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On the bank of the river Tamasa, one line of pure compassion once broke from a sage’s heart, and that single line became the seed of the world’s first poem. The poem begins here, and we bring its beginning to you. The sage Valmiki had gone to Narada, the wanderer among the gods, with a question. Who is there in the world at this hour, he asked, who holds every virtue at once: strong, learned in what is right, grateful for kindnesses done him, truthful, firm in his vows, flawless in conduct, a friend to all that lives, wise, capable, and so lovely to look upon that the sight of him steals the mind? Who has conquered his own self and mastered his anger, and whose wrath in battle can make even the gods tremble? One man, said Valmiki. Name him. Narada smiled and answered. There is such a man, he said, born in the line of Ikshvaku, and his name is Rama.
Narada’s tale: the whole Ramayana in a single breath
Narada strung the virtues of Rama like beads on a thread. Intelligent, sound in judgment, eloquent, radiant with fortune, a destroyer of enemies; broad-shouldered, long-armed, his neck lined like a conch, his chest deep, his eyes wide. He was neither too tall nor too short, his limbs matched and finely built, his body marked with signs of good fortune. He knew the secret of dharma, kept his given word, and lived for the good of his people. He was grave as the ocean and steady as the Himalaya, a match for Vishnu in prowess, gentle as the moon to behold, terrible as the fire at the end of an age when his anger rose, and patient as the earth herself. Such was Rama, the son who swelled the joy of Kausalya.
Wishing to please his people, King Dasharatha set his heart on installing this eldest son, Rama, as regent of the kingdom. But Queen Kaikeyi, to whom the king had once promised a boon in return for old service, cashed that promise for a cruel price: the exile of Rama to the forest and the crowning of her own son, Bharata, in his place. Bound by the chain of his own truthfulness, Dasharatha sent his beloved son away.
Behind Rama walked the modest Lakshmana, the delight of Sumitra and the truest of brothers. And Sita, Rama’s dear wife, who had risen in Janaka’s line from the furrow cut by a ploughshare and was loved as life itself, went with Rama as Rohini goes with the moon. Rama was a hero, and he kept the promise made for him, and he went. At Shringaverapura, on the bank of the Ganga, he met Guha, the chief of the Nishadas, and sent his charioteer home from there. Forest after forest, crossing rivers deep with water, he came to Prayaga and the sage Bharadwaja, and on that sage’s word he went on to Chitrakuta and built a fair leaf-thatched hut, and there the three of them lived as happily as gods and gandharvas in their pleasure gardens.
When Rama had gone to Chitrakuta, Dasharatha, broken by grief for his son, died with his son’s name on his lips and passed to heaven. Vasishtha and the other brahmins pressed Bharata to take the throne, but the mighty Bharata would not have it. He went into the forest to bring Rama back, and standing before his elder brother in the spirit of a true kinsman, he begged that Rama alone should rule, for Rama knew what was right. But Rama would not take the kingdom, because his father had ordered otherwise, and he gave Bharata his own pair of wooden sandals as a token of love and, after many entreaties, sent him home. Without winning what he had come for, Bharata touched his brother’s feet and returned, and he ruled from Nandigrama, a lonely retreat fourteen miles from Ayodhya, waiting for Rama to come back.
Rama entered the Dandaka forest, killed the ogre Viradha, and saw the sages Sharabhanga, Sutikshna, Agastya, and Agastya’s brother in turn. At Agastya’s word he received a bow given by Indra, a sword, and two quivers that never emptied of arrows. All the sages of the forest begged him to rid them of the ogres, and Rama gave his vow. Then Shurpanakha, an ogress of Janasthana whose nails were broad as winnowing fans and who could take any shape she pleased, made her overtures to Rama and was disfigured for it; Lakshmana cut off her nose and ears.
At Shurpanakha’s urging, Rama killed in battle the fourteen thousand ogres of Janasthana, their leaders Khara, Trishira, and Dushana among them. Stunned with rage to hear of his kinsmen destroyed, Ravana, king of Lanka, sought the help of a fellow ogre named Maricha. Though Maricha warned him again and again against it, Ravana, driven by his own doom, had the wily Maricha lure the two princes far from the hermitage, then carried off Sita, mortally wounding the vulture Jatayu, who tried to bar his way. Rama wept in his grief, cremated Jatayu, and, searching the forest for Sita, came upon a headless, deformed ogre named Kabandha. When Rama killed and cremated him, the ogre rose in his true gandharva form to heaven and told Rama to go to Shabari.
After Shabari’s welcome, Rama came to the shore of the Pampa lake and met Hanuman. Through Hanuman he made his pact of friendship with Sugriva, with fire for their witness. To convince Sugriva of his strength, Rama flicked the vast skeleton of the demon Dundubhi eighty miles away with his big toe, and with a single arrow pierced seven palmyra trees in a line, a hill, and the underworld beyond. Sugriva’s doubt was gone. Then Sugriva gave his challenge, and Vali came out, and though Tara begged him to hold back, Vali closed for the fight, and Rama felled him with one arrow and gave Sugriva the kingdom of Kishkindha. Sugriva sent his monkeys out in every direction to search for Sita.
On the word of the vulture Sampati, the mighty Hanuman leapt across eight hundred miles of salt sea, found Sita in Lanka’s Ashoka grove keeping her mind on Rama, gave her the sign of Rama’s ring, and tore down the gateway. He killed five army commanders, seven sons of ministers, and the gallant Aksha, then let himself be bound by Meghanada’s Brahmastra. Eager to face Ravana, Hanuman bore with the ogres who dragged him to the court, then set all of Lanka ablaze, sparing only the place where Sita sat, and returned.
Rama came with Sugriva to the sea, lashed it with arrows bright as the sun, and when the ocean rose in person and pleaded, he had Nala build a causeway across. He reached Lanka, killed Ravana, and won Sita back, and felt a great shame before the eyes of the world. When Rama spoke harsh words, the faithful Sita walked into fire, and when the fire-god declared her without stain, Rama took her back. He set Vibhishana on the throne of Lanka, and by the gods’ boon the monkeys who had fallen in battle were raised alive again, and Rama flew home in the Pushpaka car with his kin and his friends. From Bharadwaja’s hermitage he sent Hanuman ahead to Bharata, and at Nandigrama he unbound his matted hair, and with Sita beside him he took back his kingdom.
