गुहेन रामस्य सत्कारः

In the previous sarga Rāma had crossed the border of the Kosala country. Now, having passed through the broad and lovely Kosala lands, Lakṣmaṇa's wise elder brother turned to face Ayodhyā and spoke with joined palms. Best of cities, guarded by the sons of Kakutstha, he said, I take my leave of you, and of the gods who protect you and dwell in you. When my forest exile is over and I am free of my debt to the lord of the earth, I will see you again, together with my mother and my father. Then, raising his right arm, his lovely coppery eyes brimming and his face wet with tears, he spoke sadly to the country people: You have shown me pity and kindness, as was fitting. But carrying sorrow for long is a wrong in itself; go now and see to your own affairs. Rāma bowed to the city as to a goddess and did not reproach it in his grief, and forgetting his own sorrow he thought only of the good of those who had followed him. Taking leave is itself good custom, for one should ask leave of elders and gods before setting out, and Rāma did as much for the city. The word "free of my debt" makes his view plain: exile was not a punishment but the paying off of a debt, his father's word. Only after promising to see them again did he send the people away, and that eased their grief a little. The poet also hints that grief carried too long is itself a wrong, since it draws one away from duty.

The people saluted the great-souled Rāma, walked round him in reverence, and stopped here and there, wailing terribly. While they wept, never tired of looking at him, Rāghava passed out of their sight as the sun disappears at nightfall; the image is piercing, for Rāma was the people's sun, and losing sight of him was the beginning of their night. Then in his chariot he passed through lands rich in grain and wealth, where people loved to give, auspicious lovely lands with nothing to fear from any side, full of sacred trees and sacrificial posts, of gardens and mango groves and full reservoirs, thronged with contented, well-fed people and crowded with herds of cattle, lands worth a king's protecting and ringing with the chant of the Veda. So the best of steadfast men went along the highway through that happy, prosperous realm full of lovely gardens, a kingdom fit for kings to enjoy. With this description the poet shows that what Rāma was giving up was not only Ayodhyā but a great and flourishing country. The details amount to the marks of a well-governed land: dharma, safety, farming, the care of cattle and the study of the Veda. The man able to protect such a realm was now going to the forest, and therein lies the pathos of the passage.

There Rāghava saw the Gaṅgā, the river that goes by three paths, divine, cool, free of weed, lovely and frequented by sages. Fine hermitages stood not far from her banks; she was auspicious, and joyful apsarases, the heavenly nymphs, bathed in her pools in season. Gods, dānavas, gandharvas and kinnaras graced her, and the wives of the nāgas and gandharvas visited her constantly. She was strewn with a hundred playgrounds of the gods and bordered with their gardens, and for the gods' sake she flows through the sky too, where she is famed as the lotus pool of heaven; this is what her three paths mean. Roaring where her water strikes the rocks, she seemed to laugh loudly, and laughed bright with foam; in one place her waters were braided, in another adorned with whirlpools, here still and deep, there rushing, here booming low, there roaring fearfully. Hosts of gods bathed in her, she was thick with spotless lotuses, and here she had broad sandbanks, there clean white sand. The description follows an order: first the nature of the river, then the hermitages on her banks, then her divine visitors, then her course through the three worlds, and finally the many states of her water. By repeating "here" and "there" the poet shows how one and the same river takes different forms from place to place, calm, swift, deep-voiced, terrifying.

She rang with the calls of geese and cranes and was graced by ruddy sheldrakes, visited by birds always in their mating season, a river beyond reproach. In places the trees on her banks adorned her like garlands; in places she was covered with open lotuses or crowded with lotus beds; in places set off by white water lilies and their buds, and elsewhere dusted with the pollen of many flowers so that she seemed flushed as if with wine. Free of all impurity, clear to the eye as a jewel, her woods echoed with the trumpeting of the elephants of the quarters, of wild elephants, of rutting tuskers fit for the king of the gods to ride. Covered with fruit and flowers, young shoots, thickets and birds, she shone like a young woman carefully decked in the finest ornaments. At the end the poet names her highest greatness: she is the divine river fallen from Viṣṇu's foot, sinless herself and the destroyer of sin. So the description runs from earthly beauty to spiritual purity. The image of the adorned woman gathers it all together: the flowers, shoots and birds are her ornaments, and the whirlpools her playfulness. "Fallen from Viṣṇu's foot" recalls her origin, and "sinless and destroying sin" names her twofold greatness, pure in herself and cleansing others, which is the place the Gaṅgā holds in Indian tradition. It is suggested too that one going into forest exile first takes refuge with the holy waters of the Gaṅgā.

She was full of porpoises, crocodiles and serpents; she had fallen from Śaṅkara's matted locks through the power of Sagara's line, and she was the queen of the ocean, loud with cranes and curlews. To that Gaṅgā the mighty-armed Rāma came, near Śṛṅgaverapura. Looking at her whirlpools thick with waves, the great chariot warrior said to Sumantra, his charioteer: Today we will stay right here. Not far from the river, charioteer, is this great iṅgudī tree, full of flowers and young shoots; let us stay here. Rāma asked for no village or palace but chose the foot of a tree as his lodging, and so his life in the forest began. The mention of Śiva's locks and Sagara's line briefly recalls the story of Bhagīratha: the river brought down to save the sons of Sagara now flowed before Rāma, a descendant of Sagara. So the sight of the Gaṅgā is not just an incident of the road but a memory of his family. The iṅgudī tree is dear to ascetics, and lodging at its foot announced the beginning of Rāma's new life; and by saying "we will stay" he counted all his companions with himself.

