दण्डकारण्यप्रवेशः तापसाश्रमदर्शनं च

Here the Araṇya Kāṇḍa begins. At the close of the previous book Bharata had taken Rāma's sandals and gone to Nandigrāma, while Rāma had left Citrakūṭa, accepted the hospitality of Atri and Anasūyā in their hermitage, and journeyed on. Now he entered the great forest of Daṇḍaka. The poet calls him self-possessed: the terrors of the wild did not shake him, and he remained steady within himself. Unassailable as he was, the first thing he saw there was a circle of ascetics' hermitages. It was girded with kuśa grass and bark garments and wrapped in the splendour of Brahman, as hard to look upon as the blazing disc of the sun in the sky — like the sun both in beauty and in fierce radiance. It was a refuge for every living being. Its courtyard was always well swept, thronged with deer and covered with flocks of birds, and the animals and birds wandered there without fear, because in a grove of ascetics nothing is harmed. Troops of apsarases honoured it and danced there continually. Spacious fire-halls, ladles and vessels, hides, kuśa grass, kindling sticks, water jars, fruits and roots all made it lovely — every one of them an instrument of sacrifice. It was ringed about with great forest trees, holy and sweet-fruited, hallowed by offerings and oblations and resounding with the chanting of the Veda; wild flowers were strewn all around it, and a lotus pool in bloom graced it. Through colour, sound and fragrance the poet paints the holiness and peace of the ascetics' forest. We shall soon learn that this same forest is overrun by cruel rākṣasas, and the calm of the opening shines all the brighter for that contrast. The whole description of the hermitage is bound into a single sentence carried by eleven descriptive phrases, a mark of the poet's style.

The sages who lived there ate only fruit and roots and had mastered themselves; bark and black antelope skin were their clothing. They shone like the sun and like fire, ancient, holy great seers who kept to a measured diet. In calling them ancient the poet signals how long they had practised and how ripe their austerity had grown: these were no new initiates but perfected elders. Made beautiful by them, the hermitage was like the very dwelling of Brahmā; it rang with the chanting of the Veda and was graced by illustrious brāhmaṇas who knew Brahman. Seeing such a circle of ascetic hermitages, the glorious and radiant Rāghava loosed the string and unstrung his mighty bow before he went up to the hermitage. A fine point of courtesy lies in this: a warrior entering a grove of ascetics first puts his weapon to rest and only then sets foot there. Lowering the bow was his first salutation to the holy forest.

The great seers, endowed with divine knowledge, saw Rāma and came forward gladly to meet him and the illustrious Vaidehī. That they had divine knowledge suggests they already knew he was coming, so going out to receive him came naturally. Seeing him, a follower of dharma, like the rising moon, and seeing Lakṣmaṇa and the illustrious Vaidehī too, those men of firm vows spoke words of blessing and welcomed them. The image of the moon suggests coolness and gentleness rather than fierce power: towards the forest dwellers Rāma was all calm. Sītā is named on her own, and called illustrious, for her fame had reached the forest before her. The ascetics gazed in astonishment at Rāma's build and beauty, at his splendour, his delicacy and the grace of his bearing. They looked upon Vaidehī, Lakṣmaṇa and Rāma as upon marvels, with eyes that hardly blinked — unblinking as the gods are. Even seers made tranquil by austerity were struck with wonder. Here the poet shows the meeting of two kinds of radiance, that of austerity and that of royalty, and on both sides the first feeling is affection, not suspicion. Lakṣmaṇa is named together with Rāma because he follows him like a shadow. Sītā in the middle with the brothers at either side — this picture of the three runs through the whole kāṇḍa. And the sages' wonder was not at their beauty alone but at a prince raised to comfort who had resolved to live in the forest.

Then those illustrious men, devoted to the good of all beings, settled Rāghava as their guest in a leaf hut. The word guest makes plain that Rāma came not as a refugee but as one to be honoured. Those followers of dharma, like fires in their radiance, honoured Rāma in due form and brought him water; the householder's duty of offering water for the feet and water for welcome was not forgotten even in the forest. Calling them like fire points to the power of their austerity: pure as fire and able to burn, they nonetheless stood humbly with folded hands. Full of the highest joy and speaking blessings, they offered that great soul roots, flowers and fruit — everything — and the hermitage itself; it is worth noticing that the hermitage too was offered, so that whatever they had was placed before their king. Then those knowers of dharma spoke: ‘For this people the king is the guardian of dharma, their refuge, a man of great renown, worthy of worship and honour, the bearer of the rod, their elder. Holding a fourth part of Indra's own nature, he protects his subjects, Rāghava.’ So they set out what kingship is: protection is the root of a king's work and the reason he is worshipped. The seers were not flattering him; they were reminding him of his duty. The five epithets they give the king — guardian of dharma, refuge, worthy of worship, worthy of honour, elder — climb step by step from protection to reverence.

‘That is why the king, whom all salute, enjoys choice and delightful pleasures,’ they concluded — enjoyment is the wage of protection, not licence. ‘We live within your realm, and so it is for you to protect us. Whether you dwell in a city or in the forest, you are our king, the lord of the people.’ The words weigh heavily: Rāma had given up the kingdom, not the duty of protecting its people. ‘We have laid down the rod, O king; we have conquered anger and mastered our senses. Ascetics that we are, you must guard us always, as an unborn child is guarded.’ Their weakness lay in having renounced force. The image of the unborn child is a tender one: as a mother never neglects the child in her womb even for a moment, so a king must never neglect the ascetics. Having said this, they honoured Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa with fruits, roots and flowers and with many other foods of the forest, and other ascetics too, adepts radiant as fire and righteous in conduct, gratified their lord in the manner that was due. This plea is the seed of the story of the whole kāṇḍa; from here on, sarga after sarga, it tells of the slaying of rākṣasas.