Upon the sacred slopes of Mount Prasravana, Rama and Lakshmana embraced their ascetic lives with serenity and steadfastness. There, amidst the tranquility of the forest, they awaited the gentle arrival of autumn, unhurried and untroubled by the passage of time.
Seated on the verdant corner of Mount Malyavantha, Rama spoke to Lakshmana, his voice blending with the whispering breeze:
“Behold, dear brother, the sky is draped in clouds, their forms resembling mountains suspended in the heavens. They herald the arrival of the rains, drawn from the vast oceans by the subtle alchemy of the sun’s rays. Soon, these celestial waters shall descend to nourish the earth, bringing life to vegetation and sustaining all creatures—man, beast, and bird alike. The very fabric of the universe thrives upon this grace.”
Gazing upon the heavens, Rama continued, his words weaving a tapestry of vivid imagery:
“See how the clouds, layered like steps, ascend toward the sun, as though offering a garland of blooming Arjuna flowers. Some clouds, aglow with the sun’s fiery rays, stretch across the sky like bands of molten gold—a silent warning etched upon the canvas of the firmament. The breeze stirs softly, the twilight sky brushed with the crimson hue of sandal paste. The clouds, tinged with this gentle glow, resemble a devoted housewife awaiting the return of her beloved.”
As the land, once parched by the summer’s cruel heat, now drank deeply of the monsoon’s bounty, Rama’s heart grew heavy with thoughts of Sita.
“The rain-drenched earth,” he mused, “mirrors the tears of Sita, shed in sorrow and longing. The cool breeze, laden with the fragrance of blossoming flowers, tempts the soul to cup its hands and drink of its sweetness. The air, rich with the scent of screwpine and adorned with the red blooms of the Arjuna, soothes the mind, as though offering solace to Sugreeva, whose heart now rests easy, freed from the shadow of his enemy.”
The mountains, shrouded in mist and veiled by clouds, seemed to Rama like sacred threads ready to chant ancient Vedic hymns. The golden lightning, splitting the heavens, roared like a mighty hunter, its fierce brilliance reflecting the inner turmoil of his soul—the image of Sita, captive and forlorn in the demon Ravana’s secret lair, haunting his thoughts.
“For those of lighter hearts,” Rama sighed, “the sight of thick clouds blanketing the sky brings joy, yet for me, it deepens my grief. The planets, stars, and moon hide behind this dense veil, just as hope hides from my heart.”
He pointed toward the mountain ridges, where Kutaja trees stood, their leaves heavy with dew, appearing as though they too mourned Sita’s absence. The dust that once danced in the summer’s heat lay subdued, and the ailments born of the scorching sun had vanished with the season’s cool embrace. Victorious kings paused their conquests, and travelers, long away from home, began their return to familiar lands.
“See, Lakshmana,” Rama continued, “the swans have embarked on their pilgrimage to the sacred Manasa Sarovar, the divine abode of Lord Shiva and Parvati. The ruddy shelducks glide upon the waters, their cries mingling with the chorus of the monsoon.”
Paths submerged by rain restrained the movement of carts and chariots, while the heavens alternated between bright bursts and somber shadows, like the mighty ocean stilled in its depths yet restless upon its surface. Plum-colored dragonflies darted above ripe mangoes that had fallen to the forest floor, feasted upon by squirrels, deer, and mountain rats.
The streams cascading down the mountains sang with the music of bubbling waters, their currents tinted by crushed flowers and eroded ores, painting the rivers in hues of red and gold. The clouds, adorned with flashes of lightning like warriors with their shining medallions, roared across the sky, while the mountains, garlanded by flocks of soaring pelicans, stood as mighty elephants, trumpeting in the symphony of the storm.
“The rains have nourished the earth well,” Rama observed, “and the grasses now weave rich, verdant carpets across the plains. See how the peacocks dance, their radiant tails unfurled in a display of courtship, enchanting their mates with nature’s colors.”
As afternoon mellowed into evening, the clouds, heavy with water, rested upon the mountains and then drifted onward. Storks soared through the sky, their graceful formations resembling garlands of lotus flowers strung across the heavens. On the ground below, Mukkamala insects, their red and black bodies vivid against the green grass, reminded Rama of a woman adorned in a parrot-green sari, sprinkled with crimson patterns.
“Sleep descends upon the world, Lakshmana,” Rama murmured, “even as Lord Mahavishnu enters his yogic meditation, and rivers hasten to merge with the oceans, their songs mingling with the playful cries of storks gliding upon fleeting clouds.”
The forests thrummed with life. Hummingbirds added their sweet notes to the rustling breeze while frogs croaked in rhythm, their voices rising like the drums of a divine orchestra. The scent of Kadamba flowers overpowered their foliage, and oxen and cows, flourishing in the season’s bounty, roamed contentedly across the land.
Yet, amidst this abundance, Rama’s heart remained burdened.
“O Lakshmana,” he sighed, “though nature rejoices, my soul is restless. I have lost my throne, my beloved Sita is gone, and I am like a man drenched and shivering upon the river’s edge. The rains hinder our journey, and Ravana, powerful and cruel, holds Sita captive in his dark domain. Though Sugreeva may offer to send his forces now, the flooded paths and tempestuous skies render such efforts futile.”
He paused, his eyes reflecting both hope and sorrow.
“Sugreeva has only just reclaimed his kingdom and the joy of his consort after much suffering. We must grant him time to heal, for the task before us is great. When the season wanes and the waters recede, he will summon his armies, for I know his heart is true and his commitment unwavering. Until then, we shall wait.”
Thus, Rama’s words, though a reflection upon the rainy season, spoke of deeper truths—of nature’s cycles, the behavior of animals and birds, the rhythms of the forest, and the subtle interplay between man, fate, and the cosmos. It was a meditation on life’s fragility and resilience, on the balance between patience and action, and on the enduring power of faith, duty, and hope amidst the ever-changing tides of existence.