As dawn broke, Queen Kausalyā, having spent the entire night in deep meditation, rose to perform her morning worship. With a heart full of hope for her beloved son’s well-being, she devoted herself to the worship of Viṣṇu, her mind fixed on his protection and prosperity. Draped in fine silk garments, radiant and joyful, she remained steadfast in her vows. With reverence, she offered sacred oblations into the fire, chanting the prescribed mantras and completing all the auspicious rites with devotion. It was at this moment that Rāma entered his mother’s auspicious inner chamber. He found her there, engaged in her sacred rituals, offering oblations to the fire. All around, preparations for the divine rites were evident—there were curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, and other offerings, all neatly arranged. Rāma’s gaze fell upon fried grains, garlands of pure white flowers, milk-rice, nourishing gruel, firewood for the sacred flames, and water pots filled to the brim. He beheld his mother, clad in spotless white silk, her body grown thin from her strict observance of vows. Yet she shone with a unique radiance, her beauty undiminished, as she poured libations to the gods. Overcome with affection, Rāma approached her, embraced her with his arms, and kissed her gently on the head. Kausalyā, resolute and unshaken in her motherly love, spoke to Rāma with words brimming with tenderness and kindness. “May you, my son, attain a long life, undying fame, and righteousness befitting your noble lineage, just as the great royal sages of old. Behold your father, the king, steadfast in his word—today, that righteous one will anoint you as heir-apparent.” Invited to take his seat and partake of the meal she had prepared, Rāma, ever humble, joined his hands and spoke softly to his mother. With a bowed head, he began to take his leave, for he was preparing to depart for the Daṇḍaka forest. He said, “O Queen, you do not yet know of the great danger that has come upon us. This will bring sorrow to you, to Vaidehī, and to Lakṣmaṇa as well. I must go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what use have I for this seat of honor? The time for the seat of the forest has come upon me. “For fourteen years, I shall dwell in the lonely forest, living on roots, fruits, and bulbs, renouncing meat as a sage does. 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 wilderness, sustaining myself only on wild fruits and roots.” As these words struck her, Kausalyā, like a branch of a śāla tree suddenly hewn by an axe, collapsed to the ground, as if a goddess had fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother, unaccustomed to such sorrow, lying senseless like a plantain stalk cut down, Rāma rushed to her side and gently raised her, her senses still reeling. He tenderly brushed the dust from her body as she, miserable and faint, slowly recovered, like a mare swept away by a rushing current. Now, overwhelmed by grief, Kausalyā spoke to Rāma, the foremost among men, as Lakṣmaṇa listened nearby. “If you had not been born to me, O Rāghava, I would have borne only the sorrow of childlessness, but not this greater misery. For a barren woman, there is but one grief—the pain of having no child; there is no other, my son. “I have never known 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 will have to endure many harsh and heart-piercing words from my co-wives, who are less than I. What pain could be greater for a woman than this endless grief and lamentation that has come upon me? “Even while you were present, I was disregarded—what then, my dear one, when you are gone? Surely, death alone is certain for me. I have always been restrained, ever disfavored by my husband, and among Kaikeyi’s household, I am at best equal, if not inferior. Anyone who serves or follows me, upon seeing Kaikeyi’s son, will not even speak to me. “How could I, so unfortunate, bear to see Kaikeyi’s harsh-speaking face, always filled with anger? Seventeen years have passed since your birth, Rāghava, and all this time I have longed for the end of my suffering. I can no longer bear this great and unending sorrow, or the mistreatment from my co-wives, though I have grown old, O Rāghava. “How shall I, so wretched and pitiable, go on living, deprived of the sight of your face, radiant as the full moon? Through fasts, disciplines, and many hardships, I raised you in sorrow, yet all my efforts have come to nothing, for now I am left destitute. “Surely, my heart is steadfast, for it does not break or shatter, just as a riverbank withstands the floodwaters. Surely, death does not exist for me, nor is there a place for me in Yama’s realm, since Death does not seize me today, as a lion seizes a weeping doe. My heart must be made of iron, for it does not break, though I am given over to such sorrow—surely, untimely death does not exist. “My vows, my gifts, my self-restraint, and all the austerities I performed for the sake of a child have all become fruitless, like seed sown on barren ground. If it were possible for one tormented by such great sorrow to die before their time, I would go today to the assembly of the departed, without you, like a cow bereft of her calf. “But what is the use of my life now, in vain, without you, whose face shines like the moon? I will follow you to the forest, weak as I am, longing for my calf, just as a cow follows her young.