As the sages and kings stood together, their minds purified and shining like flawless jewels, a sense of relief seemed to flow from their hearts, as though they were exhaling the burdens of the day. Suddenly, a tremendous sound arose, filling every direction—a deep, thunderous rumble, reminiscent of the roar of conches at midday, or the tumultuous waves of the ocean at the world’s end. This mighty noise overwhelmed the sage’s words, much like the gentle calls of cuckoos are drowned out by the booming thunderclouds. Recognizing the futility of speaking in such clamor, the sage withheld his discourse, knowing that a profound truth cannot be revealed when its essence is lost amidst great noise. After a brief pause, as the tumult subsided, the sage turned to Rama and addressed him. “Rama, I have narrated to you the events of this day. Tomorrow morning, O destroyer of foes, I shall continue and speak of what remains to be told.” He reminded all that it was now time for the midday ritual, the prescribed duty of the twice-born. “Let us perform it, for the noble ones are waiting,” he said. He urged Rama, “You too, fortunate one, arise and skillfully carry out all the ritual acts—bathing, giving, worship, and the rest—properly and completely.” Having spoken thus, the sage rose, accompanied by King Dasharatha, and the assembly rose with them, like the sun and moon rising from behind the eastern mountain. As they stood, the entire gathering stirred, their eyes gentle and luminous, like lotus stalks caressed by a soft breeze. Among them, a noble lady rose, adorned with a cluster of bees upon her ear-ornament, her lotus-like hand swaying gracefully, reminiscent of a troop of elephants on Mount Vindhya. Her armlets were powdered and reddened from their mutual contact, resembling the twilight sky tinged with clouds of crushed jewels. As her upper garment slipped, bees hovered and buzzed around her, and her towering crown gleamed, making the sky appear like Indra’s rainbow. Her beloved waved a chowrie fan with a vine-like hand, stirring the air like a forest path moved by a herd of noble elephants. Her bracelets and jeweled bangles clashed together, drawing her garment aside like a garland of mandara flowers tossed by the wind in a grove. She was like a pure raincloud formed from musk mist, spreading over the earth like the vast expanse of the autumn sky. Her hair was adorned with clusters of red-tinted jewels, and the folds of her garment moved like restless lotuses at dusk, signaling the close of the day’s activities. Streams of jewel-light poured from her lotus face as she moved with the grace of ripples on a lotus pond, her anklets ringing in melodious waves. All around, creation itself seemed to arise anew, crowded with hundreds of mountains and filled with multitudes of beings, as if the world was freshly manifested. After bowing to the king, the lords departed from the royal palace, like jeweled waves leaving the ocean and forming a rainbow. The vassals and ministers, skilled in governance, bowed to Vasiṣṭha and the king, then went to bathe. Others, such as Vāmadeva and Viśvāmitra, placed Vasiṣṭha at their forefront and stood ready for the sacred bath. King Dasharatha, having honored the assembly of sages, was dismissed by them and went to attend to his own duties. The forest-dwellers returned to the forest, the sky-dwellers to the sky, and the city-dwellers to the city, all intending to return the next morning. At the request of the king and Vasiṣṭha, and out of affection, the sage Viśvāmitra spent the night at Vasiṣṭha’s residence. Vasiṣṭha, attended by the foremost brahmins, kings, and sages, was served by Rama and all the sons of Dasharatha. The illustrious sage, honored by all the worlds, retired to his own hermitage, followed by a host of gods, like Brahma returning to Brahmaloka. From there, the sage dismissed Rama and the other sons of Dasharatha, who had bowed at his feet, sending them away. He sent away those who move in the sky, on earth, and in water—those who dwell in the praise of his virtues—and, in due order, performed the daily rites for the twice-born at his noble hermitage. The heroic princes, radiant as the moon, returned to their homes and diligently carried out all their daily duties. Vasiṣṭha, Raghava, the kings, sages, and brahmins each attended to their own affairs within the streets of their own homes. They bathed in lakes adorned with lotuses, water lilies, and blue lilies, and in ponds frequented by chakravaka ducks, swans, and cranes. They gave cows, land, gold, beds, and seats as gifts to the brahmins, along with food and garments. In their palaces, adorned with gold and jewels, they worshipped the gods—Acyuta, Isa, Agni, Surya, and others. Together with their sons, grandsons, friends, servants, relatives, and companions, they enjoyed appropriate meals. At that time, in the city, the day was pleasant, with only an eighth of its duration remaining, gentle and delightful with a soft breeze. They spent the evening according to custom, with their relatives, until the sun set. Reverently, they performed the evening worship, recited the Aghamarṣaṇa hymn, sang auspicious praises, and chanted charming songs. Then, as the moon—remover of the sorrow of dark-eyed women—rose, spreading dew like the celestial moon from the ocean of milk, the Raghavas slowly settled onto beds strewn with flowers and scattered with handfuls of camphor, delightful as the broad disc of the full moon, and rested for the night.