Hearing the king’s words, sage Kauśika—his heart stirred by affection, yet aflame with anger—replied sharply to Daśaratha. “Having pledged, ‘I will do it,’ you now wish to abandon your vow? You, who are as courageous as a lion, now desire the timidity of a deer. This reversal does not befit the noble house of the Raghavas; just as black rays never emanate from the cool, radiant moon, so too should such conduct never arise from you. “If you find yourself unable, O king, I shall depart as I came. O descendant of Kakutstha, remain here happily among your kin, though your promise remains unfulfilled.” As the great-souled Viśvāmitra’s anger surged, the entire earth trembled, and even the gods were seized by fear. Perceiving the sage—friend to the world—overcome by wrath, the steadfast and wise Vasiṣṭha spoke gently: “You, born in the illustrious Ikṣvāku lineage, are the very embodiment of Dharma, O Daśaratha, renowned throughout the three worlds and adorned with every virtue. Steadfast and prudent as you are, you must not abandon righteousness. You should act according to the sage’s words, for he is lord among the three worlds. “Your fame is spread across all realms, rooted in righteousness. You must adhere to your duty and never forsake dharma. Having promised, ‘I will do it,’ if you fail to fulfill your word, O King, the merit of your sacrifices and good deeds will be lost; therefore, send Rāma. Protected by the lion among men, as nectar is by fire, Rāma will remain unassailable by the Rākṣasas, whether armed or not. “You are Daśaratha, scion of Ikṣvāku—if you do not uphold your word, who else will? All living beings follow the boundaries set by your conduct; do not forsake this now. Before you stands dharma embodied, the foremost among the powerful, supreme in intellect, and peerless in austerity. “Viśvāmitra knows the secrets of countless weapons—among all beings, moving or unmoving, none can match his knowledge, nor will any ever do so. Neither divine sages, nor immortals, nor demons, nor nāgas, yakṣas, or gandharvas, O king, are his equal. A weapon, formidable beyond compare, was once bestowed upon him by Bhṛśāśva when he gained the kingdom. “The sons of Bhṛśāśva, radiant and mighty like the children of Prajāpati, followed him—heroes of great power. Jayā and Suprabhā, slender-waisted daughters of Dakṣa, each bore fifty sons, a hundred in all, unconquerable and formidable. Jayā, blessed with a boon, bore fifty sons—imperishable, able to assume any form at will, destined for the destruction of asura armies. Suprabhā’s fifty sons, the mighty and unconquerable Sangharshas, are renowned for their strength. “Such is the power and brilliance of the illustrious sage Viśvāmitra. Do not let your mind waver about sending Rāma. When this foremost sage of immense might stands near, even a virtuous soul attains immortality at the approach of death. Do not fall into despair like one who is deluded.” After Vasiṣṭha’s words, King Daśaratha, resolved to send his son, summoned Rāma together with Lakṣmaṇa. He called to the doorkeeper, “Swiftly bring Rāma, the mighty-armed and truly valiant, along with Lakṣmaṇa, without delay, for the sake of the sage.” Obeying the king, the doorkeeper hurried to the inner palace and soon returned, addressing the sovereign: “O lord, Rāma—he who has vanquished all his foes—sits alone in his chamber, dispirited, like a bee resting on a lotus at night. He says, ‘I will come in a moment,’ yet remains lost in thought, weary in mind, seeking solitude.” Hearing this, the king comforted all of Rāma’s attendants and questioned them in turn. “How is Rāma? In what state does he dwell?” he asked. One of Rāma’s servants, distressed, replied, “O lord, we merely sustain these bodies, weary and exhausted, for the sake of your son Rāma. Since his return from pilgrimage with the sages, his mind has been troubled. “Though we encourage him, he performs his daily duties in the evenings with a gloomy face, sometimes not at all. Even after bathing, worshipping the gods, and observing proper conduct, he remains fatigued. Though urged, he does not eat to satisfaction, O lord. He takes no pleasure in the company of the women of the inner palace, who swing him in the courtyards—he is like a chataka bird indifferent to the earth’s pleasures. “Jewelled bracelets and armlets no longer delight him, O king, as the sky offers no comfort to one who is about to fall. Amidst playful, restless women, in fragrant breezes and vine-encircled bowers, he grows deeply despondent. Whatever is delightful, fitting, charming, or captivating to the mind, he finds wearisome, as if his eyes were filled with tears. “In the midst of dancing and merriment, he reproaches the women, saying, ‘Why do these bringers of sorrow appear before me?’ He takes no pleasure in food, bed, bathing, amusements, drink, or sitting—regarding them as the actions of a madman, he neither welcomes nor condemns them.” Thus, the king learned of Rāma’s troubled state, even as the affairs of duty and destiny pressed forward.