As Rama stood in rapt attention, the celestial Gandharva continued his discourse, elaborating upon the path ahead and the signs that would distinguish the sacred land. Lakshmana, though silent, conveyed his keen understanding through his expression and glances toward Rama, as if urging him to absorb every detail.
Then, Gandharva spoke:
“O Rama, scion of the Raghu lineage! In the southern direction lies a path marked by nature’s divine abundance. There, flower-laden trees and intertwining creepers flourish, their branches heavy with ripe fruit. A thick canopy of verdant green shelters the land, where trees of medicinal virtue stand in majestic splendour, imparting an air of sacred serenity. This, O Prince, is the auspicious path that shall lead you to your destined abode.
Pluck, without hesitation, the fruits that have fallen upon the soft bed of blossoms and dry leaves, for they shall sustain you. Let your thirst be quenched at the tranquil lakes that link the desolate wilderness to the resplendent groves you are about to enter. This forest, O Rama, is one of untold opulence, akin to the fabled lands of Uttarakuru, where trees bear fruit in ceaseless bounty, and creepers bloom with fragrant clusters all year round.
Like the celestial Chaitraratha of Kubera, this sacred woodland flourishes eternally, nourished by the presence of all seasons at once. Towering trees spread their boughs like drifting clouds while their fruit hangs in the air like stars suspended in the firmament. From afar, these trees are mistaken for mountains, so vast is their stature.
Lakshmana shall find among these branches’ fruits endowed with wondrous properties, capable of dispelling weariness and restoring vigour in an instant. The nectar of these fruits shall steady the mind and fortify the spirit—qualities most essential for warriors such as you. Indeed, these fruits, ripened by the grace of nature, carry the ambrosial fragrance and taste of divine sustenance, ensuring that you remain ever replenished.
As you advance, behold the mountain paths, girded by thick, orderly grass and adorned with glistening lakes, where white lotuses bloom in tranquil repose. Beyond these marvels, you shall reach the sacred river Pampa, whose gentle breezes dispel fatigue and ailment. Its waters are untouched by impurity—neither pebbles nor mud sully its pristine flow. Dunes rise in sporadic grace while black lotuses upon the river’s surface mirror dark clouds that appear to dance in playful abandon.
Listen well, O Rama, for the air here hums with the orchestrated melody of swans, waterfowl, and skylarks. The cuckoo leads the chorus, its majestic voice setting the rhythm for nature’s song. The creatures of this land know not violence, their souls attuned to harmony. Befriend them, O Prince, for they welcome you as kin.
Behold the silver-winged fish that frolic in the crystalline waters, darting playfully, teasing one another before vanishing into the depths, only to resurface again. Their myriad colours rival the brilliance of the rainbow, and often shall you wonder whether the river harbour’s an enchanted reflection of the celestial arc.
Yet be not surprised, Rama, if you see mighty wild boars drinking along the riverbank, so immense in size that they are mistaken for buffaloes. They thrive upon the forest’s bounty and dwell within hidden caves, their cries echoing like the bellow of oxen.
At dusk, let the garlands of flowers grace your form as you walk along the riverbanks, absorbing the tranquil potency of this realm. Here, none don flowers upon their person, for these blossoms, touched by divinity, do not wither—even when worn for days on end.
This sacred land is traversed by the disciples of Sage Matanga, who gather floral offerings and forest gifts for their venerable master. The very sweat of these ascetic souls, fallen to the earth, has given birth to trees that bear everlasting blooms, infused with the fragrance of devotion. Though the great sages of yore have ascended to celestial realms, their divine essence lingers, gracing this land with perpetual sanctity.
Here resides the noble Sabari, an austere hermitess whose devotion has spanned centuries. She alone remains of Matanga’s sacred order, awaiting your arrival, for she is fated to depart for the heavenly realm only after beholding you, O Rama, the radiant light of the Kakutstha dynasty.
Upon reaching the southern banks of Pampa, you shall behold an expanse of unparalleled serenity, where peace and comfort reign. A mighty mountain stands here, once home to colossal elephants, yet none dare approach the hermitage, bound by the unbreakable decree of Sage Matanga.
Know this, O Rama, this land rivals the celestial groves of Nandana and Chaitraratha, and within it, no restrictions shall hinder your path. Nearby looms the formidable Mount Rishyamuka, a citadel of natural fortification. Its ascent is treacherous, guarded by vigilant elephants whose keen senses detect even the faintest rustle of fallen leaves.
This mount, O Prince, was wrought by Lord Brahma himself in ancient times, encircled by fragrant trees that bloom in unbroken succession. A marvel beyond compare, those who sleep upon this mountain witness in dreams whatever treasure they desire, only to find it manifest upon waking—a tangible boon bestowed by the creator’s eternal grace.
Yet beware, for those tainted by wicked intent shall find no passage here. The vile-hearted, should they dare ascend, are tormented by harrowing visions in their slumber, breaking their very spirit.
From this mount shall you hear the playful revelry of young elephants, their joyous frolic forming an unceasing rhythm upon the land. Even the fiercest creatures—the bears, the tigers, and the black stags—shed their enmity in the presence of the hermitage and river, their natures softened by the sacred aura of this realm.
Amidst the mountain’s recesses lies a great cave, its entrance sealed by an immovable boulder, allowing none but the destined to pass within. To its east, a pristine lake shimmers under the sun’s embrace, its cool breeze laden with the sweet scent of ripened fruit, drawing forth the creatures of the wild in playful abandon.
Here, upon this mountain refuge, dwells Sugriva, the exiled prince of the Vanaras, accompanied by four valiant warriors. Draped in flower garlands, his form gleams with divine brilliance, and he moves as though afloat in the firmament, a vision akin to golden sun rays coalescing into a celestial being.
Having fulfilled his vow to guide you toward Sita’s whereabouts, the noble Gandharva sought your leave, ascending upon his ethereal chariot toward the realms of the gods. Yet, ere he vanished, his voice rang forth once more, urging you onward toward Rishyamuka, where your noble quest must continue.
Thus, Rama, ever radiant with divine grace, heeded the celestial counsel. Guided by fate’s inexorable decree, he advanced upon the path ordained, prepared to vanquish the forces of evil and restore righteousness to the world. And in his journey, the fallen demon Kabandha, now freed from his cursed form, shone once more in his Gandharva splendour, his final act one of reverence and devotion to the scion of the Raghu race.