सुतीक्ष्णाश्रमे रामस्य आतिथ्यम्

Rāma, scorcher of foes, set out with his brother, with Sītā and with those brahmins for Sutīkṣṇa's hermitage. After a long road and the crossing of rivers deep with water they saw a spotless mountain, lofty as great Meru — an image that conveys both its height and its purity. Then the two Rāghavas, the best of the Ikṣvākus, entered with Sītā a forest crowded with trees of every kind. Deep in that fearful forest, in a lonely place, Rāma saw a hermitage among trees laden with flowers and fruit, hung about with rows of bark garments; the poet's keen eye notes that the bark clothes hanging from the trees were the hermitage's only ornament. There Rāma saw the ascetic seated, covered in the dirt and mire of penance — though the phrase can also be read as seated in the lotus posture — and approaching with due ceremony, he spoke to Sutīkṣṇa, whose wealth was austerity. The long road, the crossing of the rivers, the sight of the mountain, the entry into the forest, the sight of the hermitage — step by step the poet paints the journey like a picture.

‘Reverend sir, I am Rāma, come to see you. Speak to me, great seer, knower of dharma, whose power is true,’ he said, humbly introducing himself. Note that he mentions neither his family nor his prowess, only his name; and in asking the sage to speak to him he shows the height of humility, not content merely to see him but asking for his word as well. The steadfast sage looked at Rāma, best of those who uphold dharma, embraced him with both arms, and said: ‘Welcome, Rāma, best of the Raghus, foremost of those who keep the truth. Now that you have set foot here, this hermitage seems to have a protector. I have been waiting for you alone, glorious hero; that is why I have not left my body on earth and risen from here to the world of the gods.’ Like Śarabhaṅga, this sage too had put off his ascent to heaven for the sake of seeing Rāma; the same feeling appears again. ‘Seems to have a protector’ implies that before Rāma came the hermitage was as good as unprotected. And by calling him foremost of those who keep the truth, the sage names truthfulness as Rāma's chief virtue.

‘I heard that you had lost your kingdom and made your home at Citrakūṭa. Kākutstha, Śatakratu, king of the gods, came here; that great god, lord of the immortals, came to me and told me that by my holy deeds I had won all the auspicious worlds. In those worlds, which divine seers frequent and which my austerity has won, live at your ease by my favour, with your wife and with Lakṣmaṇa.’ So this sage too wished to give Rāma the fruit of his austerity; what Śarabhaṅga did in the fifth sarga Sutīkṣṇa does here, and the ascetics' devotion to Rāma is shown again and again. The sage cites Indra's visit and his words as a witness would, so that we know the fruit of his austerity had the gods' approval. By adding ‘with your wife and with Lakṣmaṇa’ he invites Rāma to enjoy those worlds not alone but with his family. The phrase ‘lost your kingdom’ may sound harsh, but in the sage's mouth it is merely a statement of what had happened.

To that radiant great seer of fierce austerity, who spoke only the truth, the self-possessed Rāma replied as Vāsava replies to Brahmā: ‘Great sage, I shall win those worlds myself. What I want now is a place to live, appointed for me here in this forest. You are skilled in all things and devoted to the good of every creature — so the great-souled Śarabhaṅga of Gautama's line told me.’ Here again Rāma keeps the same rule: he will not accept a fruit given by another, yet he does not slight the giver; indeed he praises him before making his request. The comparison with Vāsava and Brahmā conveys the dignity of the exchange, the speaker humble as a pupil and the listener venerable as the Grandfather. By naming Śarabhaṅga, Rāma shows that he had not come by chance but at an elder's direction. At these words the great seer, famed throughout the world, was filled with joy — because Rāma wished to live there — and spoke sweetly.

‘This very hermitage is a good one, Rāma; stay here and be happy. Companies of seers come and go, and it is always stocked with roots and fruit. But herds of very large deer come to it, fearing nothing from any quarter; they tempt one, and then go away again unharmed. Be sure there is no other trouble here but the deer.’ Hearing the great seer's words, the steadfast Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa's elder brother, took up his bow and arrow and said: ‘Most fortunate one, if I were to shoot those herds of deer that gather here with a sharp-edged, smooth-jointed arrow, you would be troubled by it — and what could be harder for me than that? So I do not think it right to live long in this hermitage.’ Rāma declined to stay precisely to spare the sage's feelings; the poet subtly hints at the conflict between a warrior who bears a bow and a hermitage where nothing is harmed. That the deer feared nothing shows the peace of the place, where even animals had no dread. What the sage saw as a flaw was for Rāma a dilemma of dharma: to kill the deer would be wrong, and to damage the hermitage would be wrong too. So by refusing to stay long he kept the sage's hermitage from harm.

Having said this, Rāma fell silent and went to his evening worship. When he had performed the evening rite he settled to spend the night there, in Sutīkṣṇa's lovely hermitage, with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. When the twilight rites were over and he saw that night had come, the great-souled Sutīkṣṇa himself brought pure food fit for ascetics and served it with every honour to those two bulls among men; that he did it himself shows how devoted he was to hospitality. So the first night in Sutīkṣṇa's hermitage passed, with evening worship and a meal to close the day, and the next sarga tells of their departure in the morning.