Protected by the lion among men, just as nectar is shielded by fire, the Rākṣasas—regardless of whether he bears weapons—will never be able to approach him. Even if you are born of the Ikṣvāku lineage and are Daśaratha himself, if you do not uphold your word, who else will? The boundaries of conduct you have established are never abandoned by living beings; you must not forsake them here. This is dharma incarnate, the foremost among the powerful, supreme in intellect throughout the world, and the highest among those devoted to austerity. He is skilled in the knowledge of many weapons, known throughout the three worlds among all beings, moving and unmoving; none other knows this, nor will any ever know. Neither the divine sages, nor the immortals, nor the demons, nor the nāgas, yakṣas, or gandharvas, O King, are his equal. Once, a weapon of immense power, difficult for even others to overcome, was bestowed upon him by Bhṛśāśva when he attained his kingdom. The sons of Bhṛśāśva, radiant and mighty as the offspring of Prajāpati, followed him—heroes of great strength. Jayā and Suprabhā, the slender-waisted daughters of Dakṣa, each bore fifty sons—making a hundred in all—who were exceedingly difficult to conquer. Jayā, having received a boon long ago, gave birth to fifty sons who were imperishable and could assume any form at will, destined for the destruction of the asura armies. Suprabhā gave birth to fifty exceptional sons, mighty and unconquerable, known as the Sangharshas, formidable and exceedingly strong. Such is the power and brilliance of the illustrious sage Viśvāmitra; let not your heart waver regarding Rāma’s departure. When this foremost sage of immense strength stands near, even one who is virtuous attains immortality at death’s approach. Do not despair, O King, like one who is deluded. When Vasiṣṭha had spoken thus, King Daśaratha, determined to send his son, called for Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa to come before him. He commanded the doorkeeper, “Quickly bring Rāma, mighty-armed and truly valiant, along with Lakṣmaṇa, without delay, for the sake of the sage.” Obeying the king’s command, the doorkeeper went to the inner palace and soon returned, addressing the king: “O lord, Rāma, who has vanquished all his enemies, sits in his chamber, dispirited, like a bee resting on a lotus at night. He says, ‘I will come in a moment,’ but sits alone, absorbed in thought, his mind weary, unwilling to be near anyone.” Hearing this, the king comforted all of Rāma’s attendants and questioned them in order. “How is Rāma? In what state does he dwell?” he asked. Distressed, Rāma’s servant replied, “O lord, we are barely sustaining our bodies, weary and exhausted, all because of your son Rāma. Since he returned from pilgrimage with the sages, his mind has been troubled. “Despite our efforts and entreaties, he performs his daily duties in the evening with a gloomy face, or sometimes not at all. Even after bathing, worshipping the gods, and observing proper conduct, he remains fatigued; though urged, he does not eat for satisfaction, O king. He does not play with the women of the inner palace, who try to cheer him with swings in the courtyards, like a chataka bird that ignores the earth’s pleasures. “The bracelets and armlets studded with rubies and pearls do not delight him, O king, just as the sky does not please one who is about to fall. He becomes deeply despondent even amidst playful, restless women, in fragrant breezes and bowers entwined with vines. Whatever is delightful, suitable, charming, or captivating to the mind—he grows weary of it, 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. He says, ‘What is the use of wealth, what of misfortune, what of a house, what of efforts? All is unreal,’ and remains silent and alone. “He does not join in laughter, nor immerse himself in pleasures, nor engage in duties—he simply resorts to silence. Women with flowing locks and glancing eyes, playful and alluring, do not bring him joy, just as deer do not delight in a forest tree. In solitary places, at the horizon, on riverbanks, and in forests, he finds pleasure among wild creatures as if they were his own kind. “O King, his mind turned away from clothing, drink, food, and possessions, he follows the conduct of wandering ascetics, taking up the path of austerity. Dwelling alone in deserted places, O Lord of men, he neither laughs with his solitary mind, nor sings, nor weeps. Seated in the bound lotus posture, his mind empty, he rests his cheek upon his left palm and simply remains there. “He does not take pride, nor does he desire sovereignty; he neither rises nor falls in the succession of pleasure and pain. We do not know whether he was born, what he does, what he desires, what he contemplates, where he goes, or how or why he acts. Day by day he grows thin, day by day he becomes pale; day by day he attains greater dispassion, like a tree at the end of autumn.