakini river. With difficulty, the illustrious ones reached the beautiful Mandakini, whose banks were always adorned with flowering groves. Coming to a holy, pure, and mudless ford with swift-flowing waters, they poured water there, saying, “May this be for you, O King.” Rama, the lord of the earth, took a handful of water in his cupped palms, turned toward the southern direction, weeping, and spoke: “O tiger among kings, may this pure, unfailing water, offered by me today, reach you who have gone to the world of the ancestors.” After crossing back from the bank of the Mandakini, Rama performed the water-offering for his father, together with his brothers. Placing on a bed of darbha grass the cakes made of flour mixed with jujube and barley, Rama, overwhelmed with grief, weeping, spoke: “O great king, partake of this, pleased, for we are without proper food; as is the food a person eats, so is the food offered to his ancestors.” Following the same path, Rama, the tiger among men, crossed back from the riverbank and climbed the lovely slope of the mountain. Reaching the entrance of the leaf-hut, the lord of the earth embraced both Bharata and Lakshmana with his arms. From the sound of their weeping, an echo arose on the mountain, as the brothers, together with Sita, wailed like roaring lions. Hearing the tumultuous sound of the mighty ones weeping as they performed the water-offering for their father, Bharata’s soldiers grew afraid. They said, “Surely Bharata has met with Rama; this great sound is from those who grieve for their dead father.” All of them, leaving their quarters, hurried in the same direction, their minds united, each running to his proper place. Some men went on horses, others on elephants, others on well-adorned chariots, and still others, delicate in form, went on foot. All the people, eager to see Rama, who had been recently exiled as if for a long time, quickly made their way to the hermitage. Eager to see the brothers, they hurried there, coming together in many kinds of vehicles, with the clamor of hoofs and wheels. The ground, struck by many vehicles, by hoofs and wheels, resounded with tumultuous noise, like the sky at the meeting of clouds. Frightened by that sound, elephants, surrounded by their young, left, filling the air with their scent, and went to another part of the forest. Herds of boars and wolves, buffaloes, serpents, monkeys, tigers, wild oxen, and gavayas fled together with the spotted deer. Birds called Rathāṅgas, Natyūhās, Hamsas, Kāraṇḍavas, Plavas, male Kokilas, and Krauñcas scattered in confusion to different directions. Frightened by that sound, the sky was filled with birds, and the earth was crowded with people; both appeared resplendent at that moment. Suddenly, the people saw Rama, the tiger among men, illustrious and unconquered by enemies, seated on the bare ground. Approaching Rama, the people, condemning Kaikeyi along with Manthara, stood before him with faces filled with tears. Seeing those men, their eyes brimming with tears and overwhelmed by sorrow, the righteous one embraced them as a father would his sons, or a mother her children. There, Rama embraced some of the men, while others greeted him; the prince, meeting all his peers and relatives, honored each appropriately. The sound of those great souls weeping, echoing across the earth and sky, continually resounded through caves, mountains, and all directions, like the deep roll of drums. Thus ends the one hundred and second sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and revered Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. Meanwhile, Vasiṣṭha, placing the wives of Daśaratha in front, proceeded to that place, eager to see Rama. As the royal wives slowly walked toward the Mandākinī river, they saw there the sacred spot frequented by Rama and Lakṣmaṇa.