As Rāma approached the royal residence, he saw an elderly man of great honor seated at the doorway, surrounded by many others who stood nearby. Upon seeing Rāma, everyone present greeted him with deep respect, their voices rising in praise for Rāghava, the foremost among victors, hailing him with acclamations of victory. Passing into the first chamber, Rāma entered the second, where he beheld Brahmins—learned in the Vedas, aged, and held in high esteem by the king. Bowing low to these venerable elders, Rāma continued into the third chamber, where women, children, and the elderly stood devotedly, guarding the doorway. The women, joyful at his arrival, offered their blessings to Rāma. Filled with happiness, they hurried into the house to inform Queen Kausalyā that her beloved son had come. At that very moment, Queen Kausalyā, who had spent the night in meditation, was at dawn worshiping Viṣṇu, her heart full of prayers for her son’s wellbeing. Clad in silk garments, radiant with joy and steadfast in her vows, she was completing auspicious rites, offering oblations to the sacred fire with proper mantras. As Rāma entered his mother’s auspicious inner chamber, he saw her engaged in worship, offering oblations to the sacred fire. Around her were arrayed the offerings prepared for the divine rites: curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, and other sacred foods. He also saw fried grains, white garlands, milk-rice, gruel, firewood, and pots brimming with water, all set out for the rituals. Kausalyā herself, dressed in white silk and emaciated from her dedicated practice of vows, shone with a radiant beauty as she offered libations to the gods. Rāghava approached her, embraced her warmly, and kissed her gently on the head. Unshaken and full of motherly love, Kausalyā addressed her son with words of deep affection and kindness. “May you attain long life, fame, and righteousness worthy of your lineage, just as the ancient, virtuous royal sages of great soul have done before you. Behold your father, the king, O Rāghava—steadfast in his word. Today itself, that righteous one will anoint you as heir-apparent.” Accepting the seat offered to him and being invited to dine, Rāghava, with hands joined in humility, spoke softly to his mother. Naturally humble and ever respectful, he began to take his leave, preparing himself to depart for the Daṇḍaka forest. He said, “O Queen, surely you do not know the great danger that has come upon us; this brings sorrow not only to you, but also to Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa. I must go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what use have I for this seat? The time suited for 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 forest, sustaining myself on wild fruits and roots.” Hearing these words, Kausalyā, overwhelmed by sudden grief, collapsed like a branch of a śāla tree felled by an axe, or like a goddess fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother, so unaccustomed to sorrow, lying motionless like a plantain stalk, Rāma rushed to raise her up, her senses lost in anguish. He gently touched her dust-covered body as she, faint and miserable, rose like a mare swept away by a strong current. Accustomed to happiness but now stricken by grief, Kausalyā spoke to Rāghava, the tiger among men, as he sat beside her, with Lakṣmaṇa listening. “If you had not been born to me, O Rāghava, I would have been spared this greater misery, for a barren woman’s only pain is being childless—there is no other, my son. Never before have I seen any happiness or good fortune from my husband’s prowess; I had hoped to find it in you, O Rāma. “Now, though I am superior, I must endure many unpleasant, heart-piercing words from my co-wives, who are inferior. What could be more painful for a woman than this endless grief and lamentation that has come upon me? Even when you were here, I was disregarded in this way; what then, dear one, when you are gone? Surely, death alone awaits me. “I have always been restrained, ever disfavored by my husband, and among Kaikeyi’s household, I am at best equal, or perhaps even inferior. Those who serve or follow me, upon seeing Kaikeyi’s son, do 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. I can no longer bear this great and unending sorrow, the mistreatment from my co-wives, even as I have grown old, Rāghava. How will I, wretched and pitiable, live on, deprived of seeing your face, radiant as the full moon? “Through fasts, disciplines, and many hardships, I raised you in sorrow, yet all my efforts have been in vain, for now I am destitute. Surely my heart is steadfast, for it does not break or shatter on this earth, just as a great river’s bank withstands the fresh flood of rain.” In this way, Kausalyā poured out her grief to her beloved son, her heart heavy with sorrow at the prospect of his exile.