In Rama’s reign, said Narada, people will be happy, content, and devoted to dharma; no one will bury a child before its time, no woman will be widowed, and there will be no terror of fire, water, wind, or fever. Cities and countryside will overflow with wealth and grain. Rama will perform hundreds of horse-sacrifices heaped with gold, will give crores of cows to the learned and untold riches to the brahmins, and after ruling eleven thousand years he will pass to the world of Brahma. And whoever reads this holy chronicle of Rama, a chronicle that wipes away sin and stands level with the Vedas, is set free of every sin.
The gist: in Canto 1 Narada threads the whole Ramayana onto a single line of story, as though he had shown you the picture of an entire ocean in one drop before it arrives.
The killing of the krauncha, and the birth of the shloka
When Narada had gone, Valmiki went with his pupil Bharadwaja to the bank of the Tamasa, not far from the Ganga. The descent to the water struck him as clean and free of mud, and he said to Bharadwaja that the water here was clear as the mind of a good man, and that he would bathe at this very spot. His pupil handed him the bark cloth, and the sage wandered on to take in the beauty of the woods. There he saw a pair of krauncha cranes moving together, never parting, calling to one another in sweet voices. A hunter of the Nishada tribe, cruel of purpose and hostile even to what is innocent, shot the male of the pair dead while the sage looked on.
The male thrashed on the ground, its feathers soaked in blood, and its mate, torn from her beloved, cried out in a voice of pure grief. The sage’s heart filled with pity, and words came from his mouth without his willing them: hunter, may you never find peace through all the endless years, for you have killed one of a pair of cranes lost in their love. The moment he had spoken, the sage fell to wondering: what is this that grief has made me say? Then he thought again. This utterance, set in four feet of equal syllables, fit to be sung to the lute, let this be a shloka, let this be true poetry. His pupil learned the matchless line by heart, and the sage was pleased.
A sub-tale: in the later tradition the word “shloka” is traced to “shoka,” grief, meaning that the measured line born of sorrow became in time the meter of all poetry. So Valmiki came to be called the adikavi, the first poet, and the Ramayana the adikavya, the first poem.
Back at his hermitage, the sage was still lost in that one line when the maker of the worlds himself, four-faced Brahma, appeared before him. Valmiki rose in astonishment and honored him with water for his feet and hands, but his mind was still fixed on the she-crane’s pain, and he began once more to repeat the shloka, still troubled that he had cursed the hunter without meaning to. Brahma laughed and said: Brahmin sage, this verse rose from your lips by my own will; do not grieve over it. Compose in this very meter the whole life of the righteous Rama. As long as mountains and rivers stand on the earth, the story of Rama will move through the world, and you will dwell in the worlds of my making, above and below, wherever you wish, for as long as your poem endures. Saying so, Brahma vanished from the spot.
The gist: one cry of compassion made the first shloka, and Brahma turned that same cry into the command to compose the whole Ramayana. The first poem is born here.
The poet’s own outline
Having heard the entire story from Narada, Valmiki sipped water in the rite of purity, sat on a mat of kusha grass with the blades pointing east, and gathered himself in the yogic power Brahma had granted him. By that inner sight he saw the whole life of Rama, Lakshmana, Sita, and King Dasharatha, with the queens and the kingdom, laid open before him as clearly as a myrobalan fruit held in the palm: how they laughed, how they spoke, how they moved, all that they did. Then he began to bind this lovely life into verse, and he set out for his listeners the shape of the poem to come.
The birth of Rama and his great might; the many wondrous tales, such as the descent of the Ganga, heard on the journey with Vishvamitra; the winning of Janaka’s daughter and the breaking of the bow; the quarrel between Rama and Parashurama; the preparations for the crowning and the treachery of Kaikeyi; the crowning cut short and Rama’s exile; the king’s grief, his lament, and his passing to the other world; the sorrow of the people; the talk with the Nishada chief; the crossing of the Ganga; the visit to Bharadwaja; the raising of the hut at Chitrakuta; the coming of Bharata; the anointing of the sandals; the stay at Nandigrama; the going to Dandaka; the killing of Viradha; the meetings with Sharabhanga, Sutikshna, and Agastya; the kindness of Anasuya; the taking of the bow; the exchange with Shurpanakha and her disfiguring; the killing of Khara, Trishira, and Dushana; the killing of Maricha; the seizing of Sita; the death of Jatayu; the meetings with Kabandha and the Pampa lake; the visit to Shabari; the meeting with Hanuman; the friendship with Sugriva; the killing of Vali; Tara’s lament; the leap over the sea; Mainaka and Surasa; the killing of Simhika; the sight of Lanka; the jewel and the token given to Sita; the Ashoka grove; the burning of Lanka; the building of the causeway; the alliance with Vibhishana; the killing of Kumbhakarna; the killing of Meghanada; the killing of Ravana; the recovery of Sita; the crowning of Vibhishana; the return to Ayodhya; the festival of Rama’s crowning; and the disbanding of the army. And beyond all that Narada had told, whatever Rama still had to do on this earth, Valmiki set down in the Uttarakanda as well.
The gist: the poet reads out the table of contents of his own story, so his listener knows in advance every turn the tale will take.
The singing of Kusha and Lava
Valmiki composed the whole life of Rama: twenty-four thousand shlokas, more than five hundred cantos, six books, and the Uttarakanda after them. But now a question stood before him. Who would sing this in the great gatherings of people? Just then two brothers in hermits’ dress, Kusha and Lava, fell at his feet. They were Rama’s own sons, born to Sita during her exile in Valmiki’s hermitage, and the sage was their foster-guardian and teacher. Both were deep in the Vedas, blessed with sweet voices, and skilled in music. To open out the meaning of the Vedas for them, the sage taught them the entire Ramayana, which is also called the Paulastya Vadha, the killing of Ravana, grandson of Pulasti.
A sub-tale: Ravana’s grandfather Pulastya was a mind-born son of Brahma, and so Ravana is called Paulastya; because the killing of Ravana dominates the poem, one of its names is Paulastya Vadha. Two styles of singing are named in the tradition: the Marga style, used for songs in Sanskrit, and the Deshi style, used for songs in the Prakrit tongues.
The two boys sang this poem in the three measures of time, slow, medium, and quick, in the seven notes of the scale, and to the rhythm of the lute, and it was filled with the nine flavors of feeling: love, pathos, mirth, wrath, terror, and heroism, along with disgust, wonder, and serenity. One day they sang it before an assembly of sages, and every listener was wet with tears and cried out, “Well done, well done.” One sage gave them a pitcher, another bark cloth, another a black deerskin, a sacred thread, a water-pot, a girdle of munja grass, a kusha mat, a hatchet, and strips of cloth, and all of them blessed the boys with long life and strength.
