May he protect me always—he upon whose lap sits the daughter of the mountain, whose head is bathed by the divine river, whose brow is adorned by the crescent moon, whose throat holds the deadly poison, whose chest is the resting place of the serpent king. He, ever adorned with sacred ash, lord of the gods, master of all, ever-present, all-pervading, radiant as the moon—may that blessed Shankara, Lord Shiva, be my guardian.

May the beauty and auspiciousness that never faded from the lotus face of Raghunandana—neither at his coronation nor in the sorrow of exile—ever shine upon me, bestowing joy and good fortune.

I bow to Rama, lord of the Raghu line, whose body is soft and dark as a blue lotus, whose left side is graced by Sita, who holds in his hand the mighty bow and arrows, and whose form is the delight of all.

With the dust of my guru’s lotus feet, I cleanse the mirror of my mind. Now I sing the pure glory of Raghuvara, which grants the four fruits of life.

Ever since Rama returned home with his bride, each day brought new joy and festivity. All the worlds, as mighty as mountains, showered down blessings like clouds pouring rain.

Rivers of prosperity and success welled up and flowed into Ayodhya’s ocean. Men and women of noble birth, adorned with gems, filled the city—pure, priceless, beautiful in every way.

No words could capture Ayodhya’s splendor; it seemed as if Brahma himself had crafted it with special care. In every way, the people of every city were happy, gazing upon Rama’s moon-like face.

Mothers, with their friends and companions, rejoiced to see their heart’s desires fulfilled. The king, delighted by Rama’s beauty, virtues, and gentle nature, was filled with joy at every sight and sound.

All hearts held the same wish, and all prayed to Mahadeva: May the king, while still whole and well, grant Rama the throne of the crown prince.

One day, with all his courtiers gathered, the king sat in his royal hall. He was the very form of all good deeds, and hearing Rama’s fame, his heart overflowed with joy.

All the kings present longed for his favor; the people watched with love, careful to show respect. In all the three worlds, in all the ages, there was none as fortunate as Dasharatha.

Rama, the root of all auspiciousness, was his son; whatever is said of him is but a little. The king, by his own nature, took up the mirror and, beholding his face, saw it crowned with silver hair.

White hairs had crept near his ears, as if old age itself had come to offer counsel. The king thought, “Let me give the title of crown prince to Rama, and make my life and birth worthwhile.”

The king, bringing this thought to his heart, saw that the day was auspicious and the moment was right. His