पञ्चाप्सरस्तीर्थम् अगस्त्याश्रमगमनं च

In this sarga the three set out from Sutīkṣṇa's hermitage on their journey. Rāma went in front, lovely Sītā in the middle, and Lakṣmaṇa behind with his bow in his hand — an order kept throughout the Araṇya Kāṇḍa, since in the middle Sītā was safe. The meaning of the arrangement is worth pondering: the one in front clears the way, the one behind guards the rear, and Sītā between them is protected by both. Gazing at the many mountain slopes and woods, the brothers crossed lovely rivers and went on with Sītā. Along the way they saw cranes and ruddy geese moving on the river sandbanks, lakes full of lotuses and crowded with water-birds, spotted antelope gathered in herds, tusked beasts mad with rut, buffaloes and boars, and elephants, the enemies of trees; the poet names first the waters, then the birds, then the four-footed beasts, so that the scene opens out step by step. Having come a long way, as the sun was sinking, they saw together a lovely lake a yojana across. It was crowded with lotuses and water-lilies, adorned with herds of elephants, and thronged with cranes, swans, kādamba geese and creatures of the water — the sign of how rich the forest was, and a sight that drew the mind from afar. The sinking sun marks the end of the day and sets a quiet scene for the sight of the lake. And from that delightful lake of clear water came the sound of singing and of instruments, yet no one at all was to be seen. That wonder is the doorway to the story that follows: with it the poet raises a question in the listener's mind and answers it in the next passage. This is Vālmīki's way of telling a story — first to show the marvel, then to give its cause.

Out of curiosity Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, the great chariot-fighter, began to question a sage named Dharmabhṛt: ‘Great sage, hearing this great marvel, we are all filled with curiosity. What is it? Please tell us plainly.’ So asked by Rāghava, the righteous sage at once began to tell the power of the lake. ‘This lake, Rāma, is called Pañcāpsaras, the Lake of the Five Apsarases, and it holds water in every season. The sage Māṇḍakarṇi made it by his austerity. That great sage practised fierce austerity for ten thousand years, standing in the water and living on air. Then all the gods, with Agni at their head, were deeply alarmed and said to one another, “This sage is after the place of one of us,” and all the dwellers in heaven were troubled at heart. So all the gods appointed five chief apsarases, whose radiance flashed like lightning, and sent them to put an obstacle in the way of his austerity. By those apsarases the sage, though he had seen both this world and the next, was brought under the power of love, and the gods' purpose was accomplished. The five apsarases became the sage's wives, and a house hidden from sight was made for them inside the lake. There they live happily and delight the sage, who by the power of his austerity has become young again. What you hear is the music of their instruments as they play, and the lovely sound of their singing mingled with the chime of their ornaments.’ The illustrious Rāghava and his brother received this account of the sage of disciplined spirit with a single word: ‘Wonderful.’ Several things in this tale deserve thought. First, it was the gods' fear, not any fault of the sage, that made them send the apsarases, so the blame for the obstacle lies with the gods. Second, in calling him one who had seen both this world and the next, the poet shows that he knew all things, worldly and otherworldly, and still fell under desire — which tells how strong desire is. Third, the lake's name, Pañcāpsaras, is a memorial of those five; the story shows that history lies hidden in the names of places. Fourth, the sage regained his youth through his austerity, so the austerity was not fruitless, but its fruit was spent in pleasure — and there is a fine irony here, for the youth won by austerity became the destroyer of austerity. The house hidden in the lake explains the sound of music. The sage's name, Dharmabhṛt, ‘he who upholds dharma’, is apt, for one who bears dharma can tell of another's lapse without being disturbed. Rāma answered only ‘Wonderful’ and did not condemn — that is his restraint; and the sage gave no sermon at the end, but simply described what had happened and fell silent, leaving the listener to judge. The brothers asked together and the sage alone answered, so that there were three listeners and one speaker, like a scene in a play. With one tale the poet achieves three things: he explains the marvel, he accounts for the name of the place, and he gives an example of austerity broken.

