Rāma, mighty-armed and master of self-control, maintained his usual composure, his face serene and radiant like the autumn moon, undisturbed by the turmoil around him. Renowned for his virtue and gentle speech, he honored everyone he met with kindness as he made his way into his mother Kausalyā’s presence. Lakṣmaṇa, his brother equal in valor and virtue, followed close behind, carrying his own sorrow silently. Despite the joy that usually filled their home, Rāma, upon entering, perceived the shadow of misfortune. Yet, out of concern for the feelings of his friends and family, he concealed any sign of agitation, remaining steadfast and calm. As Rāma departed from the royal assembly with hands folded in respect, a great cry of anguish rose from the women in the inner chambers. He, who had always been their guide and refuge, commanded by his father and beloved by all, was now to leave them. Since his birth, Rāghava had treated each one with the same devotion he showed his mother Kausalyā. Never did he give way to anger, even when insulted, and always soothed those who were upset. Now, the very one who was the path for all beings was being abandoned, and the royal wives lamented bitterly, their wails echoing like cows bereft of their calves. The king, tormented by grief for his son, heard their cries of anguish and collapsed upon his seat, overwhelmed by sorrow. Rāma, deeply troubled but self-controlled, breathed heavily like a great elephant. With Lakṣmaṇa by his side, he entered his mother’s inner chambers. At the doorway, Rāma saw an elderly man, greatly honored, seated with others standing nearby. Upon seeing him, all those present greeted Rāma with words of praise, hailing him as the best among victors. As he entered the first chamber, he saw in the next room Brahmins—elderly, learned in the Vedas, and honored by the king. Rāma bowed respectfully to these elders. In the third chamber, he found women, children, and elderly attendants, all devotedly guarding the doorway. The women, joyful at his arrival, quickly went to inform Queen Kausalyā that her beloved son had come. At that very hour, Kausalyā, who had spent the night in meditation, was performing worship to Viṣṇu at dawn, praying for her son’s welfare. Clad in silk garments, radiant and steadfast in her vows, she offered oblations into the sacred fire, reciting the proper mantras and completing auspicious rites. As Rāma entered her inner chamber, he saw his mother engaged in worship, surrounded by offerings prepared for the divine: curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, fried grains, white garlands, milk-rice, gruel, firewood, and full water pots. She herself, clothed in white silk and emaciated from her ascetic practices, shone with a beauty born of devotion. Rāma approached Kausalyā, embraced her with his arms, and kissed her on the head. The queen, unshakable in her love, addressed her son with words of deep affection: “May you attain long life, fame, and righteousness befitting your noble lineage, as did the virtuous royal sages of old. Behold your father, the king, steadfast in his word—today, he will anoint you as heir-apparent.” After accepting the seat offered to him and being invited to dine, Rāma, with joined palms and humility, spoke softly to his mother. Bowing with respect, he began to take leave, preparing for his exile to the Daṇḍaka forest. “Mother,” he said, “you do not yet know the great danger that has come—this sorrow is for you, for Vaidehī, and for Lakṣmaṇa as well. I must go to the Daṇḍaka forest; I have no need of this royal seat. The time for my forest dwelling has come. For fourteen years I shall live in the lonely forest, sustained only by roots, fruits, and bulbs, renouncing meat like a sage. The great king grants the kingdom to Bharata and sends me, like an ascetic, into exile.” He repeated, “For fourteen years—six and eight—I shall dwell in the wilds, living on whatever fruits and roots I find.” At these words, Kausalyā, unaccustomed to such sorrow, collapsed to the ground like a felled śāla tree, as if a goddess fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother thus stricken, Rāma rushed to her side and gently raised her, her senses lost in grief. He touched her dust-covered body with tender hands as she, faint and miserable, slowly regained consciousness, like a mare swept away by the current struggling to stand. Now afflicted by grief where once she had known only happiness, Kausalyā spoke to her son, the tiger among men, as Lakṣmaṇa listened: “If you had not been born to me, Rāghava, for my sorrow, I, being childless, would never have known such misery as this.