1. I bow to Rama, whose throat is dark as the peacock’s, whose feet bear the lotus-mark adored by the gods and Brahmins, who shines in yellow robes, whose eyes are like lotuses, ever serene and gracious. In his hand he holds bow and arrow, surrounded by the hosts of monkeys, served by his brother. Night and day I worship the glorious Lord of Janaki, the chief of Raghu’s line, Rama, who rides the chariot of flowers.

2. I bow to the lovely lotus feet of the King of Kosala, soft and tender, worshipped by Brahma and Shiva, caressed by Janaki’s lotus hands, where the bees of the mind of the devotee ever hover in longing.

3. I bow to Shankara, the destroyer of Kama, whose beauty is fair as the moon and jasmine, who grants the deepest wishes of Parvati, whose eyes are lotus-petals of compassion.

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One day, as the appointed time drew near, the people of the city were overcome with sorrow. Everywhere, men and women, their bodies grown thin from longing, mourned the absence of Rama.

Yet suddenly, auspicious signs appeared, beautiful and gladdening every heart. It seemed as if the city itself rejoiced, announcing the Lord’s return.

Kausalya and the other mothers felt a surge of joy within, Certain that the Lord, with his younger brother, had come—though none dared yet to say it aloud.

Bharata’s eyes and right arm began to twitch again and again; Knowing these were omens, his heart leapt with happiness, and he pondered their meaning.

A single day remained of the appointed time, yet it felt an endless weight; His mind was filled with sorrow, wondering why the Lord had not come.

“What reason, O Lord, keeps you away? Has your heart turned from me? Have you forgotten me, thinking me false or crooked?”

“Ah, blessed is Lakshmana, truly fortunate, Ever devoted to the lotus feet of Rama.

But I, deceitful and unworthy, have been recognized by the Lord; That is why, O Master, you did not take me with you.

If the Lord remembers my actions, Not even a hundred ages could bring me deliverance.

Yet the Lord never counts the faults of his servants; He is the friend of the lowly, gentle and kind by nature.

Still, my heart holds firm hope— If good omens appear, surely I will see Rama.

If my life endures until the appointed time, Who in this world is more wretched than I?”

Immersed in the ocean of longing for Rama, Bharata’s mind is lost in sorrow. Disguised as a Brahmin, the son of the wind—Hanuman—arrives, as if a boat upon those waves.

Seated on a bed of grass, with matted locks for a crown and his body grown thin, Bharata chants “Rama, Rama, Lord of the Raghu line,” as tears stream from his eyes.

Beholding this, Hanuman is filled with boundless joy. His body shivers with delight, and tears of happiness fall from