Rama, though eager to join Sugreeva for the sacred task of locating and safely bringing back Janaka’s daughter, found his thoughts stirred by the tide of time and the harmony of nature. The gentle surroundings of the Pampa River awakened in him a stream of emotions, each moment in its beauty drawing him into the past—into the cherished memories of Sita. Yet, the blessed serenity of the place sought to soothe his heart, tempering sorrow with its tranquil grace.
Gazing upon the landscape, Rama spoke to Lakshmana:
“Behold, Lakshmana! The waters of Pampa gleam, clear and shaded like polished lapis lazuli. The splendour of lotus and water lilies is magnified by the thick foliage of towering trees, their interwoven bushes appearing as great emerald spheres, swaying in the gentle breeze, whispering melodies of nature’s song. Look how the lofty trees stand reflected in the waters like mountains adorned with garlands of many-hued creepers.”
Yet, as he drank in the beauty before him, his heart remained weighed down by thoughts of Bharata’s unwavering devotion and Sita’s tender love. A storm of grief stirred within him, disrupting the divine peace of the sacred land hallowed by the presence of Sage Matanga. Though mortal sorrow threatened to overtake him, Rama found himself awestruck by nature’s unwavering duty.
“See, Lakshmana, how the trees bloom, their fragrance carried by the breeze, carpeting the earth with blossoms! The bird’s flit from branch to branch, surrendering to the comfort of the forest, heedless of the dangers below. Here, even the passing wind obeys the divine command, softening into a gentle, soothing breeze, dissolving sorrow and calming the senses. The trees, resplendent in full bloom, resemble clouds heavy with rain, ready to bless the earth. Watch as the wind stirs the distant trees, showering them with flowers, as if an offering from the sacred groves.”
Everywhere, the dance of nature unfolded—flowers rose and fell like waves, as if the Wind God himself played among them in mirth. Swarms of bees hovered in harmony, their hum an ethereal melody. Cuckoos, in a contest of song, filled the air with their sweet calls, stirring joy in every heart. The branches of trees, bending and touching one another, seemed like long-separated kin embracing in reunion. Slender trees swayed in ecstasy to the tunes of hummingbirds while honeycombs overflowed, releasing a nectar-laden fragrance that hung heavy in the air.
“Look, Lakshmana! The trees and birds here know no sorrow, unlike us. The eternal grace of the universe is bestowed upon them, a gift denied to us. The flocks of birds fly in joyous patterns, a sign of success, while the gentle murmurs of the bees foretell auspicious moments ahead. The Ashoka clusters blaze like tiny fires, causing birds and bees alike to mistake them for forest flames. See how the creatures panic, scattering in fear, only to be calmed when the petals fall gently to the ground, dispelling their terror. Nature plays its divine games, an endless flow of serene, untouched beauty.”
Peacocks danced, their jewelled tails fanned out like a living rainbow, a spectacle that drew the eager peahens nearby. Rama, enraptured by the subtle harmony of the scene, was reminded of Sita’s presence, sensing her spirit woven into the very air.
“Surely, Sita, too, is thinking of me at this moment. Though she is far away, her essence lingers, surrounding me. The cool breeze now burns like fire upon my skin, for my heart knows no peace without her. Lakshmana, see that flowering tree—it stands adorned as if clad in silk, whispering something to us. And there, upon the riverbank, the golden hues of the clouds announce the arrival of celestial beings, the Kinnaras, come to bathe and revel in the sacred waters. The very air grows delicate in their presence, and even the beasts of the forest dare not disturb the sanctity of this place.”
Yet, as Rama admired the beauty around him, grief gnawed at his soul. The lotuses, their petals unfurling in the breeze, reminded him of Sita’s eyes, and their swaying seemed to echo the gentle nods of her head. The mingling creepers, entwined in endless patterns, stood as symbols of harmonious coexistence.
“See, Lakshmana, how the pollen-dusted mountain appears like a noble lady draped in silken robes, her forehead marked with a sacred vermilion dot. My hands rise in reverence at this vision. This place rivals even the splendour of Mandakini. If ever Sita is restored to me, I shall dwell here in peace, shunning the throne of Ayodhya. To live here with her would be a fortune equal to that of Indra himself. She delights in these grass-covered meadows, where deer and hares frolic freely. When she is joyous, I desire nothing more. But the truth of her absence wounds me deeply. Lakshmana, will I ever find her again and live in blissful union? How shall I face King Janaka, whose heart beats for the happiness of his beloved daughter?”
Despair overwhelmed Rama as he pondered the burden of answering the mothers of Ayodhya, who would seek news of Sita. His sorrow became a tempest, and in his grief, he turned to Lakshmana:
“Return to Bharata, Lakshmana. I cannot live without her.”
Seeing Rama’s noble heart ensnared in mortal sorrow, Lakshmana resolved to turn the tide of his emotions. With wisdom and firm resolve, he spoke:
“O greatest of men, Rama! Gather your strength, for it shall serve you well. Let not desperation dim the radiance of your pious thoughts. The sorrow of separation must not cloud your resolve. Let this grief, instead, blaze a path toward justice. The pain of this moment shall be the torch that guides us to the demon’s lair. Wherever Ravana hides, no sanctuary—even one fortified by divine protection—shall shield him from your wrath. We shall find him, and he shall either surrender Sita or meet his end.”
His words struck Rama like a clarion call, awakening within him the fire of duty. With renewed composure, Rama rose, casting off despair, his mind sharpened by unwavering resolve.
In but a brief moment, Rama regained his strength. With steady steps, he crossed the sacred waters of Pampa, his gait mighty as that of an elephant, while Lakshmana followed, alert and steadfast.
From afar, the prince of Kishkindha, Sugreeva, son of Ruksharajas, beheld their approach. Seeing the two warriors, armed with bows, quivers, and gleaming swords, his heart wavered in fear.
“Could they be assassins sent by Vali?” he wondered.
A shadow of unease passed over him, and he resolved to retreat into the deep caves, a sanctuary beyond the reach of enemies.
Thus, in that fleeting moment, the stage was set—a divine interplay of beauty and sorrow, mortal trials and celestial grace, wisdom and emotion, all unfolding in the grand design of fate. A sublime testament to the delicate dance of mind, soul, and destiny, leaving behind a profound message for all who would listen.