As they wandered and sang, Rama saw them in the lanes of Ayodhya, brought them to his palace, and, seated on his throne among ministers and brothers, said to Lakshmana, Bharata, and Shatrughna: hear this wondrous tale from these boys who shine like gods; it concerns my own good. The two began to sing in the Marga style, and Rama himself, sitting in the assembly, was slowly drawn into the joy of it.
The gist: Rama’s own sons sing Rama’s story, and King Rama, hearing his own life, is carried away by it. The poem finds its way back to its hero on its own.
Kosala and the city of Ayodhya
Now the tale is told as Kusha and Lava sang it. This whole earth has belonged to victorious kings from Vaivasvata Manu, the lord of created beings, onward. In their line came a king named Sagara, who had the ocean dug out and who had sixty thousand sons. In this same line of Ikshvaku rose the great story called the Ramayana.
Along the bank of the Sarayu lies a wide and thriving realm called Kosala, heavy with wealth and grain. In it stands the world-famed city of Ayodhya, which Vaivasvata Manu himself founded by his own will.
A note on the name: “Ayodhya” means that which cannot be warred against, the unconquerable. The text gives the city’s length as twelve yojanas and its width as three. Reckoning a yojana at roughly eight miles (13 km), the city runs about 96 miles (155 km) long and 24 miles (39 km) wide. The figures serve to magnify the city’s glory rather than to survey it.
The city’s well-laid avenues were watered every day and scattered with flowers rained down by the daughters of the gods. It had arched gateways and fine doors, orderly markets, every kind of engine and weapon and the pike-like shataghnis, and craftsmen of every trade. Bards and minstrels moved through it, tall attics and banners graced it, and a deep, hard-to-cross moat ringed it round. It was full of horses, elephants, cows, and camels, its jeweled palaces rose like mountains, and the city looked like Indra’s own Amaravati. Laid out like a dice-board, it was set with seven-storied houses, filled with fine rice and with water sweet as sugarcane juice.
In this city lived thousands of great chariot-warriors who would never loose an arrow at a man who stood alone, helpless, or fleeing the field, but who could kill lions, tigers, and boars with sharp weapons and the strength of their arms. Ringing with the sound of kettledrums, tabors, lutes, and small drums, Ayodhya stood without equal on the earth. King Dasharatha peopled it as Indra peoples Amaravati, and filled it with brahmins deep in the Vedas, true of speech and generous, and with sages the equals of the great seers.
The gist: the story settles into its own geography, and Ayodhya, the capital of the line of Ikshvaku, rises before us like a city of the gods.
Dasharatha’s realm and its contented people
Living in Ayodhya, King Dasharatha guarded his people. He knew the Vedas, saw far ahead, blazed with energy, and was loved by city and countryside alike. Among the Ikshvakus he was an atiratha, one who could fight many great warriors alone; he loved sacrifice, held to dharma, mastered his senses, and stood renowned in all three worlds as a royal seer the equal of a great sage. Strong, without an enemy left standing, rich in allies, he matched Indra and Kubera in the gathering of wealth. As Manu once guarded the world, so did Dasharatha.
The people of that city were happy, righteous, deeply learned, free of greed, truthful, and content with what they had. There was no householder who lacked cattle, horses, wealth, and grain. No one there was lustful, miserly, cruel, ignorant, or without faith. Every man and woman was virtuous, well-governed, and clear as a great seer. None went without earrings, crown, and garland, and none failed to bathe and wear scent. People of all four orders honored the gods and their guests, and were grateful, generous, and brave. All lived long, holding to dharma and truth. The brahmins mastered their senses and gave themselves to alms and study; the kshatriyas followed the brahmins, the vaishyas the kshatriyas, and the shudras, devoted to their own work, served the other three.
The city was full of the finest horses, bred in Kamboja, Bahlika, Vanayu, and the Sindhu valley, and of elephants huge as mountains and wild with rut, born of the Vindhya and Himalaya ranges, of the lines of Airavata, Mahapadma, Anjana, and Vamana, of the Bhadra, Mandra, and Mriga breeds and their crosses. Dasharatha ruled this city as the moon rules the stars. Over Ayodhya, with its strong gateways and bars, thronged by thousands of men, worthy of its name, a king the equal of Indra held sway.
The gist: under Dasharatha’s rule of dharma the very lives of his people are his highest glory. A king’s greatness is measured by the well-being of those he protects.
The eight ministers and their character
Dasharatha’s ministers were full of good qualities, skilled in counsel, able to read the minds of others, and devoted to their master’s good. This heroic king had eight famed, pure, and dutiful ministers: Dhrishti, Jayanta, Vijaya, Surashtra, Rashtravardhana, Akopa, Dharmapala, and eighth of them the wise Sumantra. He had two beloved family priests and counselors, Vasishtha and Vamadeva. Among his other advisers were Suyajna, Jabali, Kashyapa, Gautama, the long-lived Markandeya, and the brahmin Katyayana.
A sub-tale: in the later tradition a distinction is drawn between the amatya and the mantri, the amatya carrying out the work of the state and the mantri handling the giving of justice. Manu prescribes that a king keep seven or eight tested ministers, which is why Dasharatha has eight.
These ministers were modest through learning, well-bred, capable, and masters of their senses; wealthy, skilled in arms, of firm courage, famous, and men who acted as they spoke. Radiant, patient, and honored, they spoke with a smile and would not lie even in anger or for gain. Ever watchful in the affairs of state, they saw everything with the eyes of prudence. Nothing in their own kingdom or another’s stayed hidden from them, for their spies brought them all. They punished even their own sons when the time called for it, yet would not harass even a blameless enemy. They filled the treasury without oppressing brahmin or kshatriya, and weighed the strength or weakness of an offender before they set a penalty. Through such pure and single-minded ministers no liar and no seducer of another’s wife could be found in the city or the realm, and the whole kingdom was at peace. With ministers like these, free of the ten faults born of desire and the eight born of anger, Dasharatha ruled the earth like the risen sun robed in rays of light.
The gist: a wise and truthful council is the very rays by which Dasharatha’s sun of rule shines. Good ministers make a good king.
The longing for a son, and the vow of the horse-sacrifice
Amid all this splendor and dharma there was one emptiness. The wise and noble Dasharatha had no son to carry on his line, and the worry of it left him unhappy. One day, turning it over in his mind, the thought came to him: why not please the gods with a horse-sacrifice for the sake of a son? Having taken counsel with his pure-minded ministers and made his resolve firm, he said to Sumantra: best of ministers, bring me at once all my teachers, my priests among them.
