भरद्वाजाश्रमे आतिथ्यं चित्रकूटादेशश्च

Having spent that auspicious night under the great tree, the three set out from there when the sun had risen clear. They plunged into the great forest and made for the place where the Yamunā flows into the Bhāgīrathī Gaṅgā. The renowned travellers went on, looking here and there at many kinds of country and at lovely regions they had never seen before; to those whose lives had been spent in the palaces of Ayodhyā, this land was wholly new. Going at their ease and gazing at flowering trees of many kinds, when the day was nearly over, Rāma spoke to Lakṣmaṇa. "At their ease" suggests they went without haste, resting now and then; the surge of grief had calmed and the road was pleasant, so that their journey was not a flight but calm as a pilgrimage. The meeting of the Bhāgīrathī and the Yamunā is famous as Prayāga, and there stood Bharadvāja's hermitage. The poet first describes the beauty of the road and then names the goal, which is his way with journeys. "Plunged into" conveys the depth of the forest: they went not by the highway but through the heart of the woods. This sarga follows straight on from the last: there the night beneath the tree, here the departure from it.

Look, son of Sumitrā, Rāma said, at the fine smoke rising over Prayāga; I take it for the banner of the blessed fire god, which tells us a sage is close by. Surely we have reached the meeting of the Gaṅgā and the Yamunā, for we can hear the sound of water grinding against water. Here is wood split by those who live off the forest, and here by the hermitage are trees of many kinds that have been felled. Rāma inferred the nearness of the hermitage from three signs, the smoke, the roar of the waters and the cut wood, a way of reasoning that shows the poet's eye for reality. As a king is known by his banner, so a sage who tends the sacred fire is known by its smoke. And the cut timber of those who live off the forest, ascetics or villagers, was a sign of human dwelling. So even in the middle of the forest Rāma found his way by signs. Then the two bowmen went on pleasantly, without hardship, and as the sun was sinking they reached the sage's dwelling at the confluence of the Gaṅgā and the Yamunā; evening was the right time for a guest to arrive.

Coming up to the hermitage, Rāma startled its beasts and birds, and after a short stretch of road reached Bharadvāja. It is a fine observation that the peaceful animals and birds of the hermitage were frightened by men dressed as bowmen. Having reached the hermitage and wishing to see the sage, the two heroes, with Sītā following, stopped some way off, for good custom forbids entering a hermitage without leave; one halts at its edge and sends word through a pupil. Then Rāma went in and saw the great-souled sage surrounded by his pupils, a man of strict vows and single-minded, who had won through austerity the divine sight by which he knew past, present and future. Seeing that he had just made his fire offering, for it was proper to approach him only after the rite, the fortunate Rāma joined his palms and saluted him together with Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā. "Surrounded by his pupils" marks Bharadvāja as a teacher; tradition holds that his hermitage at Prayāga was then a great seat of learning.

Lakṣmaṇa's elder brother then told him who they were: Blessed one, we two are the sons of Daśaratha, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa. This is my good wife Vaidehī, daughter of Janaka, blameless, who has followed me into this lonely penance grove. And when my father sent me into exile, this dear younger brother of mine, Lakṣmaṇa, firm in his vow, followed me into the forest. Sent by our father, blessed one, we shall enter the penance grove and live there on roots and fruit, following dharma alone. Rāma spoke of no grief and no fault of Kaikeyī's; he gave only one reason, that their father had sent them, and that was his restraint. Calling Sītā blameless established her character before the sage too. Hearing the wise prince's words, the righteous sage brought him a cow, the guest offering and water, the parts of the honey-offering rite with which a guest is received. Then the sage, ripe in austerity, gave them many kinds of food and drinks made from wild roots and fruits, and arranged a lodging for them. So he honoured them not only in words but according to the rule; for hospitality means both food and shelter for the guest.

Seated among beasts and birds and surrounded by sages, the sage honoured Rāma, who had come as his guest, and welcomed him. When Rāghava had accepted the honour and sat down, Bharadvāja spoke these words in keeping with dharma: It is a long time, Kākutstha, since I last saw you come here. I have heard too of your banishment, for which there was no cause. "A long time" suggests the sage's long waiting, and "no cause" his judgement that an innocent man had been exiled. This place at the meeting of the two great rivers is secluded, holy and delightful, he said; live here in comfort. The sage's invitation was not mere courtesy but came from affection; he wished to keep Rāma near him like a son. "In keeping with dharma" suggests that his words were not born of curiosity but were an invitation in accordance with dharma. And the three words, secluded, holy and delightful, give a full picture of the place: free of crowds, a holy site, and naturally beautiful.

