Though great sorrow had befallen him, none of Rāma’s noble attendants could perceive the slightest change in his expression. The illustrious, truthful Rāma, mighty-armed and self-controlled, maintained his usual composure, his face radiant and serene, like the autumn moon shining with its own gentle light. Renowned for his righteousness, Rāma greeted everyone with sweet, honoring words as he made his way into his mother’s chambers. Behind him walked his brother Lakṣmaṇa, a man of great prowess and equal virtue, bearing his own deep sorrow in silence. As Rāma entered the house—once filled with joy, now shadowed by misfortune—he showed no outward agitation, mindful of the pain his distress might bring to his friends. At this moment, let the events of the twentieth sarga be heard. As that tiger among men departed with hands joined in reverence, a great cry of anguish rose from the women in the inner palace. Rāma, who had always been their guide and refuge, was now to leave, commanded by his father and the entire royal household. Since his birth, Rāghava had treated all the king’s wives with the same respect and care as he showed his own mother, Kausalyā. He never gave in to anger, even when insulted, always avoiding causes for wrath and pacifying those who were angry. Yet now, the one who brought peace and comfort was to depart. The royal wives wailed in grief, like cows bereft of their calves, lamenting not only for Rāma but also for their husband, the king. “Alas, our king acts without wisdom among the living, for he abandons Rāghava, who is the very path for all beings,” they cried. Their anguished voices echoed through the palace, and the king, tormented by grief for his son, heard their dreadful lamentation and collapsed upon his seat, overwhelmed by sorrow. Meanwhile, Rāma, deeply troubled yet unwavering in self-control, breathed heavily like a mighty elephant. Accompanied by Lakṣmaṇa, he entered his mother’s inner chambers. At the doorway, he saw an elderly, greatly honored man seated, with many others standing nearby. Upon seeing Rāma, all those present greeted him respectfully, praising the best among victors with acclamations of victory. Passing through the first chamber, Rāma saw in the second chamber Brahmins learned in the Vedas, elderly and honored by the king. Bowing to these elders, he entered the third chamber, where women, children, and the aged, devoted to guarding the threshold, stood watchfully. The joyful women, having offered their blessings, hurried inside to inform Queen Kausalyā that her beloved son had arrived. At that time, Queen Kausalyā, who had spent the night in meditation, was engaged in her dawn worship of Viṣṇu, praying for her son’s welfare. Clad in silk garments, joyful and ever devoted to her vows, she offered oblations to the sacred fire with the proper mantras, having completed auspicious rites. As Rāma entered her auspicious chamber, he saw her thus engaged in worship. Around her were assembled curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, and other offerings for the divine rites. There were also fried grains, white garlands, milk-rice, gruel, firewood, and full water pots, all prepared for the ceremony. Rāma saw his mother, dressed in white silk, emaciated by her austerities, radiant as she offered libations to the gods. Drawing near, Rāghava embraced his mother and kissed her gently on the head. Kausalyā, steadfast and loving, addressed her son with words of deep affection: “May you attain long life, fame, and righteousness befitting your noble lineage, as did the great royal sages of old. Behold your father, the king, O Rāghava, steadfast in his word; today he will anoint you as heir-apparent.” Rāma accepted the seat offered to him and, when invited to dine, spoke softly and humbly to his mother with joined palms. Then, bowing in respect, he began to take leave, preparing to depart for the Daṇḍaka forest. “O Queen,” he said, “surely you do not know the great danger that has come. This sorrow is not only yours, but also Vaidehī’s and Lakṣmaṇa’s. I must go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what use have I for this seat of royalty? The time has come for me to embrace the seat of exile. 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 live thus, sustaining myself on wild fruits and roots.” Hearing these words, Kausalyā, unaccustomed to such sorrow, collapsed suddenly, like a branch of a felled śāla tree cut down in the forest, or a goddess fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother fallen like a plantain stalk, Rāma, overcome with compassion, began to raise her up, her senses lost to grief. Gently he touched her dust-covered body as she, miserable and faint, rose slowly, like a mare swept away by the current. Accustomed to happiness but now stricken by grief, Kausalyā spoke to her son, the tiger among men, as he sat beside her and Lakṣmaṇa listened in silence.