Viśvāmitra, the illustrious sage, spoke to the king with gravity, recounting the troubling events that had transpired. “Many times,” he began, “my chiefs among the rākṣasas performed sacrifices in that very place, offering flesh and blood upon the earth. When that sacred assembly was thus defiled by their actions, I, weary and dispirited, departed from there, my heart heavy. “Yet, O King, my mind does not incline to wrath. For such an act, no curse is fitting; I do not seek to punish them in anger. Such is my forbearance regarding that great sacrifice. By your grace, may I, without hindrance, attain the great fruit I seek. “I have come to you, afflicted and seeking refuge. It is the way of the virtuous never to abandon those who come to them for help. You, O King, have a son—illustrious, with the prowess of a proud lion, a hero like Indra himself: Rāma, the destroyer of rākṣasas. That son of yours, O tiger among kings, Rāma—steadfast in truth and valor, bearing dark locks, heroic and eldest—you ought to give him to me. “With my protection and his own divine brilliance, he alone is capable of subduing those evil rākṣasas who obstruct my sacrifice. I will grant him a blessing, manifold and endless, by which he will be honored in all three worlds. When he stands before the night-dwellers, they will not be able to withstand him, just as deer cannot face an enraged lion in the forest. No one besides Kakutstha is capable of fighting them—only the lion among men can confront such enraged, intoxicated elephants. “These wicked ones, emboldened by their strength, are as deadly as poison in battle—the servants of Khara and Dūṣaṇa, furious as death itself. The arrows of Rāma will not be endured by them, just as dust cannot withstand the constant downpour of rain from a cloud. “O King, do not let your affection for your son sway you; for there is nothing in this world that should not be given to a great soul. Indeed, I know for certain—consider those rākṣasas as already slain. Wise men like us do not hesitate when action is required. “I know Rāma, the great soul with lotus-like eyes, and so does the mighty Vasiṣṭha, as well as others who possess far-reaching vision. If righteousness, greatness, and fame are established in your mind, then you ought to give me your own son, as I desire. “My sacrifice will last ten nights, during which Rāma must slay the rākṣasas who are my enemies and obstructors of my sacred rite. Let your ministers, headed by Vasiṣṭha, grant their approval, and then release Rāma accordingly. “O knower of time, time does not overstep its bounds; so too is it for me, O Rāghava. Therefore, act in accordance with your welfare, and do not let your mind be troubled by sorrow. Even a small act, if done at the right time, becomes beneficial; but even a great act, if untimely, becomes fruitless.” Having thus spoken these words, imbued with righteousness and purpose, the illustrious sage Viśvāmitra fell silent. Hearing the words of the eminent sage, the mighty king stood silently for a moment, for it was fitting to do so. For even with reasoned speech, satisfaction does not arise in the wise whose wishes remain unfulfilled, nor in the world. Then, deeply moved, the tiger among kings sat motionless, filled with sorrow, and spoke. “This lotus-eyed Rāma is not yet sixteen years old; I do not see him fit for battle with the rākṣasas. This full akṣauhiṇī is mine, O Lord, and I am its master; surrounded by it, I will give battle to the flesh-eaters myself. “These are valiant and courageous servants, skilled in weapons; and I, holding the bow, am their protector at the forefront of war. With these, I offer battle even to your enemies, however mighty, like Mahendra himself—a lion among intoxicated elephants. “But young Rāma, in the ranks, does not know strength or weakness; save for the inner chambers, he has not seen any other battlefield. He is not equipped with supreme weapons, nor is he skilled in warfare; nor does he know the fierce frowns of warriors in the heat of battle. “He has been accustomed only to flower gardens, city groves, and the thickets of parks and woods. He knows how to play with the royal princes in his own courtyards adorned with scattered flowers. “Today, O Brahman, by a reversal of my fortune, I am like a lotus struck by frost: once flourishing and green, now withered and frail. He cannot eat food, nor enjoy himself at home or outdoors; his heart is overwhelmed with inner distress, and he sits in silence, doing nothing. With my wife and attendants, O chief of sages, I too have become utterly helpless on his account, like a raincloud in autumn. “Such is my son, a mere boy, rendered powerless by sorrow—how can I give him to you to fight against the night-dwelling demons? O wise one, the love for a son brings happiness greater than that from the company of young women, the taste of nectar, or even sovereignty itself. Even those who are content do not undertake the most difficult and exhausting endeavors in the three worlds, but for the sake of love for a son, they do not hesitate. “People may easily give up their lives, wealth, or wives, O best of sages, but not their sons—such is the nature of living beings. The very thought that Rāma should fight those demons—cruel in deed and skilled in deceitful warfare—is utterly unbearable to me.