So addressed by Bharadvāja, Rāma, devoted to the good of all, gave a gentle answer. Blessed one, he said, the people of the city and the countryside are close to this place; I think they will find it easy to come and see me here. People will come to gaze at Vaidehī and at me, and that is why I do not wish to live here. His concern was twofold: the peace of the penance grove would be broken, and his vow of forest life would slacken, for if the citizens kept coming, his exile would be exile in name only. Nor did he wish to burden the sage's hermitage with the crowds who would come to see him. Look out for me, blessed one, some excellent site for a hermitage in a lonely place, where Vaidehī, daughter of Janaka, who deserves every comfort, may be happy. Here Rāma asked nothing for his own comfort but only for Sītā's; that she had come to the forest though she deserved comfort was his constant care. His courtesy is to be seen too: he did not refuse the sage's invitation outright, but gave his reason and asked for another place. "Devoted to the good of all" suggests that even his refusal was rooted in the good of others.

Hearing these good words, the great sage Bharadvāja answered in a way that met Rāghava's purpose. Ten krośas from here, my son, is a mountain where you may live, a holy mountain, lovely to look on and frequented by great seers. Langurs range over it, monkeys and bears live there; it is famous as Citrakūṭa and is like Mount Gandhamādana. As long as a man looks on the peaks of Citrakūṭa he lays up good for himself and does not turn his mind to evil. Many seers have spent a hundred autumns there and risen to heaven by their austerities, their heads white as bare skulls, their hair bleached by age, which shows how long they had practised austerity. I think that place would be secluded and pleasant for you, or else stay here with me for your time in the forest. The description of Citrakūṭa has four parts: its distance, its animals, its holiness, since merely seeing it turns one from sin, and the success of the austerities practised there. At the end the sage again offered him the choice of staying, showing that his affection had not cooled.

Then Bharadvāja received Rāma, his welcome guest, with every comfort, and with him his wife and brother, and made them glad. As Rāma sat with the great seer at Prayāga, telling many wonderful tales, the holy night came on; the poet hints at a long conversation between them but does not say what it was about. Kākutstha, used to comfort and now weary, with Sītā as the third of their party, spent that night happily in Bharadvāja's lovely hermitage. The poet points to Rāma's condition by the contrast of comfort and weariness: one made for comfort was worn out by the road, and yet in the sage's hermitage his sleep was sweet. When the night turned to dawn he went to Bharadvāja, and the tiger among men said to the sage of blazing splendour: Blessed one, whose nature is truth, we have spent the night in your hermitage; now give us leave for our dwelling place. By calling the sage one whose nature is truth, Rāma implied that what he said could not fail. When the night was over, Bharadvāja said: Go to Citrakūṭa, which is rich in honey, roots and fruit.

I think it a fitting dwelling for you, mighty Rāma, said Bharadvāja. It is covered with trees of many kinds, and kinnaras and serpents live there; the cries of peacocks make it delightful, and great elephants roam it. Go, sir, to that famous mountain Citrakūṭa. It is holy and lovely and rich in roots and fruit, and herds of elephants and herds of deer wander its forest glades; you will see them, Rāghava. Its streams, springs and ridges, its caves, hollows and waterfalls will delight your heart as you wander there with Sītā. Go to that lovely mountain, which the calls of happy koyaṣṭi birds and cuckoos make gay, supremely pleasant and auspicious, full of rutting deer and many elephants, and settle in a hermitage there. The last verse is in a longer metre, as is the poet's way at the end of a sarga. In these final verses Bharadvāja describes the beauty of Citrakūṭa again at length, its trees, kinnaras, serpents, peacocks, elephants, herds of deer, streams, springs, ridges, caves and waterfalls, wishing to turn Rāma's heart towards it, and his aim is plain in the words "your heart will take delight". So Rāma's destination is settled by this sarga; the next describes the crossing of the Yamunā and the journey to Citrakūṭa.