O King, we are but sustaining these bodies, weary and exhausted, all because of your noble son, Rama. Since Rama, whose eyes shine like lotus petals, returned from his pilgrimage with the sages, his mind has been deeply troubled. Despite all our efforts and gentle requests, he performs his daily duties in the evening with a gloomy face, and at times, he neglects them altogether. Even after bathing, worshipping the gods, and observing proper conduct, Rama remains fatigued. Though we urge him, he does not eat for satisfaction, O lord. He no longer plays with the women of the inner palace, who try to delight him by swinging him in the courtyards; he ignores their pleasures, much like a chataka bird that disregards the earth’s offerings. The bracelets and armlets studded with rubies and pearls bring him no joy, O king, just as the vast sky does not please one who is about to fall. Even amidst playful, restless women, in breezes carrying the fragrance of flowers, and in bowers encircled by vines, he becomes deeply despondent. Whatever is delightful, fitting, 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, Rama 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; he regards them as the actions of a madman and 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, with his disposition turned away from clothing, drink, food, and possessions, Rama follows the conduct of wandering ascetics, pursuing 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 adopt pride, nor does he desire sovereignty; he neither rises nor sets 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 dispassion, like a tree at the end of autumn. O King, Śatrughna and Lakṣmaṇa follow him, just as if they were his very reflections arisen in the same manner. Though repeatedly questioned by servants, kings, and mothers, Rama simply replies, “Nothing,” and sits in silence, without desire. He instructs his dear friend who is beside him, saying: “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 and for conversations in gatherings, vanishes as if it were right before his eyes. Again and again, the crow sings only with gestures that lack elegance, sweetness, effort, or proper form. When a dependent standing nearby says, “Become emperor,” the sage, absorbed elsewhere, laughs at him as if he were a madman babbling. 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 not feel any wonder, thinking, “How is this so?” Even when surrounded by beautiful women, the arrows of love do not pierce his mind, which is as hard to break as a massive stone. If someone in distress asks him, “Do you desire a single dwelling place or wealth?” Rama gives away everything to the one who requests it, as an instruction. “This is misfortune, this is fortune—such are the fabrications of imagination; when such delusion arises in the mind, it sings forth in sorrow.” “Alas, I am ruined, I am helpless”—though he cries out in lamentation, it is remarkable that such a person does not become detached. Because Rama, the destroyer of enemies and lion of the Raghu forest, remains thus deeply absorbed, we have come to distress. We do not know, O mighty-armed one, what to do for one whose mind is thus; O lotus-eyed one, you alone are our refuge here. Whether it is the king, a brahmin, or the foremost teacher, he regards them all with indifference, O Lord, dismissing them like a beast unconcerned. This vast manifestation, called the world, has arisen here; having determined that this is not real, nor am I, he remains established. He has no attachment to the body, nor to the self, nor to friends, nor to the kingdom, nor to his mother; neither in fortune nor misfortune, nor in anything external or internal, does he place any trust. He is devoid of attachment, without hope, without desire, without any support; he is freed from delusion, and because of this, we are afflicted. “What use is wealth, what use are mothers, what use is a kingdom, what use is desire?” Thus resolved within, he stands ready for the giving up of life. In pleasures, in life, in the kingdom, in friend, in father, in mother—he has come to utter distress, like a chataka bird in a drought.