Sumantra brought Suyajna, Vamadeva, Jabali, Kashyapa, the priest Vasishtha, and the other foremost brahmins, all masters of the Vedas. The king honored them and spoke sweet words full of dharma and purpose: without a son I have no joy, and so I wish to please the gods with a horse-sacrifice. I want to perform it by the rites the scriptures lay down; give thought to how it should be done. Vasishtha and all the brahmins cried, “Well conceived, excellent,” and told him that through this sacrifice he would surely gain the son he longed for, and that the sacrificial ground should be prepared on the northern bank of the Sarayu.
A sub-tale: in the horse-sacrifice the sacrificial horse is set free to roam, and wherever it goes, brahmins pour oblations at each of its steps. According to the Brahmana texts, four hundred kshatriya princes guard the horse so that nothing may disrupt the rite.
The king was glad and told his ministers: on the word of my teachers, let the materials of the sacrifice be gathered. Let the horse be released under the care of able princes and the arch-priest, and let the sacrificial ground be prepared on the northern bank of the Sarayu, with the rites of peace performed in due order. The brahmins gave their warning: any king may perform this sacrifice, but if some grievous fault should creep in, some needful rite left undone, then even learned brahma-rakshasas hunt for the flaw, and one who conducts a sacrifice without the proper form perishes on the spot. So let everything be done by the rule. The king dismissed the ministers, went to his inner apartments, and told his beloved queens that he would perform a sacrifice for a son and that they should take the vow of consecration with him. At those glad words the faces of the queens opened like lotuses at the end of the cold season.
The gist: from the pain of having no son the vow of the horse-sacrifice is born, and all of Ayodhya lights up with the hope of it.
Sanatkumara’s prophecy and the tale of Rishyasringa
Hearing this resolve, Sumantra took the king aside and said: let me tell you an old story I once heard in a Puranic telling. Long ago the omniscient Sanatkumara foretold, among the sages, the coming of your sons. The sage Kashyapa has a son named Vibhandaka, and Vibhandaka will have a son who will be famed as Rishyasringa. Raised always in the forest, forever roaming the forest alone, given to the service of his father, this lord of brahmins will know nothing of the world beyond it.
A sub-tale: in the later tradition the name “Rishyasringa” is taken to mean “deer-horned.” The text names two kinds of brahmacharya: the first, wearing a girdle of munja grass and a deerskin and living alone in the teacher’s house; the second, after study in the teacher’s house, marrying a girl of one’s own order and coming together only on the appointed nights.
In those same days, said Sumantra, the mighty Romapada will be king of the land of Anga. Through some fault of his a terrible drought will fall there, striking fear into everyone. The stricken king will call his learned brahmins and ask for a remedy, and they will tell him to bring the son of Vibhandaka, Rishyasringa, here by every means, and to give him his daughter Shanta in marriage by the proper rites. But the brahmins, afraid of Vibhandaka’s curse, will not go themselves, and will say that they will find a way to bring the sage without fault. Then Romapada will send courtesans to fetch Rishyasringa; the rains will come, and Shanta will be given to him in marriage. And your son-in-law Rishyasringa will conduct for you the sacrifice for sons. So Sanatkumara said. Hearing this, the delighted Dasharatha asked by what means Rishyasringa was brought to Romapada’s city.
The gist: Sumantra’s old story opens a door onto the future. The sacrifice of Rishyasringa will be the road to Dasharatha’s children.
Rishyasringa lured, and his marriage to Shanta
Sumantra went on: hear how Rishyasringa was brought. The family priest and the ministers said to Romapada, we have thought of a way that carries no fault. Rishyasringa lives in the forest, given to austerity and study, a stranger to women and to the pleasures of the senses. We will fetch him quickly by things that charm the senses: let beautiful, well-adorned courtesans go there and bring him by various means. The king agreed, and the courtesans went and settled in the forest near Vibhandaka’s hermitage.
Rishyasringa, content in his father’s love, never went out of the hermitage, and from birth he had never seen a woman or a man or any creature of city or country. One day, as fate would have it, he came to the place where the courtesans were. Singing in sweet voices, dressed in bright colors, those women came up to him and asked who he was and what he did there alone. Seeing their lovely, never-before-seen forms, he told them, out of a natural warmth, his own name and his father’s, and said that his hermitage was near and that he would offer them proper welcome there. They went, and he set before them water for their hands and feet, roots and fruit; but they, afraid of Vibhandaka’s return, gave him their own choice fruits, the sweets and delicacies they had brought, embraced him, made an excuse of a vow to keep, and left.
Rishyasringa took those sweets for fruit, since one raised in the forest had never tasted such a flavor. When the women had gone, his heart grew uneasy. The next day he went back to the same place, and the courtesans said with delight: come to our hermitage, there the welcome will be finer still. Moved by their words, he set out, and the women carried him by boat on the Ganga to Romapada’s city. The moment he arrived, the god of rain sent down a sudden shower, and the world rejoiced. King Romapada bowed his head and offered water for the hands to the ascetic brahmin who had come with the rain, and begged of him a boon that neither he nor his father should feel anger against him. Then he led him to his inner apartments and, with a calm mind, gave him his daughter Shanta by the proper rites, and the glorious Rishyasringa, honored in every pleasure he could wish, lived there with his wife Shanta.
The gist: the world-innocent ascetic Rishyasringa is drawn to Anga by gentle means, and by his marriage to Shanta he brings rain and good fortune.
Dasharatha brings Rishyasringa and Shanta to Ayodhya
Sumantra continued: hear now, best of kings, what the wise Sanatkumara said next. The son of the king of Anga will be known as Romapada, and the renowned Dasharatha will go to him and say: righteous one, I am without a son; let Rishyasringa, Shanta’s husband, with your leave, perform a sacrifice for the growth of my line. Romapada, having thought it over, will hand over the fathering Rishyasringa, and Dasharatha, hungry for glory, will fold his hands and beg Rishyasringa to conduct the rite for a son, for his people, and for heaven, and he will gain four sons of boundless prowess to raise the honor of his house. So Sanatkumara said in the age of the gods.
