As Rāma wandered through the forest with Lakṣmaṇa by his side, a deep sorrow weighed upon his heart. “Saumitri,” he confided, “without seeing her, I have no purpose in life. This beautiful, radiant season was meant for her. The forest, alive with the sweet cries of kokilas, seems adorned for my beloved, O faultless one. The qualities of spring, born of love’s longing, only intensify my pain.” He gazed at the blossoming trees, his eyes brimming with grief. “This fire of sorrow will soon consume me,” he said, “for I see all this beauty, yet not the woman I love. The pain within only grows; Vaidehī, unseen, increases my suffering here. Even spring, though visible, is tainted for me—sweat and longing fill my days, and that doe-eyed one torments me, even in her absence, through worry and grief.” The gentle wind of the Chaitra forest felt cruel to him. “Saumitri, this wind torments me. Look at the peacocks, shining as they dance here and there. With their wings stirred by the breeze, like crystal windows, they are surrounded by peahens and overcome with passion. But for me, overwhelmed by love, these sights only deepen my longing. See, Lakṣmaṇa—the peacock dances, and the peahen dances beside him. That peahen, afflicted by love, follows her mate along the mountain slope, just as the peacock pursues his beloved with all his heart.” Rāma’s voice trembled as he continued, “Spreading his beautiful wings, the peacock cries out, almost mocking me. His beloved has surely not been taken by a demon in this forest, and so he dances with her in these delightful woods. But for me, living without her in this season of flowers is unbearable. Look, Lakṣmaṇa, even among other creatures, passion stirs—the peahen approaches her mate, drawn by desire. If she had not been taken from me, my wide-eyed Janakī too would have come to me, stirred by love.” He looked around at the blossoming forest, but the sight brought no comfort. “See, Lakṣmaṇa, the flowers are fruitless for me. After the cold season, the forests are heavy with blossoms, but they yield nothing. Even the beautiful flowers of the trees, though splendid, fall to the ground fruitlessly, swarmed by bees. The birds sing joyfully in groups, calling to one another as if inviting each other; their cries only stir my longing further.” Rāma’s thoughts turned to Sītā, far away. “If spring has come where my beloved dwells, surely Sītā too is helpless and grieves as I do. Yet, perhaps spring does not touch the place where she is; how could the dark-eyed Sītā endure without me? Or perhaps spring does come to her, and what will the lovely-waisted one do, scorned by others? My beloved—dark-skinned, lotus-eyed, gentle in speech—surely, with the arrival of spring, she will abandon her life. I am convinced, Lakṣmaṇa—Sītā, so virtuous, cannot endure my absence. Vaidehī’s love is truly fixed in me, and my love for Sītā is likewise unwavering.” The breeze, laden with the scent of flowers, only made his pain sharper. “This flower-laden breeze, pleasant and cool, feels like fire to me as I think of my beloved. Once, with Sītā, this wind brought happiness; now, without her, it brings only sorrow. Even the crow, perched on the tree, cries out joyfully without her. That bird is the doorkeeper for Vaidehī, but perhaps it will bring me near to the wide-eyed one.” He listened to the sounds of the forest. “See, Lakṣmaṇa, how the forest swells with passion as the birds sing atop blossoming trees. The wind scatters clusters of sesame flowers, and the bee suddenly approaches, as if drawn to a beloved stirred by passion. This ashoka tree, beloved of lovers, stands before me, increasing my sorrow, as if threatening me with its wind-tossed clusters.” Rāma pointed to the groves around them. “Look, Lakṣmaṇa, the mango trees are laden with blossoms, their minds uplifted by the playful wind, like men adorned with sandalwood, stirred by passion. Son of Sumitrā, see how, in the wondrous groves along Pampa, Kinnaras roam here and there, O tiger among men. Behold these fragrant lotuses shining everywhere in the water, radiant like the rising sun.” He admired the beauty of Pampa: “This lake, with its clear waters, is filled with lotuses and blue lilies, thronged with swans and waterfowl, adorned with fragrant flowers. Pampa shines all around, encircled by lotuses whose filaments are struck by bees, glowing in the water like the young sun. It is always filled with chakravāka birds and the varied slopes of the forest, beautiful with herds of elephants and deer seeking water. The lotuses, struck by the wind-driven waves, shine brilliantly, Lakṣmaṇa.” But the beauty could not ease his heart. “Without seeing Vaidehī, whose eyes are wide as lotus petals, ever dear as the lotus itself, life does not please me. Ah, how perverse is desire! Even now, it makes me remember the noble one, who is gone and hard to find, she who spoke words more auspicious than the most auspicious. Desire could be borne, even if it comes upon me, if only spring, with its blossoming trees, would not destroy me again. All those things that were delightful to me with her, now, without her, become joyless.” Thus, Rāma’s heart overflowed with longing and sorrow amid the beauty of spring, every sight and sound in the forest only deepening his yearning for Sītā.