And here, Rāma said, I will gaze on this best of rivers, the auspicious Gaṅgā, whose water is honoured by gods and men, by gandharvas, beasts, serpents and birds. Lakṣmaṇa and Sumantra said "So be it" to Rāghava and drove the horses up to the iṅgudī tree. Reaching that lovely tree, Rāma, the joy of the Ikṣvākus, stepped down from the chariot with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa. Sumantra too got down, unyoked the fine horses, and stood with joined palms before Rāma, who was seated at the foot of the tree. The poet follows a careful order here: first the prince alights, then the charioteer frees the horses, and last he stands humbly in attendance. Rāma's words deserve thought: he wished to stay not to rest but to look at the Gaṅgā, for in his eyes the river was a holy place, not an obstacle on the road. The long list of those who honour her shows that the Gaṅgā is revered not by men alone but by all living things. And the one-word answer of Lakṣmaṇa and Sumantra shows how readily they followed him.

Now in that region there was a king named Guha, a friend as dear to Rāma as his own self, a niṣāda by birth, a strong man, known as the chief of his people. Hearing that the tiger among men had come into his territory, he came out surrounded by his elderly counsellors and his kinsmen. Seeing the lord of the niṣādas standing at a distance, Rāma went forward with Lakṣmaṇa to meet him. Pained to see Rāma in an ascetic's dress, Guha embraced him and said: Rāma, this land is yours as much as Ayodhyā is; what can I do for you? Here is the mark of true friendship: neither difference of birth nor difference of dress stood in the way of their affection, and the grieving friend offered his own kingdom. "As dear as his own self" tells us their friendship was already well known. Seeing Guha waiting at a distance, Rāma himself went forward, and it is the mark of the great that they take the first step to honour another. And in Guha's words friendship reaches its height: he did not wish to give some gift, but to hand over the lordship of everything he had.

For who, mighty-armed one, Guha went on, could ever have so dear a guest? Then he brought good food of many kinds, quickly offered the water of welcome, and said: Welcome, mighty-armed one; this whole land is yours. We are your servants and you are our master; rule our kingdom well. Here is food to chew and to eat, to drink and to savour; the best beds are ready, and fodder for your horses. Guha's words name the parts of hospitality in their proper order as the texts lay them down: water of welcome, food, a bed, and care of the guest's animals. By saying "we are your servants, you our master" Guha chose the part of a servant, and by "rule our kingdom well" he offered the kingdom itself. The fourfold list of foods is the familiar one from the texts. The mention of fodder for the horses at the end is significant, for that is the one thing Rāma would accept.

Rāghava answered Guha: We have been honoured and gladdened by you in every way, by your coming to us on foot and by the affection you have shown. Pleased, he pressed Guha in his shapely arms and said: How fortunate that I find you well, Guha, with your kinsmen. Is all well in your realm, with your friends and in your forests? But all this that you have lovingly prepared, I give you leave to take back, for I do not now live by accepting gifts. Know me for an ascetic who lives in the forest, wearing kuśa grass, bark and deerskin, eating fruit and roots, and set firmly on dharma. Rāma's courtesy is plain here: he did not refuse harshly, but accepted the love while declining the gifts, and declining gifts is part of an ascetic's discipline. By saying they had been honoured and gladdened, he counted Guha's hospitality as complete; coming on foot and showing affection were honour enough. Then he embraced him and asked after his realm, friends and forests, treating Guha not only as a friend but as a king. And the closing description of himself as an ascetic was the vow he would keep for fourteen years.

It is only fodder for the horses that I need, Rāma said, nothing else; with that much I shall have been well honoured by you. These horses are dear to my father, King Daśaratha, and if they are well cared for, I shall have been honoured. Hearing this, Guha at once ordered his men to bring water and fodder for the horses without delay. Note that Rāma gave up everything for himself but would not neglect his father's beloved horses; devotion to his father was his one exception. What he would not take for himself he asked for the horses his father loved, and so even his refusal of gifts was warm rather than cold. By saying that this alone would honour him, he satisfied Guha's heart, for refusing hospitality hurts the host, and by accepting something he consoled him. Guha did not delay but gave the order on the spot, and so what was fitting was preserved on both sides.

Then Rāma, with bark for his upper garment, performed the evening twilight rite and took as his food only the water Lakṣmaṇa had fetched; even on this first night he gave up food, and his vow showed its strictness. When Rāma lay down on the ground with his wife, Lakṣmaṇa washed his feet, a mark of a brother's devotion, then drew back a little and stood leaning against a tree, not lying down himself but keeping awake. Guha too, talking with Lakṣmaṇa and the charioteer, kept watch over Rāma all night, alert, with his bow in his hand. So for that illustrious, high-minded, great-souled son of Daśaratha as he lay there, a man who had never known sorrow and was used only to comfort, the night passed very slowly. The last verse, in a longer metre, marks the close of the sarga. "Never known sorrow, used only to comfort" gives the reason the night was long: the bed was not the hardship so much as the new way of life. Three awake and one asleep: that is how the poet composes the scene, showing at once how Rāma needed guarding and how all of them loved him.