As Rama wandered through the blooming forests, his heart was consumed by grief. Though the trees stood lovely before him, their beauty only deepened his sorrow, for he could not see Sita, the woman he loved. The pain within him grew with every moment; the absence of Vaidehī increased his suffering, making the vibrant spring seem tainted by sweat and longing. The worry and grief for his doe-eyed beloved tormented him relentlessly. The cruel wind of the Chaitra forest only added to his anguish. Turning to Saumitri, his brother Lakshmana, Rama pointed out the peacocks shining and dancing among the trees. Their wings, stirred by the breeze, gleamed like crystal windows, and surrounded by peahens, the peacocks were overcome with passion. But for Rama, who was overwhelmed by longing, these sights only intensified his yearning. “See, Lakshmana,” he said, “as the peacock dances, the peahen dances beside him, afflicted by love, following her mate on the mountain slope. The peacock, too, pursues his beloved with all his heart.” Spreading his beautiful wings and crying out, the peacock seemed to mock Rama’s loneliness. “His beloved has surely not been taken by a demon in this forest,” Rama lamented. “That is why he dances with her in these delightful woods. But for me, living without Sita in this season of flowers is unbearable.” Rama pointed out how even creatures of other species were stirred by passion—he watched as the peahen approached her mate out of desire. “If my wide-eyed Janakī had not been abducted, she too would have come to me, moved by love,” he said. The flowers, though abundant, seemed fruitless to him. After the cold season, the forests were heavy with blossoms, yet yielded nothing for his aching heart. Even the splendid flowers fell to the ground, accompanied by swarms of bees, without bringing joy. Birds sang joyfully in groups, calling to one another as if inviting each other, but their cries only stirred Rama’s longing. He wondered if spring had come even where his beloved dwelled, and if Sita too was helpless and grieving. Yet he doubted that spring could touch the place where she was, for how could the dark-eyed Sita endure without him? Or perhaps spring did come where she was—what could his lovely-waisted Sita do, scorned by others? Rama feared that his beloved, dark-skinned and lotus-eyed, gentle in speech, might abandon her life upon the arrival of spring. A firm conviction settled in Rama’s heart: Sita, so virtuous, could not endure his absence. Vaidehī’s love was truly fixed in him, and his love for Sita was likewise unshakeable in every way. The flower-laden breeze, pleasant and cool, felt like fire to him as he thought of his beloved. He remembered how, with Sita by his side, the wind had brought happiness; now, without her, it brought only sorrow. Even the crow perched on a tree cried out joyfully, while Rama’s heart mourned. That bird, he mused, was the doorkeeper for Vaidehī, and perhaps it would bring him near to the wide-eyed one. “See, Lakshmana,” he said, “the sound in the forest swells with passion, as the birds sing atop blossoming trees.” The wind scattered clusters of sesame flowers, and bees approached them suddenly, as if drawn to a beloved stirred by passion. The ashoka tree, beloved of lovers, stood before Rama, increasing his sorrow and threatening him with its wind-tossed clusters. “Look, Lakshmana,” he said, “the mango trees are laden with blossoms, their minds uplifted by the play of the wind, like men adorned with sandalwood, stirred by passion.” In the wondrous groves along Pampa, Rama saw Kinnaras roaming here and there, marveling at the beauty of the place. He pointed out fragrant lotuses shining everywhere in the water, radiant like the rising sun. Pampa, with its clear waters filled with lotuses and blue lilies, thronged with swans and waterfowl, was adorned with fragrant flowers. The lake shone all around, encircled by lotuses whose filaments were struck by bees, glowing in the water like the young sun. The landscape was always filled with chakravaka birds and the varied slopes of the forest, beautiful with herds of elephants and deer seeking water. The lotuses, struck by wind-driven waves on the clear water, shone brilliantly. Yet, without seeing Vaidehi, whose eyes were wide as lotus petals and ever dear as the lotus itself, life held no pleasure for Rama. “Ah, how perverse is desire!” Rama cried. Even now, it made him remember the noble one, who was gone and hard to find, she who spoke words more auspicious than the most auspicious. He thought he could bear desire if only spring, with its blossoming trees, would not destroy him again. All those things that were delightful with her now became joyless without her. His gaze sought out the lotus buds and leaves, thinking them like Sita’s eyes. The wind, mingled with the fragrance of lotus filaments and flowing through the trees, seemed to him like Sita’s sigh—gentle and enchanting.