Rāma, the noble scion of the Raghu dynasty, spent a portion of each day in the company of the wise sage Vasiṣṭha and other learned elders. Their conversations were delightful and varied, and Rāma was honored and cherished by those filled with wisdom. With his father’s permission, and surrounded by a great army, he would sometimes venture into forests teeming with wild boars and buffaloes, driven by a youthful desire to hunt. After these excursions, he would return home, perform his bathing and other daily rituals in due order, dine with friends and relatives, and spend the night in the company of his beloved companions. In this way, Rāghava, together with his brothers, followed a regular and disciplined routine, remaining in his father’s house after returning from pilgrimage. His conduct was flawless; his days passed in such noble action and gentle speech that he pleased the hearts of good people, just as moonlight soothes and delights all it touches. Time passed, and when Rāma reached his sixteenth year, his brothers—Śatrughna and Lakṣmaṇa—were always by his side. Bharata, meanwhile, resided happily at his maternal grandfather’s house, while King Daśaratha ruled the entire earth with justice and wisdom. For the good of his sons and the people, the wise king, skilled in counsel, met daily with his ministers to discuss all matters of the realm. After completing his pilgrimages, Rāma remained at home, but gradually his bright, broad-eyed face began to lose its luster. He grew thin, like a clear lake drying up in autumn. His countenance became pale, like a white lotus leaf fully opened and faded by the sun. He would sit silently in the lotus posture, his hand resting on his cheek, lost in deep thought and inactivity. Rāma’s body became emaciated, his mind absorbed in sorrowful contemplation. He grew weary and troubled, speaking to no one, as silent and unmoving as a figure painted on a canvas. Though his attendants, out of concern, urged him again and again to carry out his daily duties, he did so reluctantly, his face withered like a drooping lotus. Seeing him thus—distinguished among sages, a repository of virtues—his two brothers too became afflicted, sharing in his sorrow and distress. As the sons of the king grew thin and troubled, anxiety gripped Daśaratha and his wives as well. The king, gentle and loving, questioned Rāma repeatedly, “What is this great worry, my son?” But Rāma would not reveal his heart. He would only say, “Father, I have no sorrow at all,” and, with eyes like lotus petals, would sit silently on his father’s lap. Puzzled and concerned, King Daśaratha turned to Vasiṣṭha, foremost among speakers and knower of all duties, and asked him about the cause of Rāma’s sorrow. The sage replied, “O illustrious king, there is indeed a reason for this; do not grieve.” The king pondered these words deeply. “The wise,” Vasiṣṭha continued, “do not surrender to anger, sorrow, or excessive joy for trivial reasons. In this world, beings do not undergo great changes except by the force of destiny and the momentum of circumstances.” After the chief sage spoke thus, the king, still troubled and uncertain, waited in silence. The queens of the palace grew anxious, and everyone carefully observed Rāma’s behavior, seeking its cause. At that very moment, the renowned sage Viśvāmitra arrived in Ayodhyā to see King Daśaratha. At the time, Viśvāmitra’s sacred sacrifice was being disrupted by demons intoxicated with the power of their magical arts, though the sage himself was steadfast in righteousness. Seeking protection for his sacrifice, and unable to complete the ritual without help, the great and radiant Viśvāmitra, a treasury of austerity, approached the city of Ayodhyā, intent on the destruction of those wicked beings. Desiring an audience with the king, Viśvāmitra spoke to the gatekeepers, “Quickly announce that I, Kauśika, son of Gādhi, have arrived.” The doorkeepers, their minds stirred by his commanding words, hurried to the royal palace and informed the chief chamberlain of the sage’s arrival. The chamberlain then quickly approached King Daśaratha, who was seated in his assembly, surrounded by his court. “O lord,” the chamberlain announced, “at the gate stands a radiant man, shining like the young sun, his matted locks flaming and reddish, his splendor overwhelming. He is surrounded by fans and banners, horses and elephants, men and weapons, making the place glow like gold with his brilliance.” “Go quickly and humbly inform the king that the sage Viśvāmitra has arrived,” came the instruction. Hearing these words, the noble king rose from his golden seat, accompanied by his ministers and vassals. With a great retinue of kings and the praise of his followers, he proceeded with Vasiṣṭha and Vāmadeva to the place where the sage stood. There, on the threshold, stood Viśvāmitra, a tiger among sages, his presence shining with Brahminical radiance and the might of a warrior. His shoulders were draped with matted locks, roughened by years of ascetic practice and the passage of time, resembling a mountain wreathed in twilight clouds. He stood tranquil and handsome, radiant and unimpeded, his form composed and majestic, his body resplendent. His presence was at once gracious and awe-inspiring, serene and intense, and his profound, overflowing brilliance inspired all who beheld him.