पञ्चवट्यां पर्णशालानिर्माणम्

Rāma, who had set out with Jaṭāyu at the end of the previous sarga, now reached Pañcavaṭī, thronged with beasts of prey and deer of every kind. There he said to his radiant brother Lakṣmaṇa: ‘We have come to the place the sage described, just as he directed; this, gentle brother, is the country of Pañcavaṭī, with its woods in flower.’ The first epithet, ‘thronged with beasts of prey’, suggests that the place was not only lovely but dangerous; the seed of what will happen later in the kāṇḍa is already planted here. Then he entrusted the task to Lakṣmaṇa: ‘Look around in every direction, for you are skilled in the ways of the forest. Where here would a hermitage suit us best?’ Rāma did not decide on his own but honoured his younger brother's skill — that is the sweetness of their bond. Then he named three requirements: ‘Look for a place where Vaidehī, you and I can all be happy, with water close at hand, where the beauty of the woods and the beauty of the water can both be enjoyed, and where firewood, flowers, kuśa grass and water are near by.’ The pairing of the beauty of woods and of water joins the two parts of the scene, land and water, in one. Sītā's happiness is named first, then water, and last the materials for worship — so the needs of a householder and of an ascetic are gathered together.

So addressed by Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa folded his hands and, in Sītā's presence, said to Kākutstha: ‘While you are here, Kākutstha, I am another's to command, for a hundred years and more. Choose a pleasing spot yourself and simply tell me, “Build it here.”’ With the hyperbole of a hundred years he makes his obedience endless, and by saying it in Sītā's presence he openly acknowledges his elder brother's authority before them all, keeping nothing hidden. The single phrase ‘another's to command’ expresses Lakṣmaṇa's whole character — the complete surrender of his own will. Greatly pleased by these words, the radiant Rāma considered carefully and chose a place endowed with every good quality; ‘considered’ shows that he did not decide in a moment but only after reflection. Then, stepping onto that lovely spot for the work of the hermitage, he took Lakṣmaṇa's hand in his own and spoke to him — the clasp of hands being the plain sign of affection, his consent shown by touch before any word.

Rāma's description unfolds step by step: ‘This ground is level and fair, ringed by flowering trees. Here, gentle brother, you should build us a pleasant hermitage as it ought to be built.’ In three phrases — level, fair, ringed by flowering trees — the whole character of the place is given. Then he let his gaze travel further: ‘Not far off is a lovely lotus pool, bright with sweet-scented lotuses that shine like the sun. And here is the lovely Godāvarī, just as Agastya, the sage of perfected soul, described it, hedged with flowering trees, crowded with geese and kāraṇḍava ducks, graced by ruddy geese, neither too far nor too near, and thronged with herds of deer.’ ‘Neither too far nor too near’ points to the right measure for an ascetic's life, since water too far away is a hardship and water too close invites trouble from animals. ‘Just as Agastya described it’ confirms the sage's word by the evidence of Rāma's own eyes: what had been heard was now seen. At last his gaze rose upward: ‘And there, gentle brother, are the hills, lovely and lofty, full of caves, loud with peacocks and covered with trees in bloom.’ So water, flowers, birds, beasts and mountains are painted one after another into a complete scene.

The description of the hills widens: ‘In place after place they shine with fine ores of gold, silver and copper, as though set with lattice windows, like elephants painted with splendid streaks.’ The comparison is double — like palaces with latticed windows, and like elephants decorated with painted lines — and the colours of the ores, gold, silver and copper, are the very colours of a palace's windows, which is why the image fits. Then comes a long list of trees: ‘They are covered with sāl, palmyra and tamāla, date palms and jackfruit, wild rice, tiniśa and punnāga, mango, aśoka, tilaka, ketaka and campaka, syandana, sandalwood and nīpa, parṇāsa and lakuca, dhava, aśvakarṇa and khadira, śamī, kiṃśuka and pāṭala — tree after tree wreathed in flowers, thickets and vines.’ This is no mere catalogue: each tree is useful to an ascetic's life for its wood, its fruit or its flowers, and the list itself has an order, some trees chiefly for flowers, some for fruit, some for timber. Finally Rāma gave his decision: ‘This place is holy, this place is lovely, this place is full of deer and birds. Here, Saumitri, we shall live, together with this bird.’ The words ‘together with this bird’ make it clear that Jaṭāyu was counted as one of the family.

So addressed by Rāma, the mighty Lakṣmaṇa, slayer of enemy champions, quickly built a hermitage for his brother — ‘quickly’ marks the speed of the work and ‘mighty’ his physical strength. The poet describes the building of the leaf hut step by step, like a manual of craftsmanship: it was spacious, with walls of packed earth, set on stout pillars of long bamboo with a bamboo frame, and beautiful to see. He spread śamī branches over it and lashed them fast with strong cords, thatched it well with kuśa, kāśa and śara grass and with leaves, and levelled the floor. So that man of great strength made for Rāghava a dwelling fair to look on and beyond compare. In these few verses every part of a house is counted — walls, pillars, frame, roof, lashings and floor. This shows not only Lakṣmaṇa's devotion but his skill as well; a prince building a house with his own hands in the forest is a true picture of life in exile.

When the building was finished, the illustrious Lakṣmaṇa went to the river Godāvarī, bathed, gathered lotuses, and came back with fruit as well — the word also means that he returned with his work accomplished. Bringing lotuses shows that all was ready for the worship of the gods. Then, as prescribed, he made an offering of flowers and performed the rite of appeasement, and showed Rāma the hermitage he had built; the household rule of consecrating a dwelling before entering it was followed even in the forest, for dharma is not abandoned because of place or time. Seeing the pleasant hermitage made ready, Rāghava and Sītā found the greatest joy in the leaf hut. The poet's phrase suggests that the joy did not simply come of itself but was gathered in by Rāma, for in exile joy must be striven for. Then, overjoyed, he embraced Lakṣmaṇa in both arms and spoke to him with deep tenderness; the embrace itself was the reward, since in the forest there was nothing else to give.

Rāma said: ‘I am pleased with you. You have done a great work, my lord. Since I have nothing to give you for it, I have given you my embrace.’ Then came his highest praise: ‘With a son like you, Lakṣmaṇa — one who knows my heart, who is grateful, and who knows dharma — my righteous father has not died at all.’ That is, while such a son lives, it cannot be said that Daśaratha is dead; he lives on in Lakṣmaṇa. The three qualities point in turn to understanding of the heart, a memory of kindness, and knowledge of what is right. Having said this to Lakṣmaṇa, Rāghava, the increaser of good fortune, lived happily and in self-command in that land rich in fruit. For some time that righteous man dwelt there, attended by Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa, like an immortal in heaven; with that image the sorrow of exile vanishes for a while. But the words ‘for some time’ themselves hint that this peace would not last: it is soon to be broken, in sarga 17, by the coming of Śūrpaṇakhā.