Even when insulted, Rāma never allowed anger to arise within him. He carefully avoided all causes for wrath and, instead, sought to appease those who were angry. It was with such a gentle and self-controlled spirit that he prepared to leave the palace that very day. But within the royal chambers, sorrow and confusion reigned. The king, it was said, acted without discernment among the living, for he was about to abandon Rāghava—Rāma himself—who was the very path and refuge for all beings. The royal wives, overcome with grief, cried aloud like cows deprived of their calves, raising their voices in lamentation for their husband, the king. King Daśaratha, tormented by agony for his son, heard the dreadful wailing echoing through the palace. Overwhelmed by sorrow, he collapsed upon his seat, unable to bear the weight of his suffering. Meanwhile, Rāma, deeply troubled and breathing heavily like a mighty elephant, entered his mother’s inner chambers, accompanied by his loyal brother. Despite his inner turmoil, his self-control remained unshaken. At the entrance, Rāma saw an elderly, greatly honored man seated at the doorway, surrounded by many others standing nearby. As soon as they saw Rāma, all those present greeted him with respect, extolling Rāghava, the best among victors, with acclamations of triumph. Passing through the first chamber, Rāma saw, in the second chamber, venerable Brahmins—learned in the Vedas, elderly and honored by the king. He bowed respectfully to these elders. Then, entering the third chamber, he beheld women, children, and the aged, all devoted to guarding the doorway. The women, joyful at Rāma’s arrival, offered their blessings and hurried into the house, quickly informing Queen Kausalyā that her beloved son had come. At that time, Queen Kausalyā, having spent the night in meditation, was performing her dawn worship of Viṣṇu, praying for her son’s welfare. Dressed in silk garments, radiant with joy and ever steadfast in her vows, she offered oblations into the sacred fire with proper mantras, having completed auspicious rites. Rāma entered his mother’s auspicious chamber and saw her there, offering oblations to the sacred fire. Before her were all the items prepared for divine worship: curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, and other offerings. He also saw fried grains, white garlands, milk-rice, gruel, firewood, and full water pots, all arranged for the sacred rites. There she stood, clad in white silk, emaciated from her rigorous vows, offering libations to the gods, her beauty shining with spiritual radiance. Approaching his mother, Rāghava embraced her with his arms and kissed her gently on the head. Queen Kausalyā, steadfast and loving, spoke to her son with words of deep affection: “May you be blessed with long life, fame, and righteousness worthy of your great lineage, just as the aged, virtuous royal sages before you. Behold your father, the king, O Rāghava, ever true to his word; today itself, that righteous one will anoint you as heir-apparent.” Rāma accepted the seat she offered and, when invited to partake of food, joined his hands and spoke a little to his mother. Naturally humble and respectful, he then began to take his leave, preparing himself to depart for the Daṇḍaka forest. He said with gentle gravity, “O Queen, surely you do not know the great danger that has come; this sorrow is 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 for the forest has come upon me. For fourteen years I shall dwell in the lonely woods, 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 in the wild, sustaining myself on whatever fruits and roots I can find.” At these words, Kausalyā, like a branch of a felled śāla tree cut by an axe, suddenly collapsed, as if a goddess had fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother—unaccustomed to such sorrow—crumpled like a plantain stalk, Rāma hurried to raise her up, for her senses had fled. He gently touched her dust-covered body as she, miserable and faint, rose up like a mare swept away by a rushing current. Now, Kausalyā—once accustomed to happiness but now afflicted by grief—spoke to Rāghava, the tiger among men, as he sat by her side, with Lakṣmaṇa listening close: “If you had not been born to me, O Rāghava, for my sorrow, I, being childless, would not have seen such greater misery. For a barren woman, there is but one grief—the pain of childlessness; there is no other, my son. I have never before seen happiness or fortune from my husband’s prowess; I had hoped to see it in you, O Rāma. I, though superior, will now have to hear many unpleasant, heart-piercing words from my co-wives, who are inferior. What could be more painful for women than this endless grief and lamentation that has befallen me? Even when you were present, I was disregarded in this way; what then, dear one, when you are gone? Surely, only death awaits me. I have always been deeply restrained, ever disfavored by my husband, and among Kaikeyi’s household, I am at best equal, or perhaps even inferior. Anyone who serves me or follows me, upon seeing Kaikeyi’s son, no longer even speaks to me. Because of her constant anger, how could I, so unfortunate, endure to see Kaikeyi’s harsh-speaking face, my son?” Thus, sorrow and love mingled in the palace, as mother and son faced the cruel turn of fate with courage and devotion.