The wise declare that even the smallest act, if performed at the right moment, brings benefit; while even the greatest deed, if mistimed, yields no fruit. Having spoken thus, with words grounded in righteousness and purpose, the illustrious sage Viśvāmitra fell silent. Hearing these words of the eminent sage, the mighty king stood in thoughtful silence, for it was proper to do so. For even with persuasive speech, satisfaction does not come to the wise or to the world when their wishes remain unfulfilled. After a moment of stillness, the tiger among kings, his heart heavy with sorrow, addressed Viśvāmitra: “This lotus-eyed Rāma is not yet sixteen years of age; I do not see him as fit for battle with the rākṣasas. This full akshauhini is mine, O Lord, and I command it; with this great force surrounding me, I will confront the flesh-eating demons. “These are valiant and courageous warriors, skilled in the use of weapons; and I, holding the bow, lead them at the forefront of battle. With these, I would even fight your enemies, mighty as Mahendra himself—like a lion among intoxicated elephants. “But young Rāma, in the ranks, knows neither the strength nor the weakness of warriors; except for the inner chambers, he has never seen any battlefield. He does not possess the supreme weapons, nor is he skilled in the arts of war; nor does he know the fierce glances of warriors in the heat of combat. “His days have been spent only in 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. “O Brahman, today, by a reversal of my fortune, I am like a lotus struck by frost—once flourishing and green, now withered and frail. Rāma cannot eat his food, nor find joy 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 am rendered utterly helpless on his account, like a raincloud in autumn. “Such is my son, a mere boy, weakened by sorrow—how can I give him to you to fight the night-dwelling demons? O wise one, the love for a son brings happiness greater than that from the company of young women, from the taste of nectar, or even from sovereignty. Even those who are content do not undertake the most difficult and exhausting endeavors in the three worlds; but for the love of 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. Separated from Rāma, I cannot endure to live even for a moment, though I desire life; you should not take Rāma away. “For nine thousand years, O Kauśika, I have suffered; and with great difficulty I have begotten these four sons. Among them, Rāma, lotus-eyed, is foremost; without him, the other three also cannot survive. It is this very Rāma whom you wish to take to confront the rākṣasas; know that if I am deprived of my son, I will soon be as good as dead. “My affection for these four sons is supreme; therefore, as the eldest is righteous, you should not take Rāma. If, O sage, you wish to destroy the host of night-wandering demons, then take with you an army equipped in four divisions, along with myself. “What is the strength of these rākṣasas? Whose sons are they, and what are they like? What is their size, and who are they? Describe them to me clearly. How should those rākṣasas be struck down—by Rāma, by my forces, or by me, O brāhmaṇa—since they are masters of deceitful warfare? O venerable one, tell me everything—how I must stand firm in battle against those wicked beings, for the rākṣasas are indeed swollen with might. “It is said there is a mighty hero named Rāvaṇa, a rākṣasa, directly the brother of Vaiśravaṇa and the son of the sage Viśravas. If that evil-minded one should indeed cause an obstacle in your sacrifice, then in battle we are not able to withstand that wicked soul. “At different times, O brāhmaṇa, those endowed with great power and might arise among beings, and in time, they too dissolve. At this present time, against enemies like Rāvaṇa, we are not able to stand before them; this is the decree of fate. “Therefore, knower of dharma, show favor to my son and to me, who am of little fortune, for you alone are our supreme deity. Not even gods, dānavas, gandharvas, yakṣas, monkeys, or serpents are able to fight Rāvaṇa—what then can men do in battle? He takes the strength of those possessing great valor and of the nectar-eaters; therefore, we are not able to contend with him in battle, even with boons. “This is another period of time that has rendered good people feeble; even Rāghava has fallen into dejection, worn down by old age. Or else, O Brahman, tell me about Lavaṇa, the slayer of sacrifices, the son of Madhu, renowned among the gods—where will I send my son? “But if you do not wish this, O Brahman, then I am indeed subject to your will; otherwise, I do not see any lasting victory for myself.” Having spoken these gentle words, filled with fear and immersed in wavering doubts, the king found himself unable to decide—like a great soul tossed about in the waves of the ocean.