Suprabha, in her time, brought forth fifty extraordinary sons—mighty and unconquerable warriors known as the Sangharshas, whose strength was unmatched and whose power was difficult to overcome. Such was the lineage, and such is the measure of the great sage Vishvamitra’s brilliance and power. Therefore, you should not let your mind waver or be anxious about Rama’s departure, for Vishvamitra’s presence alone is a shield. When this foremost sage of immense strength stands near, even a virtuous person at the edge of death may attain immortality. Do not let yourself fall into despair or confusion. After Vasistha spoke these words of reassurance, King Dasharatha, resolved to send his son as requested, summoned Rama and Lakshmana to his presence. He called out to the doorkeeper, “Quickly bring Rama, the mighty-armed and truly valiant, along with Lakshmana, without delay, for the sake of the sage.” The doorkeeper, obedient to the king’s command, hurried to the inner palace and soon returned, addressing the sovereign. “O lord,” he reported, “Rama, who has vanquished all his enemies, is in his own chamber, dispirited and withdrawn, like a bee resting on a lotus at night. He says, ‘I will come in a moment,’ yet he sits alone, lost in thought, his mind weary and wishing for solitude.” Hearing this, the king comforted all Rama’s attendants and began to question them, one after another. “How is Rama? In what state does he find himself?” he asked. Rama’s servant, distressed, replied, “O lord, we are only sustaining these bodies, weary and exhausted, because of your son Rama. 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 all proper conduct, he remains fatigued. Though urged, he does not eat for satisfaction, O king. He takes no delight in the company of the women of the inner palace, who try to amuse him on swings in the courtyards. He is like a chataka bird that ignores the pleasures of the earth, indifferent to the bracelets and armlets studded with rubies and pearls; these do not please him, just as the sky does not please one about to fall. Even amidst playful, beautiful women, in breezes scented with flowers and bowers twined with vines, he grows deeply despondent. All that is delightful, fitting, charming, or captivating to the mind wearies him, as though 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 finds 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.’ Then, he sits in silence and alone. He does not join in laughter, does not immerse himself in pleasures, nor does he engage in duties—he simply resorts to silence. The most alluring women, with flowing locks and glancing eyes, cannot bring him joy, just as deer find no delight in a forest tree. Instead, he finds pleasure in solitary places—at the horizon, on riverbanks, and in forests—mingling with wild creatures as though they were his own kin. O King, he has turned away from clothing, drink, food, and possessions, following the conduct of wandering ascetics and pursuing the path of austerity. Dwelling alone in deserted places, O Lord of men, he neither laughs, nor sings, nor weeps—his solitary mind remains unmoved. Seated in the bound lotus posture, his mind empty, he rests his cheek upon his left palm and simply remains there. He neither adopts pride nor desires sovereignty; he neither rises nor falls in the succession of pleasure and pain. We do not know whether he was truly born, what he does, what he desires, what he contemplates, where he goes, or how or why he acts. Day by day, he grows thinner, day by day, more pale; day by day, he becomes more dispassionate, like a tree at the end of autumn. Śatrughna and Lakṣmaṇa follow him closely, as if they were his very reflections. When questioned by servants, kings, or mothers, he simply replies, ‘Nothing,’ and sits in silence, without desire. To his dear friend who sits beside him, he instructs, ‘Do not let your mind dwell on pleasures that only touch the heart for a moment.’ He sees that affection—even for women who delight in various enjoyments, or for conversations in gatherings—vanishes before his very eyes. Again and again, the crow sings, but only with gestures that lack elegance, sweetness, effort, or proper form. When a dependent standing nearby proposes, ‘Become emperor,’ Rama, lost in his own thoughts, laughs as if at the babbling of a madman. He does not listen to what is spoken, nor does he look at what is before him; he disregards everything, even the greatest things. Even if there were a lotus pond or a great forest in the sky, he would feel no wonder, thinking, ‘How is this so?’ Even when surrounded by beautiful women, the arrows of love do not pierce his mind, which is as unbreakable as a massive stone. If someone in distress asks, ‘Do you desire a single dwelling place or wealth?’ he gives away everything to the one who requests it, making such generosity itself a lesson. Thus is Rama’s state—withdrawn from worldly pleasures, silent, and serene, his mind turned inward, unmoved by the world’s offerings.