As the sage was speaking, Rāma saw a circle of hermitages, ringed about with kuśa grass and bark garments and filled with the splendour of Brahman. Entering that glorious circle with Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa, Kākutstha lived there happily, honoured by the great seers. Then he went in turn to the hermitages of the ascetics with whom that master of great weapons had stayed before. The poet counts the time he spent: ten months in one place, a full year in another, four months in another, five or six in another, more months than that elsewhere, a month and a half more in one, three months here and eight months there — so Rāghava lived in comfort. And as he stayed in the sages' hermitages, taking his pleasure in their friendship, ten years went by. Then, having wandered everywhere, Rāghava, knower of dharma, came back with Sītā to Sutīkṣṇa's hermitage, and there too, honoured by the sages, Rāma, tamer of foes, stayed for some time. The poet does not simply say ‘he lived there ten years’, but counts the length of each stay separately, and this achieves two things: it shows that Rāma's exile was not unbroken hardship, and that his bond with the ascetics grew strong. The reckoning points to one fact — a great part of the thirteen years of exile passed peacefully, in the hermitages, in study and service. The words ‘with whom he had stayed before’ make clear that these were the hermitages already mentioned, so the story circles back to the same country. The epithet ‘master of great weapons’ reminds us that the one who knew the mightiest weapons now lived in peaceful hermitages; the poet means that power and peace dwelt together in him. ‘In turn’ is important too: Rāma did not stay in one place but visited every hermitage, which shows his vow of protection being put into practice. ‘Taking pleasure in their friendship’ makes plain that there was no obstacle and no hostility; the ten years passed in goodwill. And the honour paid him on his return shows that even after ten years the ascetics' affection had not faded.

One day, while he was staying in the hermitage, Kākutstha sat humbly near the great sage Sutīkṣṇa and said to him: ‘Reverend sir, I have always heard from people telling stories that Agastya, the best of sages, lives in this forest, but this forest is so vast that I do not know the place. Where is the lovely hermitage of that wise great seer? With your blessing I would go with my brother and Sītā to Agastya and pay my respects to him. This great longing keeps turning in my heart, that I might myself wait upon that best of sages.’ Hearing these words of righteous Rāma, Sutīkṣṇa was delighted and answered Daśaratha's son: ‘I too was wanting to tell you and Lakṣmaṇa this very thing — go to Agastya, Rāghava, and take Sītā with you. How fortunate that you raise it with me yourself! Let me tell you, Rāma, where the great sage Agastya is. Go four yojanas south from this hermitage, my son; there is the great and glorious hermitage of Agastya's brother.’ Rāma's humility is especially to be seen here: he neither commands nor seeks the way on his own, but asks while sitting respectfully by his teacher. In saying he had heard it from those who tell stories, he admits the limits of his own knowledge, and he puts his ignorance down to the vastness of the Daṇḍaka forest rather than to any carelessness — a deft touch of speech. He speaks not of seeing the sage but of saluting him, for to him the bow of reverence mattered more than the sight; and his wish to wait on the sage himself is utterly humble — prince though he was, he wanted to serve with his own hands. This prepares the ground for the welcome Agastya will give him. In Sutīkṣṇa's reply, ‘I too was wanting to tell you this’ shows teacher and pupil of one mind, and ‘how fortunate’ his delight. The sage gives no vague directions but a precise route: four yojanas south, then a night's stay, then one yojana more.

Sutīkṣṇa described that hermitage: ‘It lies in a stretch of forest that is mostly level ground, made lovely by a wood of long pepper, rich in flowers and fruit, delightful, and loud with birds of many kinds. There are pools of every sort with clear water, covered with swans and kāraṇḍava ducks and graced by ruddy geese. Spend one night there, Rāma, and set out in the morning; then take the southern direction along the edge of the forest, and after one more yojana you will reach Agastya's hermitage, in a delightful stretch of woodland adorned with many trees. There Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa will be happy with you, for that woodland is lovely and full of trees. If your mind is set on seeing the great sage Agastya, wise one, decide to go this very day.’ Hearing this, Rāma and his brother saluted the sage and set out with their companions and Sītā towards Agastya. So the stay at Sutīkṣṇa's hermitage ended and a new chapter began. The wood of long pepper is a telling detail, a plant of the southern country that makes the place real. The clear pools speak of pure water and the swans and ducks of teeming life, and the calls of many birds are the forest's very breath. Sutīkṣṇa not only gives directions but describes the beauty of the destination, to make the journey inviting, and his mention of Vaidehī's happiness shows his kindness in thinking of Sītā's comfort too. Even the repetition that the woodland is lovely and full of trees has a purpose: by praising the place twice the sage settles Rāma's resolve. And his instruction to go on in the morning carries the forest dwellers' rule of rest — no travelling by night, but setting out at dawn.