Therefore, best of men, go yourself with your army and vehicles and bring Rishyasringa with honor. At Sumantra’s words Dasharatha was glad, took Vasishtha’s leave, and set out with his queens and ministers, crossing forests and rivers, until he reached the place where Rishyasringa was with Romapada. The king saw the sage’s son, radiant as fire, and Romapada, in the spirit of friendship, honored Dasharatha with special care and told Rishyasringa of their friendship and of the bond between them, that Shanta was in truth Dasharatha’s daughter. After seven or eight days Dasharatha said to Romapada: let your daughter Shanta go with her husband to my capital, where a great undertaking is beginning. Romapada said, “So be it,” and Rishyasringa gave his consent as well.
Dasharatha sent swift messengers ahead with orders to deck Ayodhya, to water and cense its streets, and to adorn it with banners. The joyful citizens did so, and the king, placing Rishyasringa at the front, entered the decked city amid the blare of conches and kettledrums, as though the thousand-eyed Indra were ushering Vamana into heaven. Seeing Shanta come with her husband, all the queens rejoiced with love, and Shanta, honored by the king and the queens, lived there happily with her husband for a while.
The gist: on the strength of friendship and kinship Dasharatha brings Rishyasringa to Ayodhya. The priest for the sacrifice has been found.
The consent and blessing of the sacrifice
Some time passed, and when a most lovely spring came, the wish to hold the sacrifice rose again in Dasharatha’s mind. He bowed his head at the feet of the god-bright Rishyasringa and begged for a sacrifice to grow his line and to gain heaven. Rishyasringa said: let the materials be made ready, let the horse be released, and let the sacrificial ground be prepared on the northern bank of the Sarayu. The king said to Sumantra: bring me quickly the brahmins deep in the Vedas, Suyajna, Vamadeva, Jabali, Kashyapa, the priest Vasishtha, and the other foremost brahmins.
Sumantra brought them all, and the king honored them and spoke the same sweet words of dharma and purpose he had spoken before, that without a son there is no joy, and so he would please the gods with a horse-sacrifice and, through Rishyasringa’s power, gain all he wished. Vasishtha and all the brahmins gave their blessing with “Well done,” and those led by Rishyasringa said: let the materials be gathered, the horse released, the ground prepared, and the rites of peace performed in order. Any king may hold this sacrifice, but let no grievous fault creep in, for learned brahma-rakshasas hunt for the flaw, and one who conducts a sacrifice without the proper form perishes. So let all be done by the rule. The king was glad, told his ministers to arrange every detail, dismissed the brahmins, and went to his inner apartments.
The gist: with the blessing of the priest and the brahmins the vow is set firm, and the note of caution is sounded again and again.
Preparing the sacrifice, and the summoning of kings
Then, with the coming of spring, a full year passed, and the horse returned. Dasharatha bowed to Vasishtha and his wife Arundhati and prayed humbly: you are my selfless well-wisher and my highest teacher; let the whole burden of this sacrifice rest on you alone. Vasishtha said, “So be it,” and pledged to see it all done, and on the king’s order he set to their tasks the elderly brahmins skilled in the rites, the master-builders, the workmen, the artisans, the carpenters, the diggers, the astronomers, and the actors and dancers.
Vasishtha gave his instructions: let thousands of bricks be brought, and mansions fit for a king and hundreds of strong houses for the brahmins, well stocked with food and drink; let separate lodgings be built for the townsfolk and for kings coming from afar, with stables, elephant-stalls, sleeping-halls, and large quarters for warriors. Let everyone be given fine food by the proper rites, with respect and not with contempt, so that every order is honored. Let no one, even under the sway of desire or anger, be slighted, and let the artisans working on the sacrifice be honored above all.
Then Vasishtha called Sumantra and said: invite the righteous kings of the earth, and the brahmins, kshatriyas, vaishyas, and shudras, in their thousands. Before all others go yourself and bring the heroic, truthful Janaka of Mithila, whom I name first, knowing him for the king’s foreordained kinsman. Bring the king of Kashi, the aged and most righteous king of the Kekayas, who is Dasharatha’s father-in-law, and his son, Romapada of Anga and his son, Bhanuman of Kosala, the heroic and learned Praptijna of Magadha, and the kings of the east, of Sindhu-Sauvira, and of Saurashtra; and quickly summon the kings of the south and our other friends, with their followers and kinsmen.
Sumantra sent worthy men at once to fetch the kings, and himself set out, on the sage’s order, to bring those he was to bring in person. The workmen reported to Vasishtha that all was ready, and the pleased sage said: let nothing be given to anyone with contempt or mockery, for a gift given in contempt destroys the giver. In a few days many kings came, bearing jewels and rich gifts. Vasishtha told the king: the kings have come, I have received each as he deserved, all the materials are ready; now go to the nearby sacrificial hall. On a day of an auspicious constellation, on the counsel of both Vasishtha and Rishyasringa, the king went to the sacrificial ground, and the brahmins led by Vasishtha, with Rishyasringa at their head, began the rite by the ordained form, and the glorious king entered the consecration with his wives.
The gist: a vast gathering rises on the bank of the Sarayu. Kings from far countries and thousands of brahmins arrive, and on an auspicious day the consecration begins.
The rite of the Ashvamedha
When the year had run and the horse had returned, the Ashvamedha began on the northern bank of the Sarayu. The foremost brahmins set Rishyasringa in the office of Brahma, the overseer of the sacrifice, and took up their own work; the other three chief priests are called the Hota, the Adhvaryu, and the Udgata.
A sub-tale: the four chief priests have distinct duties. The Hota invokes the gods from the Rigveda; the Adhvaryu, reciting the Yajurveda, measures the ground, builds the altar, gathers the vessels, and lights the fire; the Udgata chants the hymns of the Samaveda; and the Brahma, who must be the most learned of them all and know every Veda, supervises the whole rite.
The priests carried out every act by the way of the Kalpa Sutras and the order of the Mimamsa scriptures. From the morning pressing of the Soma juice through the midday and the third pressing, the rites were done with joy. The oblation for Indra was offered by the rule, and the Soma creeper was crushed on stone and its sap drawn. The Pravargya and the Upasada rites were done as the scriptures prescribe. No oblation was wrongly offered, no act was left out, and every step was matched with the chanting of a mantra.
A sub-tale: the word “ritu” in the text stands for the six seasons, and it is said that after the sacrifice ended, six seasons of two months each, roughly one earth-year, went by, and then in the twelfth month Rama was born.
