Rāma entered his house, his heart filled with great joy. Yet, when he saw the misfortune that had befallen his family, he showed no outward agitation, restraining his emotions for the sake of his friends, not wishing to add to their distress. As Rāma, the tiger among men, departed with his palms joined in reverence, a great cry of anguish arose from the women in the inner chambers. He, who had always been their guide and refuge, was now commanded by his father and the palace to leave; today, he would depart from them. From his birth, Rāghava had treated all the women of the palace with the same devotion and respect he showed his mother Kausalyā. He never became angry, even when insulted, and always avoided any cause for wrath. He pacified those who were angry and brought harmony wherever he went, but today, he was to leave them. The royal wives lamented, “Alas, our king acts without wisdom among the living, abandoning Rāghava, who is the very path for all beings.” Their cries echoed through the palace, like cows bereft of their calves, wailing for their husband. King Daśaratha, tormented by grief for his son, heard the dreadful sounds of anguish and collapsed upon his seat, overwhelmed. Rāma, deeply troubled, breathed heavily like a mighty elephant. Yet, gathering his self-control and accompanied by his brother Lakṣmaṇa, he entered his mother’s inner chambers. At the doorway, he saw an elderly, greatly honored man seated, with many others standing nearby. When they saw Rāma, all those present greeted him with praise and acclamations of victory, honoring him as the best among victors. Passing into the first chamber, Rāma saw in the second chamber Brahmins—learned in the Vedas, elderly, and respected by the king. He bowed to these elders, then moved into the third chamber, where women, children, and the elderly stood, devotedly guarding the doorway. These joyful women, after offering their blessings, quickly went inside to inform Queen Kausalyā that her beloved son had arrived. At that moment, Queen Kausalyā, having spent the night in meditation, was engaged in worship of Viṣṇu at dawn, praying for her son’s welfare. She was clad in silk garments, radiant with joy, and ever devoted to her vows. She offered oblations to the fire with proper mantras, having completed all auspicious rites. As Rāma entered his mother’s auspicious chamber, he saw her offering oblations to the sacred fire. Nearby were curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, and other offerings prepared for the divine rites. He also saw fried grains, white garlands, milk-rice, gruel, firewood, and water pots filled to the brim. His mother, clad in white silk and emaciated from her vows, offered libations to the gods, glowing with spiritual beauty. Rāghava approached his mother, embraced her with his arms, and kissed her on the head. Kausalyā, steadfast and unshaken, addressed her son with words full of affection and kindness, moved by 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, steadfast in his word—today itself, that righteous one will anoint you as heir-apparent.” Rāma accepted the seat offered to him and, being invited to dine, spoke a little to his mother with hands joined in humility. Bowed with respect, he then began to take leave, preparing to depart for the Daṇḍaka forest. He said, “O Queen, you surely do not know the great danger that has come. This is a sorrow for you, for Vaidehī, and for Lakṣmaṇa as well. I will go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what need have I for this seat? The time destined 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.” Upon hearing these words, Kausalyā, like a branch of a felled śāla tree cut by an axe in the forest, suddenly collapsed, as though a goddess fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother, unaccustomed to sorrow, fallen like a plantain stalk, Rāma hastened to raise her up, for her senses had left her. He gently touched her whole body, now covered in dust, as she, miserable and faint, rose like a mare swept away by a rushing current. Kausalyā, once accustomed to happiness but now afflicted by grief, spoke to Rāghava, the tiger among men, as he sat nearby with Lakṣmaṇa listening. “If you had not been born to me, O Rāghava, I, being childless, would not have seen such greater misery. For a barren woman, there is only one sorrow—the pain of being childless; there is no other, O son. I have never before seen any happiness or good fortune from my husband’s prowess; I had hoped to see it in my son, O Rāma. Now, though I am superior, I will have to hear many unpleasant, heart-piercing words from my co-wives, who are inferior.” Thus, the palace was filled with sorrow at Rāma’s impending exile, and the hearts of all were heavy with grief.