Gazing at the wonderful woods, at mountains like banks of cloud, and at the lakes and streams along the way, Rāma went on happily by the road Sutīkṣṇa had shown him, and in great delight said to Lakṣmaṇa: ‘Surely what we see is the hermitage of the brother of the great-souled Agastya, the sage of holy deeds. For here on the path through this wood are those thousands of trees we were told of, bowed down under their load of fruit and flowers. This scent of ripe long pepper, blown from the wood by the wind, suddenly turns sharp on the tongue. Here and there we see heaps of gathered firewood, and cut darbha grass gleaming like beryl. And there in the middle of the wood, like the peak of a dark cloud, is the plume of smoke from the sacred fire kept in the hermitage. In the secluded bathing places the twice-born, having bathed, make offerings of flowers they have gathered themselves. So, gentle brother, from what I heard from Sutīkṣṇa, this must be the hermitage of Agastya's brother.’ Rāma identifies the place by its signs, and that is the distinctive manner of this sarga. The poet shows him reading nature like a book: from the laden trees, the direction of the scent, the heaps of wood, the cut grass and the plume of smoke, he infers a human dwelling — a reasoned chain of inference, from effect to cause, from sign to what it signifies. ‘The trees we were told of’ shows him matching what he had heard from Sutīkṣṇa with what he now saw. The scent of long pepper, said to turn sharp, is a subtle touch: sweet at first, pungent in the end. The cut darbha grass points to materials gathered for sacrifice, and its green sheen compared with beryl is a lovely image; the brahmins bathing in quiet pools paint the religious life of the hermitage in a single picture. His great delight shows his inner joy at seeing, at the end of a long road, the signs of his goal, and ‘gentle brother’ his affection for Lakṣmaṇa. In these nine verses there is not a single word of war; all is a peaceful picture of nature.

Then Rāma told of the greatness of that hermitage: ‘It was his brother, the man of holy deeds, who for the good of the worlds seized death by force and made this quarter a refuge. Here long ago lived together the cruel Vātāpi and Ilvala, two great asuras and brothers, slayers of brāhmaṇas. The pitiless Ilvala would take the form of a brāhmaṇa, speak in cultivated Sanskrit, and invite brāhmaṇas to a śrāddha, a rite for the ancestors. Then he would cook his brother, who had taken the form of a ram, and feed the twice-born according to the rite prescribed for a śrāddha. When the brāhmaṇas had eaten, Ilvala would call out loudly, “Vātāpi, come out!” Hearing his brother's words, Vātāpi, bleating like a ram, would burst out, tearing the brāhmaṇas' bodies open. In this way those two flesh-eaters, who could take any shape they pleased, together destroyed thousands of brāhmaṇas day after day. Then, entreated by the gods, the great seer Agastya ate that great asura at a śrāddha and digested him. Ilvala said, “It is done,” gave him water to wash his hands, and called to his brother, “Come out!” As the slayer of brāhmaṇas called to his brother, the wise Agastya, best of sages, laughed and said: “How can he come out? I have digested that rākṣasa. Your brother in the shape of a ram has gone to the house of Yama.” Hearing words that told of his brother's death, the night-ranger flew into a rage and set about attacking the sage. He rushed at that lord of brāhmaṇas, and the sage of blazing power burned him up with a glance like fire, and he perished. This, with its lake and its wood, is the hermitage of the brother of the one who did this hard deed out of compassion for the brāhmaṇas.’ This story works on two levels. On one it establishes Agastya's greatness: one who could digest an asura with the fire of his stomach was invincible through austerity. On the other it foreshadows Rāma's own coming work: as Agastya freed the southern quarter from demons, so Rāma must free Janasthāna. Ilvala's deceit is described with care — he takes a brāhmaṇa's form, speaks Sanskrit, invokes a śrāddha — so that, most frightening of all, wickedness goes about in the very dress of dharma; the rite was performed correctly and only the intent was evil. Even Vātāpi's disguise is subtle: he became a ram because meat is prescribed for the śrāddha in the scriptures, so the fraud sheltered in the shadow of scripture itself. The repeated ‘tearing open’ conveys violence done again and again, and the ‘thousands of brāhmaṇas’ its scale. Agastya's answer was fitting too: he accepted the invitation, ate the meal, and then, saying ‘It is done’, told the truth with a laugh. That single word ‘laughed’ shows his fearlessness; there is no anger in him anywhere. Ilvala attacked in anger, so his destruction was his own doing. ‘Burned by a glance like fire’ says that the radiance of austerity was itself the weapon; ‘I have digested him’ says it all — Vātāpi was not beaten in battle but cooked in the belly. An ascetic's weapon is austerity, not the sword. And ‘seized death by force’ implies that the two asuras were death itself; to subdue them was to make the quarter a refuge. The reason is given at the end, compassion for the brāhmaṇas: the deed was done not for himself but to protect others, and that is what made so hard a deed praiseworthy.

While Rāma was talking with Saumitri, the sun set and the hour of twilight came on. Having worshipped the evening twilight with his brother as prescribed, he entered the hermitage and saluted the sage. Properly received by him, Rāghava ate roots and fruit and spent that one night there. When the night had passed and the sun's disc had risen, Rāghava took leave of Agastya's brother: ‘Reverend sir, I salute you; I have spent the night in comfort. I take my leave and go to see your elder brother, your teacher.’ Told ‘You may go,’ the delight of the Raghus went on by the road that had been pointed out to him, gazing at the forest. In a few words the poet shows the whole round of hospitality — salutation, reception, meal, a night's rest, leave-taking in the morning and permission to go. ‘As prescribed’ makes clear that even in exile the daily rites were not neglected, and ‘roots and fruit’ names the ascetics' fare. Rāma's words of farewell are full of courtesy: first a salutation, then thanks for a comfortable night, then a request for leave. The sage's reply is a single word, showing ascetics' economy of speech. Rāma saluted the sage as he entered, before any hospitality was given, and the same order will be seen again at Agastya's hermitage. So in six verses a complete sequence of welcome is set down, and the story moves quietly on.

