He sits apart, reflecting deeply: “What is the use of wealth, or misfortune, or a house, or effort? All is unreal.” With these thoughts, he withdraws into silence and solitude. He does not join in laughter, avoids indulgence in pleasures, and refrains from engaging in duties; instead, he simply abides in silence. Alluring women with flowing hair and playful glances do not bring him any joy—just as a forest tree feels no delight from the presence of deer. He finds his pleasure in solitary places—at the horizon, along riverbanks, and in the depths of forests—feeling at home among wild creatures as if they were his kin. O King, he has turned away from clothing, drink, food, and possessions, following the path of wandering ascetics and embracing austerity. Alone in deserted places, he neither laughs nor sings nor weeps, his solitary mind unmoved. Seated in the bound lotus posture, his mind emptied, he rests his cheek upon his left palm and simply remains there. He neither adopts pride nor desires sovereignty; he is untouched by the ebb and flow of pleasure and pain. No one knows whether he was born, what he does, what he desires, what he contemplates, where he goes, or why he acts as he does. Day by day, he grows thinner and paler, his dispassion deepening like a tree at the end of autumn. Śatrughna and Lakṣmaṇa follow him closely, like reflections born in the same way as himself. When servants, kings, or mothers question him, he only replies, “Nothing,” sitting in silence, free from desire. To his dear friend at his side, he gently instructs, “Do not let your mind dwell on pleasures that only touch the heart for a moment.” He observes how affection—even for women who revel in enjoyments and for lively conversations—vanishes before his very eyes. The crow’s song, repeated again and again, is for him only a gesture, lacking elegance, sweetness, effort, or proper form. When someone nearby urges, “Become emperor,” he, absorbed elsewhere, laughs as if at the babblings of a madman. He does not listen to what is spoken or look at what is before him; he disregards everything, even the greatest things. Even if a lotus pond or a great forest were to appear in the sky, he would not wonder, thinking, “How is this so?” 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 dwelling place or wealth?” he freely gives away everything, teaching by example. He sees fortune and misfortune as mere fabrications of imagination; when such delusion arises, it sings forth in sorrow. Even when crying out, “Alas, I am ruined, I am helpless,” it is remarkable that such a person does not become detached. Because Rama, the destroyer of enemies and lion of the Raghu line, remains so deeply absorbed, we are all distressed. We do not know what to do for one whose mind is thus, O mighty-armed one; O lotus-eyed, you alone are our refuge. Whether it is the king, a brahmin, or the foremost teacher, he regards them all with indifference, dismissing them as a beast would, unconcerned. He sees that this vast manifestation, called the world, has arisen here, and, having determined that neither it nor himself is real, he remains established in that knowledge. He has no attachment to body, self, friends, kingdom, or mother; neither in fortune nor misfortune, nor in anything external or internal, does he place any trust. He is devoid of attachment, hope, desire, or support; freed from delusion—and because of this, we are afflicted. “What use is wealth, mothers, kingdom, or desire?”—thus resolved within, he stands ready to give up life itself. In pleasures, life, kingdom, friend, father, and mother, he finds utter distress, like a chataka bird in drought. For one of such nature, even if endowed with all riches, the net of worldly existence appears as poison. Who on this earth could possess such a spirit, or establish him in ordinary worldly conduct? Since this affliction has spread its branches so wide, let one full of compassion arise to rescue him from it. Casting off delusion from the mind, the one of great mind leads all those who suffer to goodness, just as the sun brings light to the earth, dispelling darkness. If this is so, let the wise descendant of Raghu be swiftly brought here, just as deer bring another deer. The delusion of the descendant of Raghu does not arise from misfortune or attachment; it is the great awakening born of discrimination and dispassion. Let Rama come here at once, and we shall dispel his delusion as the wind scatters a cloud from a mountain. When this delusion is cleansed by proper means, Rama will find rest in that supreme state, as we do. Having attained truth, joyful wisdom, and repose, he will become robust and radiant, like one who has imbibed nectar. He will live with a fully satisfied mind, honoring his own natural and uninterrupted course of worldly duties.