“Save me, Chief of Raghu’s line, bearing an excellent bow and shining arrows in Your hands. A furious wind to disperse the mass of clouds in the shape of colossal ignorance, a fire to consume the forest of doubts, and delight of the gods, You are both with and without attributes, a shrine of virtues and most lovely to look at; nay, You are a burning midday Sun to scatter the darkness of delusion. A veritable lion to kill the elephants of lust, anger and pride, pray, constantly abide in the forest of the devotee’s mind. A severe frost to blast the lotus bed of sensual desires, You are generous beyond conception. Nay, playing the role of Mount Mandara for churning the ocean of mundane existence, kindly stave off my fear (of birth and death) and transport me across the stormy ocean of mundane existence. Possessed of a swarthy form with lotus eyes, befriender of the meek, reliever of the suppliant’s agony, take up Your abode in my heart for ever, O King RŒma, with Your younger brother (Lakƒma˜a) and Janaka’s Daughter, O Delight of the sages, Jewel of the terrestrial globe, lord of Tulas¶dŒsa and destroyer of fear. (1—5)