Brahmins and other twice-born and shudras, ascetics, students, forest-dwellers, renunciants, the old, the sick, women, and children, all were filled every day with the food and drink of the sacrifice, and though they ate day and night there seemed no limit to their filling. On the order “give food and cloth again and again,” many gave with open hands. Heaps of food stood high as hills. Men and women from many lands were fully satisfied. Dasharatha heard the brahmins say, “We are filled, may you be blessed.” Well-dressed men served the brahmins, and others in jeweled earrings waited on them. In the gaps between the rites the learned brahmins argued many points to outdo one another, and there was no brahmin there who did not know the six branches of the Veda, hold his vows, and reason with skill.
When the time came to raise the sacrificial posts, there were six of bilva wood, six of khadira, and six of palasha; one of shleshmataka and two of deodar, set six aratnis apart (about nine feet). In all, twenty-one posts, each twenty-one aratnis tall (about thirty-two feet), eight-sided, smooth, gilded, and each dressed in a cloth; they shone like the seven sages in the sky. With bricks of the ordained measure, skilled workmen built the altar in the shape of Garuda, with wings of gold, three times the ordinary size and holding eighteen fire-pits, where an ordinary altar has only six. Beasts, serpents, and birds were bound to the posts for the appointed gods, the sacrificial horse and the water-creatures were bound as well, and three hundred beasts were tied to the posts, among them Dasharatha’s finest horse.
Kausalya walked around the horse, touched it in great joy with three swords, and, wishing for dharma, passed one night with steady mind beside that horse swift as Garuda. Then at the end of the night the four priests brought the king’s first wife, the chief queen, his second wife, and his third wife into the appointed contact with the horse.
A sub-tale: in the later tradition the three wives of a king carry class-names: the mahishi, a kshatriya, consecrated with the king at his crowning, the vavata, and the parivritti. But Dasharatha’s three queens, Kausalya, Sumitra, and Kaikeyi, were all kshatriya princesses.
The self-controlled and highly skilled priest cooked the ashvagandha by the ordained form, and the king breathed in the scent of its steam and drove off the sin that stood in the way of a son. The sixteen brahmin priests offered every part of the horse into the fire by the rule. At other sacrifices the oblation is set on a branch of the plaksha tree, but at the Ashvamedha on a mat of cane. In the Kalpa Sutras and the Brahmanas the Ashvamedha is set at three days, the first day’s pressing the Chatushtoma, the second the Ukthya, the third the Atiratra. At the close the king also performed many lesser sacrifices: Jyotishtoma, Ayushtoma, two rounds of Atiratra, Abhijit, Vishvajit, and two rounds of Aptoryama, these eight great rites.
At the end of the sacrifice the king, promoter of his line, gave as fee the eastern quarter to the Hota, the western to the Adhvaryu, the southern to the Brahma, and the northern to the Udgata; this is the ordained fee of the Ashvamedha, first performed by the self-born Brahma. But the priests would not take the earth, and said: only you can protect it; we are given to our studies; give us something in exchange, jewels, gold, or cattle. Then, on the word of the Veda-learned brahmins, the king gave them ten lakh cows, ten crore gold coins, and four times as many silver coins.
A sub-tale on the scale of the numbers: ten lakh cows is a gift of a million; ten crore gold coins and four times that (forty crore) in silver. The brahmins who had come from outside received a further one crore gold coins. These figures mark the boundless generosity of the sacrifice, the wealth of epic, not a ledger of history.
The priests handed all the wealth to Rishyasringa and the wise Vasishtha to be divided fairly, and the even sharing pleased everyone. The king gave the brahmins from outside one crore gold coins, and when there was nothing left to give, he gave a poor brahmin his own fine armlet. Having pleased the brahmins, the king, overcome with joy, bowed to them, and as he lay on the ground the brahmins gave him many blessings. Having completed this sacrifice, hard even for the greatest kings, which wipes away sin and leads to heaven, the king was glad and said to Rishyasringa: sage of good vows, now do the thing that will grow my line. Rishyasringa said “So be it,” and gave his word that four sons would be born to carry on the house. Hearing that sweet word, the noble king bowed and asked Rishyasringa once more.
The gist: the vast rite of the Ashvamedha, with its boundless gifts, is carried through without a flaw, and Rishyasringa gives his word of four sons.
The Putreshti, and the gods’ plea against Ravana
After a moment’s thought, and gathering himself, the Veda-wise Rishyasringa said to the king: I will perform for your sons the Putreshti, the sacrifice for sons, made sure by the mantras of the Atharvaveda. Then the radiant Rishyasringa began that rite for a son and, by the way the mantras show, poured the oblations into the fire. Then the gods, with Brahma, the gandharvas, the siddhas, and the great sages, gathered there, unseen by men, to take their share.
In that gathering the gods prayed to Brahma, the maker of the worlds: lord, by the boon of your grace the ogre named Ravana is tormenting us all with his strength, and we cannot subdue him. You granted him that boon when he pleased you, and out of respect for it we have borne all his wrongs. The evil-minded one troubles the three worlds, hates the prosperous, and seeks to overthrow even Indra, king of the gods. Drunk on his boon and hard to bear, he scorns the sages, the yakshas, the gandharvas, the brahmins, and the asuras. The sun does not scorch him, the wind does not blow strong past him, and the sea, though wave-tossed, shudders at the sight of him. Lord, we are in great terror of this fearful ogre; devise the way to his death.
Brahma thought and said: the way to this wretch’s death has come to me. He asked to be unslayable by gandharvas, yakshas, gods, and ogres, and I said “So be it.” But in his contempt he did not name human beings, and so he can be killed by the hand of a man alone, and by no other death. Hearing this welcome word, all the gods and great sages were filled with joy.
Just then the radiant Vishnu, lord of the universe, bearing conch, discus, and mace, clad in yellow, armed with armlets of refined gold, praised by the gods, came riding on Garuda like the sun on a cloud. He met Brahma and took his seat, and all the gods bowed and prayed: Vishnu, for the good of the worlds we lay this burden on you; divide yourself into four and come as the sons of the three queens of Dasharatha, king of Ayodhya, Kausalya, Sumitra, and Kaikeyi, who are as Hri, Shri, and Kirti; become a man and kill in battle the world’s thorn, Ravana, whom no other god can slay. That fool, drunk on strength, torments the gods, gandharvas, siddhas, and great sages, and the sages, gandharvas, and apsaras at play in the Nandana grove have been thrown down from heaven by him. We have all come to your refuge, with siddhas, gandharvas, and yakshas, and with the sages; you are our highest resort, scorcher of foes.
