But God could not endure my fondness for him and cruelly interposed and divided us by means of my mother. In saying this now I bring myself no credit, for who can claim to be saintly and pure on the basis of his own good estimation?

To imagine that my mother is wicked and I virtuous and upright is a myriad times worse. Can ears of kodo yield good rice and can a black shell produce a pearl?

Not a shadow of blame attaches to anyone even in a dream; all is due to the fathomless ocean of my ill luck. In vain did I revile my mother an wound her, not perceiving that it is the fruit of my own wrong-doing.

I search every corner of my heart, but am beaten all round. In one matter only is my well-being assured; with Vasishtha for my guru and Sita and Rama for my masters, I hold that all will turn out well.

In this assembly of holy men, in the presence of my guru and my master, and at this holy place, I speak in good faith. The sage and Raghunatha know whether there is any love in my heart or it is all simulation and whether what I say is true or false.

All the world will bear witness to the death of the king, who kept the oath he swore in love, and to my mother’s evil intent. The queen-mothers are in such distress that one cannot bear to look at them; the citizens are consumed by intolerable pain.

Having heard and understood that I am the cause of all these troubles, I endured all the anguish. Though I heard that clad in hermit’s garb and accompanied by Lakshmana and Sita, Raghunatha had gone to the words on foot and without shoes – Shankara is my witness – I still survived the wound! On top of it, when I beheld the Nishada’s devotion, my heart, harder than a thunderbolt, refused to break!