As the tumultuous sound echoed through the forest, birds of every kind—Rathāṅgas, Natyūhās, Hamsas, Kāraṇḍavas, Plavas, male Kokilas, and Krauñcas—flew in confusion, scattering to all directions. The sky became alive with frightened birds, while the earth was crowded with people, both realms glowing with a strange brilliance in that moment. Suddenly, the assembled people caught sight of Rama, the tiger among men, radiant and unconquered by any enemy, seated humbly on the bare ground. They hurried toward him, their hearts heavy, voices condemning Kaikeyi and Manthara for the calamity that had befallen them. Tears streamed down their faces as they stood before Rama. Seeing the sorrowful crowd, their eyes brimming with tears, Rama, ever righteous, embraced them with the warmth of a father for his sons, or a mother for her children. Some he embraced, others greeted him respectfully; the prince honored each friend and relative, meeting every one with appropriate affection. Across the earth and sky, the sound of their weeping resounded, echoing through caves and mountains, rolling like the deep beat of drums in all directions. Thus concluded the one hundred and second sarga of the glorious Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the ancient and revered Rāmāyaṇa composed by Vālmīki. Meanwhile, Vasiṣṭha, the revered priest, placed the wives of Daśaratha at the forefront and led them to the place where Rama dwelled, eager to see him. The royal women moved slowly toward the Mandākinī river, and there they saw the sacred spot frequented by Rama and Lakṣmaṇa. Kausalyā, her face dried and stained with tears, spoke sorrowfully to Sumitrā and the other queens: “This is the holy place of those blameless ones, now deprived and afflicted, cast from their kingdom into the forest. From here, Sumitrā, your son tirelessly fetches water for my son. Even your youngest son, Lakṣmaṇa, has done nothing blameworthy; all his actions are virtuous, devoted to his brother. Even today, though unused to hardship, your son must avoid any base act that brings suffering.” With wide eyes, Kausalyā saw on the ground, atop the southern-pointed blades of darbha grass, the ingudi seed cake left by Rama. Seeing this, placed by Rama in his grief for his father, she spoke to her co-wives: “Behold what Rāghava has offered to his great father, the lord of the Ikṣvāku line, given according to proper rites. For such a king, whose greatness rivals the gods, I do not think this food is fitting, after he has enjoyed every pleasure. Having ruled the earth to its four ends, as lordly as Mahendra, how does the ruler of the world now eat only ingudi fruit and pressed cakes? Nothing in this world seems more painful than that Rama, so prosperous, should offer his father only ingudi fruit and honey. Seeing Rama give his father ingudi cakes, how does my heart not shatter into a thousand pieces from grief? Indeed, it seems true: as is a person's food, so are the deities who preside over him.” Her co-wives, seeing her so afflicted, comforted her, and together they entered the hermitage, where they beheld Rama, appearing like a god fallen from heaven. Seeing Rama, who had renounced all enjoyments, the mothers, tormented by grief, shed tears aloud. Rama, ever true to his word and a tiger among men, rose and reverently touched the blessed feet of all his mothers. With soft, tender fingers, the wide-eyed women gently wiped the dust from Rama’s back. Saumitri, too, seeing the mothers distressed, greeted them respectfully in turn, after Rama, with deep feeling. All the women showed Lakṣmaṇa the same affection as they did for Rama, recognizing his auspicious signs and noble birth. Sita, sorrowful, touched the feet of her mothers-in-law and stood before them, her eyes filled with tears. Kausalya embraced Sita as a mother would her daughter, and spoke to her, seeing her emaciated and dejected from the hardships of forest life: “How has Sita, daughter of the king of Videha, daughter-in-law of Daśaratha, and wife of Rama, come to such suffering in this lonely forest? Seeing your face, scorched like a lotus by the sun, withered like a waterlily, gold dulled by dust, or the moon dimmed by clouds—O Vaidehi, your face burns me with grief like fire consumes its fuel, and sorrow, born of misfortune, torments my heart.” As Kausalya spoke in distress, Rama, elder brother of Bharata, approached and touched the feet of Vasiṣṭha. Like Indra approaching Brihaspati, Rama, radiant and prosperous, respectfully took the feet of the priest, equal to fire, and sat down with him. Bharata, devoted to righteousness, sat near his elder brother, accompanied by his ministers, chief citizens, soldiers, and all those who understood dharma. Seated thus, the mighty Bharata, hands joined in reverence, gazed upon Rāghava, who shone with splendor like a sage—just as Indra would look upon Prajāpati. The noble assembly was filled with curiosity: What words would Bharata speak today, after bowing respectfully to Rāghava? There, Rāghava, steadfast in truth, Lakṣmaṇa of great prowess, and righteous Bharata, surrounded by their friends, shone in the assembly like three sacred fires with their priests, illuminating the moment with their virtue and presence.