He journeyed far and wide, visiting the pure and auspicious hermitages of great royal sages, Brahmarṣis, gods, and Brāhmaṇas. Time and again, the honored one wandered with his brothers to the very borders of the earth, exploring all four directions. Having seen the entire world—where immortals, kinnaras, and men paid him homage—the delight of the Raghu line returned home, just as the Lord of beings returns to Shiva’s realm after wandering through the directions. As he entered the city, handfuls of roasted rice and flowers showered upon him from the hands of the people, and the illustrious Jayanta entered his house as if entering heaven itself. Raghava, who had arrived first, respectfully bowed to his father, to Vasiṣṭha, to his mother, to his relatives, to the Brahmins, and to all the elders and teachers. His friends, mothers, father, and groups of Brahmins embraced him again and again, and Raghava never tired of their affectionate greetings. There, the two sons of Dasharatha exchanged firm and loving words, their sweet voices delighting the quarters like the gentle notes of a melodious flute. For many days, a joyous festival celebrated Rama’s return, filling the city with great happiness and the lively sounds of playful celebration. From that time on, Raghava dwelled contentedly at home, recounting to all the various customs and practices he had observed in distant lands. Each morning, Rama would rise early, perform the Sandhya ritual as prescribed, and then go to see his father seated in the assembly, radiant and majestic like Indra. He spent a quarter of the day with Vasiṣṭha and other wise men, engaged in delightful and varied conversations, honored by all for his wisdom. With his father’s permission, Rama would sometimes go out to the forest, surrounded by a great army, seeking the thrill of the hunt among boars and buffaloes. Returning home, he would bathe and perform his rituals, then dine with friends and relatives, and spend the night in the company of his companions. Thus did Raghava and his brothers settle into this daily routine, living in their father’s house after returning from pilgrimage. The faultless Rama passed his days in this way, pleasing the hearts of good people like the cool, soothing light of the moon—his noble actions and eloquent words a source of delight to all. When the scion of the Raghu line reached his sixteenth year, Rama, Shatrughna, and likewise Lakṣmaṇa were always at his side. Bharata, meanwhile, resided happily in his maternal grandfather’s house while King Dasharatha ruled the earth with wisdom and propriety. For the sake of his sons and his people, the wise king consulted daily with his ministers, ever careful in matters of state. But after the pilgrimage, Rama remained at home, and day by day he grew thin, like a clear lake in autumn shrinking as the waters recede. His broad-eyed face became pale, like a white lotus leaf fully opened and faded. Sitting in the lotus posture, his hand resting on his cheek, he became absorbed in deep thought, silent and unmoving. Emaciated and weary, lost in contemplation and deeply troubled, he spoke to no one, like a painted figure—still and mute. Though his attendants, out of concern, repeatedly urged him, Rama performed his daily duties with a withered, lotus-like face. Seeing Rama—distinguished among sages and a repository of virtues—in such a state, his two brothers too became afflicted, sharing his sorrow. As his sons grew thin and distressed, King Dasharatha and his wives also fell into the grip of anxiety. Again and again, the king gently asked Rama, “What is this great worry, my son?” But Rama would not reveal his heart. Instead, he replied, “Father, I have no sorrow at all,” and sat silently on his father’s lap, his eyes like lotus petals. Perplexed and troubled by Rama’s condition, King Dasharatha turned to Vasiṣṭha, foremost among speakers and knower of all duties, and asked for guidance. The sage Vasiṣṭha replied, “O illustrious king, there is indeed a reason for this; do not grieve.” Hearing these words, the king pondered deeply. “O king,” said Vasiṣṭha, “the wise do not give way to anger, sorrow, or excessive joy for trivial reasons. In this world, beings do not undergo great changes except by the force of creation and the momentum of circumstances.” After the chief sage spoke thus, the king remained in doubt and distress, maintaining silence for a while as he waited. In the royal palace, all the queens grew anxious, and everyone watched Rama’s behavior with concern. At that very moment, the renowned sage Vishvamitra arrived to see the king of Ayodhya. At that time, the sage’s sacrifice was being disrupted by demons intoxicated by the power of their magical strength, though Vishvamitra himself was wise and devoted to righteousness. For the protection of his sacrifice, he sought an audience with the king, for he could not accomplish his ritual without hindrance. Thus, with the intention of destroying those ascetics’ tormentors, the great and radiant Vishvamitra—a treasury of austerity—approached the city of Ayodhya. Desiring to see the king, he spoke to the gatekeepers: “Quickly announce that I, Kauśika, son of Gādhi, have arrived.” Hearing his words, the doorkeepers, their minds agitated by the sage’s command, hurried to the royal residence. Reaching the palace, they reported to the chief chamberlain that the sage Vishvamitra had arrived. The chamberlain, in turn, swiftly approached the king, who was seated in assembly surrounded by his court, and informed him of the sage’s arrival.