With great gravity, the sage Viśvāmitra addressed King Daśaratha, saying that among all men, none but Kakutstha—Rāma himself—was truly capable of confronting the fierce adversaries that threatened his sacrifice. Just as only a lion dares to face a herd of enraged, intoxicated elephants, so too was Rāma the only one fit for this daunting task. He explained further that the wicked followers of Khara and Dūṣaṇa were like deadly poison on the battlefield, furious as death itself. Their power and cruelty made them a terror to all, and only Rāma’s arrows, he declared, could subdue them. Just as dust cannot resist the pouring rains from a heavy cloud, so too would these rākṣasas be unable to withstand Rāma’s might. Viśvāmitra then counseled the king not to let fatherly affection cloud his judgment, for there is nothing in this world that should not be offered to a great soul. He assured Daśaratha that the rākṣasas should already be considered slain, for the wise do not hesitate when decisive action is required. He spoke with conviction, saying that he knew Rāma well—the great-souled one with eyes like lotuses—and so did the illustrious Vasiṣṭha and other far-seeing sages. If righteousness, greatness, and fame truly resided in the king’s heart, Viśvāmitra reasoned, he should grant his request and give Rāma to him. Viśvāmitra revealed his purpose: he was to perform a sacrifice lasting ten nights, and during this sacred rite, Rāma was needed to slay the rākṣasas—enemies who obstructed the holy work. He urged Daśaratha to seek the counsel and approval of his ministers, with Vasiṣṭha at their head, and then release Rāma accordingly. He reminded the king that time never oversteps its bounds, and so it was for himself as well. Therefore, Daśaratha should act for his own welfare and not be overcome by sorrow. Even a small act, if done at the right time, brings benefit, while even a great act, if mistimed, becomes fruitless. Having spoken these words, full of righteousness and purpose, the illustrious sage Viśvāmitra fell silent. Hearing the sage’s solemn plea, King Daśaratha stood in silence. It was proper to do so, for even when wise words are spoken, neither the wise nor the world are satisfied if their wishes remain unfulfilled. Then, after a moment, the tiger among kings, Daśaratha, his heart heavy with sorrow, replied to Viśvāmitra. He spoke of his son Rāma, whose eyes were like lotuses and who had not yet reached his sixteenth year. Daśaratha could not see how such a tender youth could be fit for battle with the fearsome rākṣasas. The king declared that he commanded a full akṣauhiṇī of troops and was their master. With this mighty force, he would himself confront the flesh-eating demons on Viśvāmitra’s behalf. His servants were valiant and skilled in weapons, and Daśaratha, bearing his bow, would lead them in war, ready to face any enemy, even those as mighty as Mahendra, like a lion among intoxicated elephants. He explained that young Rāma, sheltered within the palace, knew nothing of the strength and weakness found on the battlefield. He had never seen war, knowing only the inner chambers. He was untrained in supreme weaponry and unacquainted with the fierce faces of warriors in the heat of combat. Instead, Rāma’s days were spent in flower gardens, city groves, and pleasant woods. He played with the royal princes in courtyards strewn with flowers, his life untouched by hardship or violence. Now, Daśaratha lamented, by a reversal of fortune, he felt like a lotus struck by frost—once flourishing and green, now withered and frail. Rāma could not eat, nor find joy at home or outdoors; his heart was weighed down by sorrow, and he sat in silence, doing nothing. Daśaratha himself, with his wife and attendants, felt utterly helpless because of his son’s condition, like a raincloud in autumn, emptied of its strength. The king pleaded, saying that Rāma was but a boy, rendered powerless by grief—how could he be sent to fight the night-dwelling demons? The love for a son, he confessed, brought a happiness greater than that found in the company of young women, the taste of nectar, or even the power of sovereignty. Even those who are content do not undertake the most difficult endeavors in the three worlds, except for the love of a son, for which they hesitate not. Daśaratha declared that people may easily give up their lives, wealth, or wives, but not their sons—such is the nature of living beings. The very thought of Rāma fighting those cruel and deceitful rākṣasas was unbearable. Separated from Rāma, he could not bear to live even for a moment, though he wished for life; he begged Viśvāmitra not to take Rāma away. He revealed that nine thousand years had passed for him in suffering, and only with great difficulty had he begotten his four sons. Among them, Rāma, with his lotus eyes, was the foremost; without him, the other three could not survive either. Daśaratha implored the sage to understand that if he were deprived of Rāma, he would be as good as dead. His affection for his four sons was supreme, and as Rāma, the eldest, was righteous, he should not be taken away. If Viśvāmitra truly wished to destroy the host of night-wandering demons, Daśaratha offered to accompany him, bringing an army equipped in four divisions. He asked the sage to tell him about the strength of the rākṣasas, their lineage, their nature, and their size—he wished to know everything clearly. He requested guidance on how these rākṣasas could be defeated—by Rāma, by his own forces, or by himself—since they were masters of deceitful warfare. He begged Viśvāmitra to tell him all, so that he might stand firm in battle against these powerful and wicked beings. Finally, Daśaratha recalled what was said about a mighty hero among the rākṣasas named Rāvaṇa, the brother of Vaiśravaṇa and son of the sage Viśravas, whose power was renowned throughout the worlds.