Thus praised, Vishnu said to Brahma and the righteous gods: cast off fear, may it go well with you. For your good I will kill the cruel, unbearable Ravana, the terror of gods and sages, with his sons and grandsons, ministers, kinsmen, and clan, and I will live on this earth in the world of men for eleven thousand years and rule. Having granted this boon, the self-possessed Vishnu chose Ayodhya for his birthplace and Dasharatha for his father. Then the gods, sages, gandharvas, Rudra, and apsaras praised the slayer of Madhu with divine hymns: god of fierce energy, destroy the swollen-proud Ravana, enemy of Indra, thorn of the ascetics; kill him with his army and kin, set your devotees at ease, and return, lord of gods, to your safe and flawless Vaikuntha.
The gist: the prayer of the gods meets the fire of the Putreshti, and Vishnu himself takes the vow to descend in Dasharatha’s house and kill Ravana. The birth of Rama the man is set in motion here.
The gift of the payasa, and its division among the queens
Appointed by the gods, Vishnu, though he knew all, spoke sweet words to them. Take a human form, the gods said, and kill Ravana in battle. They reminded him of Ravana’s austerity and the boon Brahma had given, that he feared no creature but a man, since in his contempt he had not named men when he asked. Hearing this, Vishnu chose Dasharatha for his father.
At that very time the sonless, radiant, foe-destroying king was performing the Putreshti in his longing for a son. Then from the sacrificer’s fire rose a great being of matchless splendor, of vast might and strength: dark-skinned, robed in red, red-faced, with a voice like a kettledrum, his body, face, and head covered with soft, lion-like hair; decked in divine ornaments, tall as a mountain-peak, striding like a proud tiger, blazing like the sun. In both arms he held a great vessel of refined gold, full of divine payasa, milk boiled with rice and sugar, covered with a silver lid, as though it were his beloved wife.
Looking at Dasharatha, he said: king, know me for a messenger of Vishnu, protector of all that lives, come here from his world. The king folded his hands, welcomed him, and asked what he might do for him. The messenger said: by your worship of the gods through the Ashvamedha and the Putreshti this reward has come to you today. Best of kings, take this god-made payasa; it gives children, brings fortune, and increases health. Give it to your fitting wives with the words “receive this,” and from them you will have the sons for whom you hold this sacrifice. The king said “So be it,” bowed, took the golden vessel full of divine food, honored the wondrous being, walked around him in reverence in great joy, and the radiant being vanished into the fire itself.
Holding the payasa, Dasharatha was as glad as a poor man who finds wealth. The inner apartments, lit by the rays of his joy, glowed like the moon of the autumn full moon. The king went in and said to his eldest queen, Kausalya: take this son-giving payasa, and gave half of the payasa to Kausalya. Half of what remained, a quarter of the whole, he gave to Sumitra. Half of what was then left, an eighth of the whole, he gave to Kaikeyi, and then, thinking it over, he gave the last remaining half, another eighth, to Sumitra again. So the king shared the payasa out to each of his queens. Receiving it, all the noble queens took it as a special honor and rejoiced. Eating that fine payasa each apart, they soon held within them a child bright as fire and sun. Seeing the queens with child and his wish fulfilled, the king, honored by Indra and the siddhas and sages, was as glad as Indra in heaven.
The gist: the divine messenger risen from the fire hands over the payasa, and the king shares it among his queens. The foundation of the four sons in the womb is laid here.
The birth of the vanara host
When Vishnu had resolved to be born as Dasharatha’s son, the self-born Brahma said to all the gods: let us bring forth mighty helpers for the truthful, heroic Vishnu, who wishes us all well, helpers strong and able to take any shape. Through the wombs of the chief apsaras, of vidyadhara women, naga maidens, gandharva women, yaksha maidens, she-bears, kinnara women, and she-monkeys, said Brahma, beget sons in the form of vanaras, strong as yourselves, skilled in magic, brave, swift as the wind, wise in policy, keen of mind, a match for Vishnu in prowess, unslayable, knowing every device, of divine body, skilled in every weapon, feeding on nectar like the gods.
Brahma said: I have already brought forth Jambavan, king of the bears; he sprang from my mouth as I yawned. At the command the gods begot sons in vanara form, and the sages, siddhas, vidyadharas, nagas, and charanas too begot heroic sons who would roam the forests. Indra begot Vali, the equal of great Indra; the sun begot Sugriva; Brihaspati begot Tara, wisest of all vanaras; Kubera begot Gandhamadana; Vishvakarma begot Nala; the fire-god begot Nila, who surpassed all in the brightness and strength of fire; the Ashvins begot Mainda and Dvivida; Varuna begot Sushena; and Parjanya begot Sharabha. The own son of the wind was Hanuman, thunderbolt-bodied, swift as Garuda, wisest and strongest of all vanaras. These were born in their thousands, ever ready for the killing of Ravana.
These heroes were of measureless strength, able to take any shape, huge as elephants and mountains, and mighty. The charanas too begot great-bodied vanara sons who roamed the forests and lived on fruit. Bears, vanaras, and long-tailed monkeys were born swift as divine children. Each god’s son matched his father in form, strength, and prowess, and those born among the long-tailed monkeys were even a little braver than their fathers. Proud and strong as lions and tigers, taking rock and mountain for their weapons, armed with claw and tooth, skilled in every weapon, they could shake mountains, uproot trees, churn the sea with their speed, split the earth with their feet, leap across the great ocean, rise into the sky and seize the clouds, hold back elephants in rut, and bring down flying birds with their cry.
So were born crores of shape-shifting vanaras, chiefs of their troops, who led the great herds and begot yet more brave vanaras. Some settled on the peaks of Mount Rikshavan, some in various mountains and forests, some by Sugriva, son of the sun, and Vali, son of Indra, and some by Nala, Nila, Hanuman, and the rest. Strong as Garuda and skilled in war, they killed lions, tigers, and great serpents as they roamed. The mighty and far-reaching Vali guarded these bears, vanaras, and long-tailed monkeys by the strength of his arms. This earth, with its mountains, forests, and seas, filled with these heroes of many shapes and marks. Like masses of cloud and mountain-peaks, these mighty vanara chiefs, born only to aid Rama, spread over the earth.
The gist: even before Rama’s descent his future army is readied on the earth. The vanara heroes, born of the gods, wait for the killing of Ravana.
The birth of Rama, and the descent of his brothers
When Dasharatha’s Ashvamedha and Putreshti were done, the gods, having taken their shares, went home. The king finished the vow of his consecration and returned to the city with his queens, servants, army, and vehicles. The kings who had come to the sacrifice, honored each as he deserved, bowed to Vasishtha, Rishyasringa, Vamadeva, and the rest, and went home to their lands with joy. Dasharatha, placing the foremost brahmins ahead, entered the city again, and Rishyasringa, honored, took his leave with his wife Shanta. Having seen everyone off, the king, his heart full, lived happily, awaiting the birth of his sons.
