Together with his faithful ally Sugriva, Rama journeyed to the shore of the vast and mighty ocean. There, he unleashed a storm of arrows, each one shining with the brilliance of the sun, and the sea itself trembled under his assault. Moved by this display, the lord of rivers—the ocean personified—rose up and revealed himself to Rama. He spoke, and at his command, the vanara Nala undertook the great task of constructing a bridge across the waters. By means of this wondrous bridge, Rama and his army crossed over to the city of Lanka. There, in a fierce and terrible battle, Rama slew the demon king Ravana. Having rescued Sita from captivity, Rama was suddenly overcome with a deep sense of shame. In the assembly of people, Rama spoke harsh words to Sita, unable to hide his doubts. Sita, steadfast and true, could not bear this pain; she entered the blazing fire, her heart pure and unwavering. Then, by the testimony of the sacred fire itself, it was revealed that Sita was free from all sin. This great deed brought satisfaction to the three worlds and to all beings. The hosts of gods and sages rejoiced, delighted by the righteousness and greatness of Raghava. Rama then anointed Vibhishana as king of the rakshasas in Lanka. His purpose fulfilled, and his sorrow lifted, Rama rejoiced. The gods, pleased with Rama, granted him a boon, and by his grace, the fallen monkeys were revived. Surrounded by his friends, Rama set out for Ayodhya in the celestial Pushpaka chariot. Upon reaching the hermitage of Bharadvaja, Rama, ever steadfast in truth, sent Hanuman ahead to inform Bharata of his return. After conversing once more with Sugriva, Rama boarded the Pushpaka and journeyed to Nandigrama. There, in Nandigrama, Rama shed his matted locks and, purified, was reunited with Sita and his brothers. Together, they reclaimed the kingdom. The people of Ayodhya were filled with joy and delight. They lived content, prosperous, and righteous lives, free from disease and illness, and without fear of famine. No one would ever witness the death of a son, and women would remain devoted to their husbands, never becoming widows. There was no fear from fire, nor did any creature drown in water; the winds brought no harm, and fever was unknown. Hunger and thieves vanished from the land, and cities and kingdoms overflowed with wealth and grain. Under Rama’s just rule, all were joyful, as if living in the age of truth. He performed hundreds of horse sacrifices and gave away great amounts of gold. Tens of millions of cows were given to the learned in proper rites, and immeasurable wealth to the Brahmins. Raghava established royal lineages a hundredfold greater than before and set the four classes of society firmly in their own duties. After ruling for ten thousand and ten hundred years, Rama would depart for the world of Brahma. This sacred, sin-destroying, and meritorious account, approved by the Vedas, grants freedom from all sins to whoever recites the story of Rama. One who recites this life-giving Ramayana is honored in heaven after death, along with his sons, grandsons, and companions. By its recitation, a Brahmin gains eloquence, a Kshatriya gains lordship over the earth, a merchant attains success in trade, and even a Shudra achieves greatness. Now, the second chapter of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana, the Balakanda, is to be heard. When Valmiki heard the words of the sage Narada, he—virtuous and skilled in speech—honored the great sage along with his disciples. After a short while, when Narada had departed for the world of the gods, Valmiki went to the bank of the Tamasā river, not far from the Jahnavī. Upon reaching the bank, Valmiki observed the ford, free from mud, and spoke to his disciple standing nearby: “See, Bharadvaja, this ford is clear and delightful, its waters pure and pleasing to the minds of good people. Set down the water pot, dear one, and bring me my bark garment; I will bathe here at this excellent spot.” Obedient to his teacher, the disciplined Bharadvaja handed Valmiki the bark garment. Taking it, Valmiki, ever self-controlled, wandered about, observing the vast forest in every direction. Nearby, he saw a pair of krauñcha birds moving together, inseparable, their calls sweet and lovely. But suddenly, a hunter with evil intent struck down the male of the pair as the sage watched, ending his life. Seeing the male bird wounded, his body stained with blood and writhing on the ground, the female cried out in a voice of deep sorrow. Separated from her beloved, the female bird mourned, her beautiful mate—coppery-headed, intoxicated, and adorned with bright feathers—now lifeless. Witnessing this, compassion filled the heart of the righteous sage. Moved by this sorrow, Valmiki thought, “This is unrighteous,” and, seeing the weeping krauñcha, he spoke: “Hunter, may you never attain enduring fame, since you killed one of the krauñcha pair, driven by lust.” As these words left his lips, Valmiki wondered, “What is this utterance I have spoken, overwhelmed by the bird’s grief?” Reflecting deeply, the wise and thoughtful sage composed his mind and said to his disciple, “Bound in meter, with syllables arranged and joined with melody—let this verse, born of my grief, be so and not otherwise.