Bearing the heavy sorrow in his heart and mastering his senses, the self-controlled Rāma entered his mother’s house, though he carried with him news she would never wish to hear. Yet, to all the noble attendants of the illustrious and truthful Rāma, there was no sign of change upon his serene face. Like the radiant autumn moon that shines with its own light, Rāma, mighty-armed and steadfast, did not abandon his usual composure. With gentle words, honoring all, Rāma of great fame and righteousness entered his mother’s presence. At his side came Lakṣmaṇa, his brother of great prowess and equal virtue, silently bearing his own sorrow. The house they entered was filled with joyful anticipation, but Rāma, though aware of the misfortune that had befallen him, concealed all agitation, not wishing to distress his friends. As Rāma departed with palms joined in reverence, a great cry of anguish rose from the women in the inner chambers. He had always been their guide and refuge, commanded by both his father and the palace, but today he would leave them. Just as he had always honored his mother Kausalyā, so too had Rāghava conducted himself toward all the royal ladies since birth—never angered by insult, avoiding all cause for wrath, and pacifying those who were angry. Yet, today he would depart. The royal wives lamented bitterly, like cows bereft of their calves, mourning for their husband, the king. “Alas,” they cried, “our king acts without wisdom, for he abandons Rāghava, who is the path for all beings.” Their wailing, filled with grief for Rāma, echoed through the palace, and the king, tormented by sorrow for his son, heard their dreadful cries and collapsed upon his seat. Deeply troubled, Rāma breathed heavily, like a great elephant, but with self-control he entered his mother’s inner chambers, Lakṣmaṇa faithfully beside him. At the doorway, he saw an elderly man, greatly honored, and many others standing nearby. All those present greeted Rāma with respect, hailing him as the best among victors. Passing through the first chamber, Rāma entered the second, where Brahmins, learned in the Vedas and honored by the king, were seated. Bowing to these elders, he moved to the third chamber, where women, children, and the aged, all devoted to their duty, guarded the doorway. The joyful women, after offering their blessings, hurried inside to inform Kausalyā of her beloved son’s arrival. At that moment, Queen Kausalyā, who had spent the night in meditation, was performing her dawn worship of Viṣṇu, praying for her son’s welfare. Clad in silk, radiant with joy and ever steadfast in her vows, she offered oblations to the sacred fire with proper mantras, having completed auspicious rites. There, prepared for the divine worship, were curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, and other offerings. Rāma saw fried grains, white garlands, milk-rice, gruel, firewood, and full water pots—all ready for the sacred rites. He beheld his mother, clothed in white silk and emaciated by her vows, radiant as she offered libations to the gods. Rāghava approached his mother, embracing her and kissing her gently on the head. Kausalyā, unshaken, addressed her son with words of deep affection and kindness, her heart overflowing with motherly love: “May you attain long life, fame, and righteousness befitting your noble lineage, as did the aged, virtuous, royal sages of great soul before you. Behold your father, the king, O Rāghava, steadfast in his word; today, that righteous one will anoint you as heir-apparent.” Rāma, invited to be seated and to dine, joined his hands in respect and spoke a little to his mother. Always humble, he then began to take his leave, preparing to depart for the Daṇḍaka forest. He said, “O Queen, surely you do not know the great danger that has come. This sorrow is for you, and for Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa as well. I will go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what use have I for this seat? The time suited for the seat of the forest has now come upon me. For fourteen years I shall dwell in the lonely forest, living on roots, fruits, and bulbs, giving up meat like a sage. The great king grants the heirship to Bharata, but sends me, like an ascetic, into exile in the Daṇḍaka forest. For six and eight years I shall dwell in the lonely forest, sustaining myself on wild fruits and roots.” Hearing these words, Kausalyā, unaccustomed to such sorrow, collapsed suddenly, like a branch of a śāla tree felled by an axe, or a goddess fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother fallen, Rāma, filled with compassion, began to raise her up, for all her senses had deserted her. He gently touched her body, now covered in dust, and as she, faint and miserable, slowly returned to herself, he supported her, like a mare swept away by the current, guiding her back to steadiness and life.