अगस्त्यस्य पञ्चवटीनिर्देशः

In the previous sarga Rāma had reached Agastya's hermitage and been honoured by the great seer. In this one the sage himself declared his pleasure: ‘Rāma, I am pleased with you — may all go well with you; and Lakṣmaṇa, I am delighted with you, for you have both come here with Sītā to pay me your respects.’ The blessing is addressed to Rāma and the words of delight separately to Lakṣmaṇa, so the sage shows his affection for each of them in turn; and ‘to pay your respects’ marks that they had come in humility, asking for nothing. Then he thought of the hardship of their journey: ‘The weariness of the road and the fatigue it brings are troubling you both, and Maithilī, the daughter of Janaka, is plainly longing for rest.’ He went on to describe Sītā's sacrifice: ‘She is delicate and has never been humbled by hardship, yet, moved by love for her husband, she has come into this forest full of dangers. Act so that Sītā may be happy here, Rāma; in following you to the forest she has done a hard thing.’ Finally he spoke of the common nature of women: ‘For since the world was made, Raghunandana, women have clung to a man while his fortunes are even and left him when they go awry.’ With this contrast he prepared the ground for setting Sītā apart.

The sage used three comparisons to show how fickle women are: they follow the flicker of lightning, the sharpness of weapons, and the speed of Garuḍa and the wind. But this censure was meant of women in general; Sītā's case was quite different. ‘This wife of yours is free of all these faults,’ he said. ‘She is to be praised and held up as an example, as Arundhatī is among the noble ladies.’ By setting blame and praise side by side, the poet makes Sītā's greatness shine the more. Then the sage said that the very region was adorned: ‘This country too is graced, Rāma, tamer of foes, since you will live here with Saumitri and Vaidehī’ — the land would be beautified by their mere presence. And the address ‘tamer of foes’ quietly hints at the struggle with the rākṣasas to come.

Addressed in this way by the sage, Rāghava folded his hands and spoke courteously to the seer, who blazed like a kindled fire: ‘I am fortunate and I am favoured, since our teacher is pleased with the virtues of one who comes to him with his brother and his wife.’ Rāma does not praise himself; he counts his teacher's pleasure as his own good fortune, and that is humility at its height. Then he made his request: ‘Show me a place with water and plenty of woodland, where I may make a hermitage and live happily and content.’ By ‘content’ he meant not merely a place to live but a life absorbed in austerity and rooted in dharma, and his two conditions, water and woodland, are the two needs of an ascetic's life — water and fuel. Hearing Rāma's words, the best of sages reflected for a moment and then spoke auspicious words. That moment of reflection matters: the poet hints that the choice of a dwelling was not only for Rāma's comfort but the foundation of everything that was to follow.

The righteous Agastya pointed him to Pañcavaṭī: ‘Two yojanas from here, my son, is a splendid place, widely known as Pañcavaṭī, rich in roots, fruit and water and full of deer. Go there, build a hermitage with Saumitri, and live happily, keeping your father's word exactly as it was given.’ Calling him ‘my son’, the sage looked on Rāma as his own child, and by giving a fixed distance of two yojanas he showed that the way was easy — not too far, for the nearness of ascetics was not to be given up. Then he revealed the source of his knowledge: ‘All your story is known to me, blameless one, through the power of my austerity and through my affection for Daśaratha. Through austerity I have also discerned the wish in your heart: though you promised to live here with me in this grove of penance, you want something else. That is why I tell you, go to Pañcavaṭī.’ These words show the sage's knowledge of past, present and future, yet he says it came not from the power of austerity alone but also from his love for Daśaratha — knowledge mixed with affection is this sage's special mark. Rāma had earlier meant to stay there, but the sage knew his inner feeling was otherwise, so his words were not a mere command but an assent to what was in Rāma's own heart. Then he counted the virtues of the place: ‘That stretch of woodland is delightful, and Maithilī will be happy there. It is worthy of praise, Rāghava, and not far off, near the Godāvarī, and Maithilī will be happy there. It is rich in roots and fruit, thronged with flocks of many kinds of birds, secluded, holy and lovely.’ The repeated promise that Maithilī would be happy there shows that Sītā's happiness was the sage's first concern. Finally he gave another purpose as well: ‘You are a man of upright life, and with your wife beside you, you are able to protect; living there, Rāma, you will guard the ascetics too.’ So in choosing a dwelling he joined happiness and dharma together.

Then the sage showed him the actual way: ‘You can see this great forest of madhūka trees. Go along its northern side and make for a banyan tree. Then climb the rising ground not far from the mountain, and you will come to the place known as Pañcavaṭī, whose woods are always in flower.’ His words are in the present tense, as though he were pointing the way with his finger and Rāma could see that forest at that very moment — a description with the vividness of a play. Thus addressed by Agastya, Rāma and Saumitri honoured that truthful seer and took their leave — ‘truthful’ seals the authority of his counsel: what he said would surely come true. With his permission, and after bowing at his feet, the two set out with Sītā from the hermitage for Pañcavaṭī. Bows in hand, quivers slung at their sides, undaunted in battle, the two princes went steadily along the path the great sage had shown them and came to Pañcavaṭī. The bows taken up and the quivers fastened on hint at the struggle ahead, while ‘steadily’ speaks of their calm resolve. So the sarga leads from the peaceful hermitage to the opening of a new chapter.