Sumantara, accompanied by the princes, gently comforted Raghava—Rama—and together they helped him descend to the auspicious Mandakini river. Their journey was not easy, but at last, the illustrious brothers reached the beautiful Mandakini, whose banks were ever adorned with blossoming groves. Arriving at a holy, pure ford where the waters flowed swiftly and the mud was absent, they performed the sacred water-offering. With reverence, they poured water, invoking, "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 south, and, weeping, 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." Together with his brothers, Rama crossed back from the riverbank and performed the water-offering for his departed father. He placed on a bed of darbha grass cakes made of flour mixed with jujube and barley. Overwhelmed with grief, he wept and cried out, "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." After completing the rites, Rama retraced his steps from the riverbank and climbed the gentle slope of the mountain. Upon reaching the entrance of the leaf-hut, the lord of the earth embraced Bharata and Lakshmana with his arms. The sound of their weeping echoed across the mountain, as the brothers, joined by Vaidehī—Sita—wailed together, their cries like the roaring of lions. Hearing this tumultuous lamentation as the princes performed the water-offering for their father, Bharata's soldiers were struck with fear. They murmured among themselves, "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, united in mind, each rushing to his proper place. Some men rode horses, others elephants, others well-adorned chariots, while those delicate in form went on foot. The people, eager to see Rama—recently exiled, yet seeming as if for a long time—quickly made their way to the hermitage. Driven by longing to see the brothers, they converged in various vehicles, the clamor of hoofs and wheels filling the air. The ground, struck by countless vehicles, hooves, and wheels, resounded with a tumultuous noise, like the sky at the meeting of clouds. Frightened by this sound, elephants, surrounded by their young, departed, filling the air with their scent as they moved to other parts of the forest. Herds of boars and wolves, buffaloes, serpents, monkeys, tigers, wild oxen, gavayas, and spotted deer all fled together. The birds—Rathāṅgas, Natyūhās, Hamsas, Kāraṇḍavas, Plavas, male Kokilas, and Krauñcas—scattered in confusion to different directions. The sky was filled with birds, the earth crowded with people; both shone resplendent at that moment. Suddenly, the people saw Rama, the tiger among men, illustrious and unconquered by enemies, seated on the bare ground. Approaching him, the people, condemning Kaikeyi and Manthara, stood before Rama with faces streaming with tears. Seeing these men, eyes brimming and hearts overwhelmed by sorrow, the righteous Rama embraced them as a father would his sons, or a mother her children. There, he embraced some, while others greeted him; the prince met all his peers and relatives, honoring each appropriately. The sound of those noble souls weeping echoed across earth and sky, resounding through caves, mountains, and all directions like the deep roll of drums. Thus concludes the one hundred and second sarga of the glorious Ayodhya Kāṇḍa in the ancient and revered Ramayana composed by Valmiki. Meanwhile, sage Vasiṣṭha, placing the wives of Dasharatha at the forefront, proceeded to that place, eager to see Rama. The royal wives slowly walked toward the Mandakini river, and there they saw the sacred spot frequented by Rama and Lakshmana. Kausalya, her face dried and filled with tears, spoke sorrowfully to Sumitra and the other royal women: "This is the sacred place of those who, though blameless in action, are now deprived and afflicted, having been cast out from their kingdom to the forest. From here, Sumitra, your son always fetches water tirelessly for the sake of my son. Even your youngest son has done nothing blameworthy; all that he does, he does with virtue for the sake of his brother. Even today, your son, though unaccustomed to hardship, should abandon any act that is base or unworthy, which brings suffering." With wide eyes, Kausalya saw on the southern-pointed blades of darbha grass the ingudi seed cake left by her husband. Seeing on the ground what Rama, in his grief for his father, had placed, Queen Kausalya addressed all the wives of Dasharatha: "Behold this, offered by Raghava to his great father, the lord of the Ikshvaku line; see how it was given by Raghava according to proper rites. For that king, whose greatness is like the gods, I do not think this food is fitting, after he has enjoyed all pleasures. Having ruled the earth to its four ends, lordly as Mahendra, how does the ruler of the world now eat only ingudi fruit and pressed cakes?