King Daśaratha, his heart heavy with worry, spoke to the sage Kauśika, pouring out his sorrow. He described his beloved son, Rāma, who had known only the beauty of flower gardens, the gentle shade of city groves, and the peaceful thickets of parks and woods. Rāma’s days were spent playing with the royal princes in courtyards adorned with scattered blossoms, untouched by hardship. But now, Daśaratha lamented, his fortune had reversed; he felt like a lotus struck by frost—once flourishing and vibrant, now withered and frail. The king explained that Rāma could neither eat nor find joy at home or outdoors. Overwhelmed by inner distress, the boy sat in silence, doing nothing. Daśaratha himself, along with his wife and attendants, had become utterly helpless because of Rāma’s condition, like a raincloud in autumn, bereft of strength. “My son is just a boy, powerless with sorrow,” he said, “How could I give him to you, O sage, to fight against the night-dwelling demons?” Daśaratha’s love for his son was profound, greater than the happiness found in the company of young women, the taste of nectar, or even the glory of sovereignty. Even those content in life would not undertake the most difficult tasks in the three worlds, except for the sake of a son. People might easily give up their lives, wealth, or wives, but not their sons—such is the nature of living beings. The very thought of Rāma confronting those demons, cruel and skilled in deceitful warfare, was unbearable for Daśaratha. Separated from Rāma, he felt he could not live even for a moment, though he desired life. He pleaded with Kauśika not to take Rāma away. “Nine thousand years have passed for me, O Kauśika, in suffering; and with great difficulty I have begotten these four sons. Among them, Rāma, lotus-eyed, is foremost. Without him, the other three also would not sustain life. 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.” Daśaratha’s affection for his four sons was supreme, and since the eldest was righteous, he implored the sage not to take Rāma. If Kauśika wished to destroy the host of night-wandering demons, Daśaratha offered to accompany him with an army equipped in four divisions. He asked the sage to describe the strength and nature of the rākṣasas: whose sons they were, what they were like, their size, and their identity. He wanted to know how Rāma, his forces, or he himself should strike at the rākṣasas, given their mastery of deceitful warfare. Daśaratha begged the sage to tell him everything, so that he might stand firm in battle against these wicked beings, for the rākṣasas were swollen with might. He recalled the tales of Rāvaṇa, a mighty hero among rākṣasas, brother of Vaiśravaṇa and son of the sage Viśravas. If that evil-minded one were to cause an obstacle in Kauśika’s sacrifice, Daśaratha admitted, neither he nor his forces could withstand him in battle. He acknowledged that beings of great power arise and dissolve over time, and at this present moment, against enemies like Rāvaṇa, they could not stand before them; this was the decree of fate. Daśaratha beseeched the sage to show favor to his son and himself, for Kauśika was their supreme deity. Not even gods, dānavas, gandharvas, yakṣas, monkeys, or serpents could fight Rāvaṇa—what then could mere men do in battle? Rāvaṇa seized the strength of those possessing great valor and of nectar-eaters; even with boons, Daśaratha’s forces could not contend with him. The age had rendered good people feeble; even Rāghava had fallen into dejection, worn down by old age. He asked about Lavaṇa, the slayer of sacrifices, son of Madhu and renowned among the gods—wondering where he might send his son if not against Rāvaṇa. If Kauśika did not wish this, Daśaratha submitted to his will, for he saw no lasting victory for himself otherwise. Having spoken these gentle words, Daśaratha was filled with fear and wavering doubts, unable to arrive at any decision. He was like a great soul tossed about in the waves of the ocean. Hearing Daśaratha’s words, full of affection and emotion, the sage Kauśika was angered and replied sharply. “You pledged, ‘I will do it,’ yet now you wish to abandon your vow. Though you are a lion in courage, you desire the state of a deer. This reversal is not fitting for the house of the Raghavas; black rays never arise from the cool-rayed moon. If you are not able, O king, I will depart as I came. O descendant of Kakutstha, be happy with your relatives, though your vow is unfulfilled.” As the great-souled Viśvāmitra was overcome by anger, the entire earth trembled, and the gods grew fearful. Perceiving the sage, friend of the world, overtaken by wrath, the steadfast, virtuous, and wise Vasiṣṭha spoke to Daśaratha. “You, born in the lineage of the Ikṣvākus, are like another embodiment of Dharma. You, Daśaratha, illustrious and adorned with virtues throughout the three worlds, prudent and steadfast in your vows, should not abandon righteousness. Act according to the words of the sage, lord of the three worlds. Renowned in all three worlds, endowed with fame through righteousness, you should adhere to your own duty and not forsake dharma. Having promised, ‘I will do it,’ O King, if you do not fulfill it, the merit of your sacrifices and good deeds will fall away; therefore, send Rāma.” Thus, the king’s anguish, the sage’s wrath, and the wise counsel of Vasiṣṭha all converged, urging Daśaratha toward the path of dharma and fulfillment of his vow.