After the sacrifice six seasons of two months each, about a year, went by. Then in the twelfth month, on the ninth day of the bright fortnight of Chaitra, when the star Punarvasu, whose deity is Aditi, was rising, when five planets (the Sun, Mars, Saturn, Jupiter, and Venus) each stood in its own place of strength, and Jupiter with the Moon was in the sign of Karka, mother Kausalya gave birth to Rama, lord of the universe, honored by the three worlds, delight of the line of Ikshvaku, half of Vishnu himself, marked with divine signs, red-eyed, long-armed, red-lipped, with a voice like a kettledrum.
A sub-tale on number and time: after the Ashvamedha ended, six seasons, about one earth-year, passed; the “twelfth month” is the same Chaitra. Rama’s birth on Chaitra Shukla Navami is what the later tradition calls Ram Navami. The division of the portions is stated plainly in the text: Rama carried half of Vishnu, Bharata a quarter, and Lakshmana and Shatrughna together the remaining share, near a sixth apiece.
Kausalya shone with that boundlessly radiant son as Aditi shines with Indra, the wielder of the thunderbolt. Then from Kaikeyi’s womb came the truly valiant Bharata, a quarter of Vishnu and full of every divine virtue. Sumitra bore two twin sons, Lakshmana and Shatrughna, heroic, skilled in every weapon, and holding the remaining portion of Vishnu. Bharata was born with a glad heart when the star Pushya was rising and the Sun stood in the sign of Pisces; Sumitra’s two sons were born when Ashlesha was rising and the Sun stood in Karka. The king’s four noble sons were born apart, each virtuous, alike to one another, and bright as the stars of the Purva and Uttara Bhadrapada.
In heaven the gandharvas sang sweetly, the apsaras danced, the drums of the gods sounded of themselves, and flowers rained from the sky. In Ayodhya there was a great festival, and the lanes filled with actors, dancers, and crowds. With the sound of singers and players, the broad avenues, strewn with jewels, shone. The king gave gifts to the bards and minstrels, and gave the brahmins thousands of cows and much wealth.
When eleven days had passed, the naming rite was held; Vasishtha, in great gladness, named the eldest and noblest “Rama,” Kaikeyi’s son “Bharata,” Sumitra’s first “Lakshmana,” and the second “Shatrughna.”
A sub-tale: by the Shruti a kshatriya’s birth-impurity lasts twelve days, and by the Smriti kings are named on the thirteenth day. Rama was born two days before Lakshmana and Shatrughna, and so the naming fell on the eleventh day after their birth and the thirteenth after Rama’s.
On the king’s behalf Vasishtha fed the brahmins of every city and village of Kosala and gave them a great heap of jewels. He had all the rites of the four sons performed, from the birth-rite through the investiture with the sacred thread. The eldest, Rama, proclaimed the greatness of his house like a flag and was the delight of his father. All the sons became learned in the Vedas, brave, and devoted to the good of the people, and among them Rama was the most radiant and the truest in valor. Dear to all like the spotless moon, skilled in the arts of elephant, horse, and chariot, given to archery, he was devoted to the service of his father.
From his childhood Lakshmana loved his elder brother Rama deeply and pleased him in every way; he was, as it were, Rama’s life moving outside his body. Rama would not sleep without Lakshmana, nor eat a fine meal; and when Rama rode out to hunt, Lakshmana followed at his heels with bow and arrows, guarding him. In the same way Shatrughna, the younger of Sumitra’s sons, was dearer than life to Bharata, and Bharata to Shatrughna. Dasharatha rejoiced in his four beloved sons as Brahma rejoices in Indra, Varuna, Yama, and Kubera. Father of these radiant sons, so full of wisdom, virtue, modesty, fame, all-knowing and far-seeing, Dasharatha was as glad as Brahma, ruler of the worlds. These tigers among men were given to their Vedic study, devoted to the service of their parents, and firm in the science of archery.
As their studies were nearing their end, the righteous Dasharatha, with his priests Vasishtha and Vamadeva and his kinsmen, began to think about the marriages of his sons. Even as the king was turning this over among his ministers, the great sage Vishvamitra, of unique glory, arrived at the king’s palace and, wishing to see the king, said to the gate-keepers: I am Kaushika, son of Gadhi; tell the king at once.
Hearing this, the gate-keepers ran in awe and reverence to the king’s apartments and told the king of Ikshvaku’s line of Vishvamitra’s coming. The glad king, with his priest Vasishtha, went forward to greet him as Indra would go to meet Brahma. Seeing the ascetic ablaze with energy, firm in his vows, the king with a bright face offered him water. Vishvamitra accepted it by the proper form, asked after the king’s welfare, and after the health of his city, treasury, realm, and kinsmen and friends: are all your vassals obedient and your enemies subdued, and are your rites toward gods and men well performed? Then he greeted Vasishtha and the other sages, Vamadeva and the rest, and asked after their welfare in due order. All came gladly into the king’s assembly and took their seats as they wished.
The most generous king, full of joy, honored Vishvamitra and said: your coming is to me like nectar come to hand, like rain on a waterless land, like the birth of a son through a fitting wife to a man without children, like lost wealth found again, like the joy of a festival; great sage, you are welcome. What is your dearest wish that I may gladly fulfill? Brahmin, you are a worthy vessel to me, and by good fortune you have come; today my birth and my life are fulfilled. Seeing you, my night has turned to bright dawn. Once called a royal seer, you have by your austerity reached the rank of a brahma-seer and are worthy of my worship in many ways; your coming is most holy to me. In seeing you it is as though I have bathed in all the sacred waters. Tell me the work for which you have come, and I will fulfill it gladly, and let there be no doubt, for you are a god to me, and your coming has brought me great good and the highest dharma. Hearing this humble speech, so pleasing to heart and ear, the great sage Vishvamitra, famed for his virtue and glory, was filled with the highest joy.
The gist: on Chaitra Shukla Navami, Rama and his brothers descend, Ayodhya drowns in festival, and just as the four grow into their skill in arms, the brahma-seer Vishvamitra stands at the gate, the threshold of the next tale.
Source: Srimad Valmiki Ramayana, Balakanda, Cantos 1-18 (Gita Press, Gorakhpur).
Basis: Valmiki Ramayana (Gita Press, Gorakhpur)