I ever worship Rama, the adorable lord of Janaki, the noblest of the sons of Raghu, mounted on Pushpaka, dark as the dark-blue sheen of a peacock’s neck, the highest of the immortals, adorned with the print of the Brahman’s (Bhrigu’s) louts foot, rich in splendour, clad in yellow robes, louts eyed, ever propitious, holding a bow and arrows in his hands, attended by a host of monkeys and served by his brother (Lakshmana).

Beautiful and tender are the lotus feet of Rama, the lord of Ayodhya, worshipped by Brahma and Shiva, fondled the lotus hands of Janaki and haunted by the bee-like souls of the contemplatives. (May the bee of my soul be similarly absorbed in the lotus feet of the Lord!)

I worship the all-merciful Shankara, beautiful and white as the jasmine or the moon or the conch, with eyes resembling a lovely lotus, lord of Parvati, granter of all the heart desires and deliverer from the power of Love.

Of the period of Rama’s exile there remained but one day, which made the people of the city very impatient. Wasted in body by sorrow for Rama’s absence, men and women alike were plunged in thought everywhere.

Meanwhile auspicious omens of every kind occurred and the citizens were of good cheer. The city itself brightened up in every part, as if to announce the Lord’s coming.

Kaushalya and all the other queen mothers were glad at heart as if someone was about to tell them that the Lord had come with Sita and Lakshmana.

Bharata’s right eye and arm throbbed again and again; recognizing this as a lucky omen, he rejoiced and yet began to ponder deeply.