श्रीरामेण सीतायै मन्दाकिनीशोभावर्णनम्

In the previous sarga Rāma had shown Sītā the peaks of Citrakūṭa, its mineral-coloured rocks, its trees and its kinnaras; this sarga is the second act of the same description, and now the eye turns from the mountain to the river. The lord of Kosala came down from the hill and showed Maithilī the lovely Mandākinī with its clear, auspicious water. Lotus-eyed Rāma spoke to the king of Videha's daughter, the fair-hipped lady with a face as lovely as the moon: "Look at this river Mandākinī, with its many-coloured sandbanks, the haunt of geese and cranes, rich with flowers." Then he described the trees along its banks: ringed on every side by all kinds of trees heavy with flowers and fruit, the river shone like the lotus-pool of the king of kings. As in the previous sarga, the comparison is drawn from Kubera's own pleasure-garden; in Rāma's eyes a small river beside the exiled couple is the equal of a pool of the gods. The Mandākinī still flows beside Citrakūṭa under the same name, and with that name the poet also calls to mind the heavenly Gaṅgā.

Next Rāma showed her the river's bathing-places. Herds of deer had drunk from them, so their water was now clouded, yet the landings were lovely and gave him delight; even the muddied water was a mark of forest life, and so itself a kind of beauty. Then came the people of the place: seers with matted hair and deerskins, wearing bark for an upper garment, bathed in the Mandākinī at the proper hour, and other sages, firm in their severe vows, stood with their arms raised in observance and worshipped the sun. The river was not only beautiful; it was ground for austerity too. Last the mountain appeared again, but seen now from the river: with its peaks tossed by the wind it seemed to be dancing, for its trees were scattering leaves and blossoms onto the river all around. The swaying of the branches is the dance, and the shower of flowers its offering. So in this passage deer, seers, sages and the mountain come in turn — animals, ascetics and the unmoving world — and all three orders of creation meet at a single river.

Then Rāma counted three faces of the river: in one place her water was clear as a gem, in another she was bright with sandbanks, in a third she was crowded with holy men. "Look, slender-waisted one," he said, "at the heaps of blossom the wind has shaken loose and spread along both banks, and at the others floating in midstream." The sweet-voiced birds called "wheel-named", the cakravākas, were climbing the bank with their lovely calls. Having shown her all this, he gave his judgement: "My lovely one, I count the sight of Citrakūṭa and the Mandākinī better than living in the city — and better still because I see you here." Here the memory of Ayodhyā enters for the first time, but only as a comparison, not as grief. Finally he invited her to bathe: "Come into this river with me; holy men, washed of every stain and rich in austerity, self-control and calm, keep its water always astir." The sense is that their bathing has made the water pure; and with this the talk moves from description to invitation.

After this Rāma's words grew more intimate. "Sītā," he said, "go into the Mandākinī as you would go to a friend, pushing the lotuses and water-lilies under as you go" — the river is not just a place but Sītā's companion. Then he taught her to change what she remembered: "Think always of the wild beasts here as the townsfolk, of this mountain as Ayodhyā and of this river as the Sarayū." The forest itself is to be a new Ayodhyā, and so her grief for the city is set aside. He told her why he was content: "Righteous Lakṣmaṇa abides by my word, and you are of one mind with me, Vaidehī; the two of you make my happiness." And he ended with a firm declaration: "Bathing at the three times of prayer and living on honey, roots and fruit, so long as I am with you I have no longing for Ayodhyā or for the kingdom." This sentence is the heart of these two sargas: for Rāma, giving up the kingdom is no sorrow but something to be chosen gladly.

The last two verses change the metre, leaving the usual short verse for the longer measure the poet often uses to close a sarga. In the first, Rāma gave his final picture of the river: churned by herds of elephants, its water drunk by elephants, lions and monkeys, decked with trees in full flower and heavy with blossom, this lovely river was such that no one could come to it and not lose their weariness and be made happy. In the second the poet speaks in his own voice, not Rāma's: speaking such fitting words to the river, with his beloved at his side, the increaser of Raghu's line wandered over lovely Citrakūṭa, dark and gleaming like collyrium for the eyes. The verse rounds off both sargas — the description of beauty, the contentment, the couple's happy wandering. But the listener knows that at this very moment Bharata's army is drawing near, and so there is pathos hidden in this peace: its end is close. In the next sarga Lakṣmaṇa will see the army's dust, hear its noise and flare into anger; this sarga is the last quiet moment of the life at Citrakūṭa.