Encircled by sacred kuśa grass and garments of bark, the hermitage radiated a divine splendor, shining with a brilliance that rivaled the blazing, hard-to-behold orb of the sun in the sky. It stood as a refuge for all beings, its courtyard always immaculate, alive with herds of gentle deer and surrounded by flocks of birds whose songs filled the air. The ashram was constantly honored and attended by groups of celestial Apsarases, adorned with spacious fire-altars, ladles, vessels, deerskins, and kuśa grass, all arranged with reverent care. Kindling sticks and water pots stood ready, and the grounds were graced with fruits and roots, shaded by great forest trees heavy with auspicious, sweet fruits. The place was sanctified by offerings and oblations, its atmosphere vibrant with the chanting of sacred Brahman hymns. All around bloomed various flowers, and a lotus pond shimmered with blossoms. Within, self-restrained ascetics dwelled—subsisting on fruits and roots, clad in bark and black antelope skins—shining with an inner radiance like the sun and fire. Ancient sages, pure in their diet and noble in their conduct, further adorned the hermitage, which echoed with the chanting of Brahman, resembling the very abode of Brahmā. Graced by learned and highly fortunate Brāhmaṇas, Rāghava—illustrious Rāma—beheld this sacred circle of hermitages. The great-souled sages, endowed with divine knowledge, approached after stringing their mighty bows, having seen Rāma. With joy, they greeted the illustrious Vaidehī, and, seeing her radiant as the rising moon, they rejoiced. Lakṣmaṇa and the renowned Sītā were likewise welcomed by those resolute ascetics, who offered them auspicious blessings. The forest-dwellers gazed in amazement at Rāma—his form, his build, his grace, his delicate beauty, and his splendid attire. Their eyes, unblinking, took in the sight of Vaidehī, Lakṣmaṇa, and Rāma with wonder. These greatly fortunate ones, devoted to the welfare of all beings, received Rāghava as an honored guest in their humble leaf-hut. According to custom, the exalted ascetics—fiery in their austerity—brought water for the righteous Rāma, honoring him as tradition prescribed. With utmost joy and auspicious blessings, they presented roots, flowers, fruits, and all the resources of their hermitage to the great soul. Having offered these gifts, the knowers of dharma, with palms joined in reverence, spoke to Rāma: “You, the protector of dharma and refuge of the people, famed one— the king, wielder of the rod, is to be honored and respected. Like a fourth part of Indra, Rāghava protects the people. Therefore, the king, worshipped, enjoys the finest pleasures; we, the dwellers in your domain, must be protected by you. Whether in the city or the forest, you are our king, lord of the people. We, O king, have laid down the rod, conquered anger and the senses; always, you must protect us ascetics, who are like embryos, rich in austerity.” Having thus spoken, they honored Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa with fruits, roots, flowers, and various forest foods. Other ascetics and perfected beings, righteous and radiant like fire, also satisfied Rāma, the lord, with all that was proper. Now, listen to the next part of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Araṇyakāṇḍa. After receiving such hospitality, Rāma, having taken leave of all the sages, set out toward the sunrise and entered the depths of the forest. Accompanied by Lakṣmaṇa, Rāma ventured into the heart of the woods, where no birds called, but the air resounded with the chirring of crickets. There, with Sītā by his side, the descendant of Kakutstha beheld a terrifying sight—a man-eater, loud and dreadful, surrounded by fierce beasts, looming like a mountain peak. The creature had deep-set eyes, a huge mouth, a grotesque and swollen belly, and a hideous, uneven form—tall, deformed, and terrifying to behold. He wore a tiger’s hide, still wet with fat and stained with blood, a terror to all beings, his mouth gaping like Death itself. Impaled on an iron spike he carried were three lions, four tigers, two wolves, ten spotted deer, and the great head of an elephant, horned and smeared with fat. Roaring with a mighty voice, he caught sight of Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā of Mithilā. Enraged, he rushed at them like Death at the end of time, making a dreadful sound as if shaking the earth itself. Seizing Vaidehī in his arms, he withdrew, declaring, “You two, wearing matted locks and bark garments, with your wife—your lives are nearly over. You have entered the Daṇḍaka forest, armed with bow, arrows, and sword; how is it that you, ascetics, dwell here with a woman? Who are you, evil-doers, unrighteous and corruptors of sages? I am Virādha, a Rākṣasa, who roams this difficult forest. I wander always armed, consuming the flesh of sages; this woman of noble form shall become my wife. And as for you two sinners, I will drink your blood in battle.” Hearing his arrogant words, Janaka’s daughter Sītā trembled with fear, shaking like a plantain tree in the wind. Seeing Sītā, radiant and now seated on Virādha’s lap, Rāghava, his mouth parched, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa: “Behold, gentle one, the daughter of King Janaka, my wife of virtuous conduct, placed on Virādha’s lap.