King Dasarath traipsed his palace balcony. His handsome brow was furrowed. From his seventh story veranda, he surveyed the scene beyond his four walls. People swarmed below him, in the courtyard below. Feudal kings and princes came with their retinues to pay tribute. He saw much of his city, which stretched to the horizon in all directions. He could see crowds of his loyal subjects hustling along the well planned roads which were interspersed with mango groves and orchards. The vast central highway, built entirely of red stone, ran the hundred-mile length of the whole city. Large, white mansions lined that road, the tenants enjoying on their roofs. The streets were sprinkled with perfumed water and strewn with flower petals. He looked at the sky above. The rainbow of colours tantalizing him. Calling him.

Looking out at his capital city Ayodhya, Dasarath was plunged in an ocean of anguish. As the night fell and it grew colder, he entered his inner quarters. As he descended the wide, marble stairways, he heard priests chanting sacred Sanskrit texts. The sound vibration of the mantras mingled with that of drums and lutes being played my the royal musicians. Even that sound, that gave him so much joy, could not placate him. Declining the food and drinks offered for him by his maidservants, he went to the wide latticed window. He moved aside and continued to gaze upon his city. As he thought of his long ancestry, the king only felt more pain. He sighed and turned back into his rooms.