Seeing her lord’s affection grow from day to day, she was as happy as the chakava in the daytime. Her mind was so enamoured of Rama’s feet that the forest was as dear to Sita as a thousand Ayodhyas.

Dear to her was the hut of leaves in the company of her most beloved lord, dear were the fawns and birds, now her only kinsfolk. Like the parents of her lord were the hermits, all good in the highest degree, and their wives, and sweet as ambrosia the wild bulbs, roots and fruit.

Shared with her lord, even the fair litter of leaves delighted her as hundreds of Cupid’s own beds. Can the delights of luxury ever delude one whose favourable glance confers the sovereignty of a sphere?

When the faithful, fixing their thoughts on Rama, abandon all luxurious delights as one abandons a piece of straw, no wonder then that Sita, Rama’s beloved consort and the mother of the universe, should do so.

Anything that would bring happiness to Sita and Lakshmana, that would Raghunatha do and say. He would narrate tales and legends of ancient times, to which Lakshmana and Sita would listen with the utmost delight.

Every time Rama thought of Ayodhya his eyes would fill with tears. Calling to mind his father and mother, his kinsfolk and brothers and particularly Bharata’s affection, amiability and devotion,

- the compassionate Lord would grieve, but calmed himself, realizing that the time was unpropitious. When they saw him thus, Sita and Lakshmana too would be distressed, like the shadow that follows the man who casts it.