Within the palace, sorrow hung heavy in the air. The royal wives lamented aloud, grieving for their husband, King Daśaratha, who, in his anguish, seemed to act without wisdom, forsaking Rāghava—Rāma—who was the very path for all beings. Their cries echoed through the halls like cows mourning their lost calves, filling the palace with dreadful sounds of anguish. King Daśaratha, tormented by grief for his beloved son, heard these cries and collapsed upon his seat, overcome by sorrow. Meanwhile, Rāma, deeply troubled and breathing heavily like an elephant, entered his mother’s inner chambers with self-control, accompanied by his loyal brother Lakṣmaṇa. As they approached, Rāma saw an elderly, greatly honored man seated at the doorway, surrounded by many others standing nearby. All those present greeted Rāma with reverence, praising him as the best among victors and calling out acclamations of victory. Moving further, Rāma entered the first chamber, and in the second he saw Brahmins—learned in the Vedas, elderly, and honored by the king. Bowing respectfully to these elders, he proceeded to the third chamber, where he found women, children, and elderly attendants, all devoted to guarding the doorway. The joyful women, having offered their blessings to Rāma, hurried into the house and quickly informed Queen Kausalyā of her beloved son’s arrival. At that moment, Kausalyā, who had spent the night in meditation, was performing worship of Viṣṇu at dawn, wishing for her son’s welfare. Clad in silk garments, joyful and ever devoted to her vows, she offered oblations to the fire with proper mantras, having completed auspicious rites. Rāma entered his mother’s auspicious inner chamber and saw her offering oblations to the sacred fire. There, prepared for divine rites, were 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 rituals. Kausalyā herself, clad in white silk, emaciated by her strict observances, was radiant in beauty as she offered libations to the gods. Approaching his mother, Rāma embraced her with his arms and kissed her gently on the head. Kausalyā, unwavering in her affection, addressed her son with words of kindness and love: “May you attain long life, fame, and righteousness befitting your lineage, just as the aged, virtuous royal sages of great soul have done. Behold your father, the king, O Rāghava, steadfast in his word; today itself, that righteous one will anoint you as heir-apparent.” Rāma accepted the seat offered to him and, when invited to dine, spoke a little to his mother with joined hands. Naturally humble and respectful, he then began to take leave, preparing to depart for the Daṇḍaka forest. He spoke gently: “O Queen, surely you do not know the great danger that has come; this is for your sorrow, and for that of 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, like a branch of a felled śāla tree cut by an axe in the forest, suddenly collapsed—like a goddess fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother, unaccustomed to sorrow and fallen like a plantain stalk, Rāma gently raised her up, for her senses had left her. He touched her whole body, now covered in dust, as she, miserable and faint, rose up like a mare swept away by the current. Kausalyā, once accustomed to happiness but now afflicted by grief, spoke to Rāma, the tiger among men, as he sat nearby, with Lakṣmaṇa listening: “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 only one mental grief—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. I, though superior, will 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 come upon me? Even when you were present, I was disregarded in this way; what then, dear one, when you are gone? Surely, death alone is certain for 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. For anyone who serves me or follows me, upon seeing Kaikeyi’s son, that person does not even speak to me. Because of her constant anger, how could I, so unfortunate, endure to see Kaikeyi’s harsh-speaking face, my son? Seventeen years have passed since you were born, Rāghava, as I have longed for the end of my suffering.” Thus, sorrow and love mingled in the palace, as mother and son faced the cruel turn of fate with dignity and tenderness.