O King, Śatrughna and Lakṣmaṇa followed Rāma everywhere, so closely and faithfully that they seemed to be his very reflections, mirroring his every step and mood. Yet, though servants, kings, and even their mothers questioned Rāma again and again about his silence and distant manner, he would only reply, “Nothing,” and remain quiet, sitting with no visible desire. To his dear friend by his side, Rāma would gently instruct, “Do not let your mind linger on pleasures that only touch the heart for a fleeting moment.” He saw clearly how affection—even for women skilled in delights, or for lively conversations in gatherings—faded away before his very eyes, leaving no trace behind. Like a crow whose song is but a series of awkward gestures, lacking sweetness or form, so too did Rāma find little allure in the world’s entertainments. When a dependent standing nearby urged him, “Become emperor!” Rāma, absorbed in his own thoughts, would only laugh, as if the man were a madman babbling nonsense. He paid no heed to what was spoken around him, nor did he look at what was set before him. He disregarded everything, even the grandest things, as if they held no meaning. Even if there were a lotus pond or a great forest suspended in the sky, Rāma would not wonder, “How can this be?” Such marvels did not stir him. Surrounded by beautiful women, Rāma’s mind remained unpierced by the arrows of love, as if his heart were a massive stone, unbreakable. If someone in distress came to him and asked, “Do you desire a home or wealth?” Rāma would give away everything he had to the one who asked, offering it as a lesson in detachment. He saw that ideas of misfortune and fortune are simply the fabrications of imagination. When such delusions arise in the mind, they only sing forth in sorrow. Even when he cried out in lament, “Alas, I am ruined, I am helpless,” it was remarkable that he did not become detached from the world. Because Rāma, the lion of the Raghu dynasty and destroyer of enemies, remained so deeply absorbed and indifferent, distress had come upon the royal household. “We do not know, O mighty-armed one, what to do for one whose mind is thus,” they said. “O lotus-eyed one, you alone are our refuge.” Whether it was the king, a brahmin, or the foremost teacher, Rāma regarded them all with the same indifference, dismissing them like a beast unconcerned with the world. He saw this vast world as a mere manifestation, and, having discerned that neither it nor he himself was ultimately real, he remained unmoved. He had no attachment to his body or self, nor to friends, kingdom, or even his mother. In neither fortune nor misfortune, nor in anything external or internal, did he place any trust. Devoid of attachment, without hope or desire, with no support, and freed from delusion, Rāma’s state became a source of worry for those around him. He thought, “What use is wealth, what use are mothers, what use is a kingdom, what use is desire?” Thus resolved, he stood ready even to give up his life. In pleasures, in life, in the kingdom, in friends, father, or mother, he found only utter distress—like a chataka bird longing for rain in a drought. For one such as him, even when endowed with all riches, O Lord, the net of worldly existence appeared as poison. Who in this world could possess such a spirit, and who could return him to ordinary worldly ways? Seeing this widespread affliction, they called out for someone full of compassion to rescue him. For when one casts off delusion from the mind, a great soul leads all those who suffer to goodness, just as the sun brings light to the earth, dispelling darkness. “If this is so,” said the wise, “then swiftly bring here the noble descendant of Raghu, just as deer bring another deer to the fold. This state of Rāma is not due to misfortune or attachment; rather, it is the great awakening born of discrimination and dispassion. Let Rāma 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, Rāma will find rest in the supreme state, as we have. Having attained truth, joyful wisdom, and repose, he will become robust and radiant, like one who has tasted nectar. He will act with a mind fully satisfied, honoring his natural and uninterrupted course of duties in the world. He will become a great soul, knowing the entirety of the world, untouched by pleasure or pain, and equal toward clod, stone, and gold.” When the chief sage had spoken thus, King Daśaratha, his mind filled with hope, sent another series of messengers to bring Rāma. After some time, Rāma rose from his seat at home, preparing to go to his father, like the sun rising from behind a mountain. Accompanied by a few attendants and his brothers, he arrived at his father’s auspicious court, which shone like heaven, the abode of the lord of gods. From a distance, Rāma saw King Daśaratha surrounded by the royal assembly, resembling Indra encircled by a host of gods. On either side of the king sat Vasiṣṭha and Viśvāmitra, and all around were ministers learned in the deepest meanings of scripture. Graceful women stood nearby, holding charming fly-whisks, arrayed like the embodied quarters of the sky. Vasiṣṭha, Viśvāmitra, Daśaratha, and all the assembly saw Rāma approaching from afar, resembling Guha, the lord of the forest, in his steadfastness. He walked with the dignity and coolness of the Himalayas, endowed with universal service and a deep, resonant voice. Gentle and balanced in appearance, noble in both humility and strength, Rāma’s lovely and tranquil form seemed a vessel for the welfare of all beings.