On the way Rāma saw wild rice, jackfruit, sāl, vañjula and tiniśa trees, ciribilva, madhūka, bilva and tinduka — hundreds of trees of the wilderness in flower, wreathed with flowering creepers, trees trampled by the trunks of elephants, made lovely by monkeys, and echoing a hundredfold with flocks of excited birds. In listing these the poet brings in the plant life of the southern country. The elephant-trampled trees show the wildness of the forest and the monkeys its liveliness, and the din of the birds adds sound to the picture, so that the forest is described to two senses, first sight and then hearing. Then lotus-eyed Rāma said to the heroic Lakṣmaṇa, who was walking close behind him: ‘From the glossy leaves of these trees and the gentleness of the beasts and birds, the hermitage of that great seer of perfected soul cannot be far off. The hermitage of the one who is famous in the world as Agastya through his own deeds alone is now in sight, a place that takes away the weariness of the weary. Its wood is thick with the smoke of plentiful offerings, it is hung with rows of bark garments, its herds of deer are calm, and it rings with the calls of many birds. It belongs to the man of holy deeds who for the good of the worlds seized death by force and made the southern quarter a refuge. This is the hermitage of him by whose power the rākṣasas only look at this southern quarter in fear and cannot enjoy it. From the time this quarter was entered by that man of holy deeds, the night-rangers have given up their hostility and been at peace.’ Here again inference is Rāma's proof: glossy leaves and gentle beasts and birds are signs that a hermitage is near. The gentleness of the animals is especially beautiful — where ascetics live, even beasts give up their enmity. ‘Famous through his own deeds alone’ makes clear that his renown came neither from birth nor from a boon but from his own actions, and that is Rāma's ideal too. The plentiful smoke tells of sacrifices never ceasing. There is a fine paradox in the rākṣasas only looking at the southern quarter without enjoying it: they can see it but cannot possess it. And ‘from the time this quarter was entered’ divides time into before Agastya and after him, suggesting that the coming of a single ascetic changed an age. So the greatness of the place is joined to its history.

Rāma went on to magnify the sage: ‘Through the reverend one's name this southern quarter is famed in the three worlds as the auspicious one, and those of cruel deeds cannot assail it. That best of mountains, the Vindhya, which once rose up to block the path of the sun, obeys his command and grows no more to this day. This glorious hermitage, frequented by gentle deer, belongs to the long-lived Agastya, whose deeds are famous in the world. He is a holy man honoured by all, ever devoted to the good of the good; now that we have come to him he will bring us to what is best. Here I shall worship the great sage Agastya, and here, gentle brother, I shall spend the rest of our exile in the forest. Here gods and gandharvas, siddhas and the greatest seers, eating sparingly, constantly wait upon Agastya. No liar, no cruel, crooked or savage man, no one of evil life could live here — such is this sage. Here gods, yakṣas and nāgas, with the birds, live on a measured diet, eager to serve dharma. Here great-souled siddhas and supreme seers have cast off their bodies and gone to heaven in new bodies, in chariots bright as the sun. Here the gods, worshipped by auspicious beings, grant the state of a yakṣa, immortality and kingdoms of many kinds.’ Finally he told Lakṣmaṇa: ‘We have reached the hermitage, Saumitri. Go in ahead and tell the seer that I have come, and Sītā with me.’ The meaning of Agastya's name is hidden here: he who stills the mountain — the story of the Vindhya that stopped growing at his word points to it. There is a play on the word for the southern quarter too, for ‘auspicious’ here also means the reverent circling of worship. In describing the hermitage Rāma rises step by step — first the deer, then gods, gandharvas and siddhas, then yakṣas, nāgas and birds, and at last siddhas going to heaven in shining chariots — so the glory of the place is shown to reach all three worlds. The verse that no liar could live there states the moral law of the hermitage: the untruthful, the crooked and the cruel cannot so much as remain in it. His confidence that the sage would bring them to what is best shows his faith: he asks no boon, only speaks of the good that may come. His resolve to spend the rest of the exile here will change, for Agastya himself will send him to Pañcavaṭī, so it hints at the turn the story is about to take. In the end Rāma does not walk in himself but sends Lakṣmaṇa ahead — a guest's courtesy, first to announce and then to enter. And with ‘we have reached the hermitage’ he counts himself, Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa together, as three guests alike.