गङ्गातटपर्यन्तं राजमार्गनिर्माणम्

At the end of the previous sarga Bharata had ordered the artisans to make a road, and this sarga describes the fruit of that order at length. Those who went ahead were men who knew the lie of the land — surveyors of high and low ground, of watered and waterless country — men skilled with the measuring line, brave men devoted to their crafts, diggers, engine-men, hired labourers, master builders, men versed in machines, carpenters, road-makers, tree-fellers, cooks, plasterers, workers in bamboo and leather, and capable overseers. In one place the poet lists every branch of the ancient Indian art of road-building: surveyors, measurers, diggers, builders, outfitters and supervisors. The very list shows that this was no chance affair but an orderly royal undertaking. All of them set out in front, to prepare the road ahead of the army, and Bharata was to follow afterwards with the people.

That vast throng, moving joyfully toward the region, shone like the great surge of the ocean at the full moon — an image that conveys both the speed and the breadth of the crowd. Skilled in road-making, each keeping to his own turn, they set out ahead with tools of every kind, axes, sickles, chisels and the rest. They did not all work at once but in gangs, one after another, and always ahead of the army. Their joy is mentioned especially: going to bring Rāma back, the people took even hard labour for a festival.

They cleared creepers, vines, thickets, stumps and stones, cut down trees of many kinds, and so made the road. Where there were no trees some planted them, while others cut away here and there with axes, chisels and sickles. Others, strong and stronger still, tore out clumps of vīraṇa grass and levelled the rough and broken ground on every side. Others filled up wells and the long trench with earth and quickly made the low stretches level all around. The description is true to life: cutting, planting, uprooting, filling and levelling are counted one by one. The planting of trees in treeless places is especially notable: the road was not only cleared but adorned with trees for shade, so that the work was no mere means of passage but a lasting courtesy.

Then the men dammed whatever needed damming, crushed whatever needed crushing and cut through whatever needed cutting — whatever each stretch required was done there. In a short time they made many channels brimming with water, of many shapes and as broad as seas, by damming small streams all around to form great reservoirs. In waterless tracts they had fine wells of many kinds sunk, ringed with paved platforms. So the road was not only passable but furnished with water for all the people and the army. The comparison with seas stresses the size of the reservoirs, and the paved platforms show the craftsmanship of the wells.

The road had a floor of lime and rubble, flowering trees along both sides, flocks of excited birds calling loudly, banners for adornment; it was sprinkled with sandal-scented water and decked with flowers of every kind, and so the army's road shone splendidly, like the highway of the gods. The poet leads the eye upward, from the ground to the trees, the birds, the banners, the scents and the flowers, and then gives the image of the gods' road. The two verses make one sentence, with many descriptive phrases and a single verb, “shone splendidly” — a well-known manner of Vālmīki's, building a picture from a string of epithets and closing it with a single verb.

Then the men appointed to the task, giving their orders exactly as they had been ordered and adding nothing of their own, adorned still further the camp great-souled Bharata had chosen in pleasant country full of trees with sweet fruit, until the camp was itself an ornament — the ornament of the road. Those who knew the science of building laid out the great-souled Bharata's camps under favourable stars and at favourable hours. This shows that a proper choice of time was needed even for road-building: the work was not only a craftsman's but a royal undertaking done according to rule.

The camps had great mounds of earth and were ringed with moats; they held figures of sapphire and were graced with fine avenues, joined by rows of mansions, enclosed by whitewashed walls, bright with banners and furnished with well-built highways. With their dovecotes and lofty turrets that seemed to glide across the sky, those camps looked like the city of Śakra. The splendour of Ayodhyā was spread out along the road; the prince was going to the forest, but the capital went with him. The three verses are built from a string of epithets closed by a single verb, and the image of turrets gliding through the sky shows how high they rose.

At last the road reached the Jāhnavī, the Gaṅgā, with her woods of many kinds of trees, her cool clear water and her great fish. As the spotless night sky shines, adorned with the moon and the host of stars, so that lovely royal road, the work of fine craftsmen, shone out stage by stage. The image fits: across the dark ground white banners and lamps shone like stars, and the royal road ran through them like the moon. In the next sarga the story returns to Ayodhyā at daybreak.