Clad in radiant silk garments, Kausalyā, ever joyful and steadfast in her vows, completed her auspicious rites with devotion. She offered oblations to the sacred fire, chanting the proper mantras, her heart absorbed in reverence. Within her sanctified chamber, all was prepared for worship: curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, and other offerings lay ready for the divine rites. There were also fried grains, white garlands, milk-rice, gruel, firewood, and pots brimming with pure water—each item arranged with loving care. Rāma entered his mother’s inner chamber and beheld her there, radiant in her white silk, emaciated by the discipline of her vows, yet glowing with spiritual beauty as she poured libations to the gods. Moved by affection, Rāma, the joy of the Raghu line, approached Kausalyā, embraced her warmly, and kissed her gently on the head. Kausalyā, unshaken in her motherly love, addressed her son with words full of affection: “May you be blessed, my child, with long life, fame, and righteousness, as befitting your noble lineage, just as the great royal sages of old. 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 she offered and, when invited to dine, joined his hands respectfully and spoke softly to his mother. Humble by nature and filled with reverence, he began to take his leave, preparing in his heart for a different journey—the path to the Daṇḍaka forest. He said, “O Queen, you do not yet know the great danger that has come upon us. It is for your sorrow, and for that of Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa as well. I must go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what use have I for this royal 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, 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 remain there, sustaining myself on wild fruits and roots.” Hearing these words, Kausalyā collapsed suddenly, like a branch of a śāla tree felled by an axe, or a goddess fallen from heaven. Unaccustomed to sorrow, she fell to the ground like a plantain stalk, her senses lost. Rāma, stricken with concern, rushed to her side and gently touched her dust-covered body, helping her rise as she trembled, faint and miserable, like a mare swept away by the current. Once recovered, though still afflicted by grief, Kausalyā spoke to Rāghava, the tiger among men, as Lakṣmaṇa listened nearby: “If you had not been born to me, O Rāghava, I would not have known such sorrow. For a barren woman, there is only one grief—the pain of being childless; there is no other, my son. I have never known happiness or good fortune from my husband’s glory; I had placed my hopes in you, O Rāma. Now, though I am superior in station, I must endure many harsh and 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 present, I was disregarded in this way; what then, dear one, when you are gone? Surely, death alone awaits me. I have always been restrained and patient, yet ever disfavored by my husband. In Kaikeyi’s household, I am at best equal, or perhaps even inferior. Those who serve me or follow me, upon seeing Kaikeyi’s son, do not even speak to me. Because of her constant anger, how can I, so unfortunate, endure to see Kaikeyi’s harsh 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, nor the mistreatment from my co-wives, even though I have grown old. How will I, so 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 I am now destitute. “Surely my heart is steadfast, for it does not break or shatter on earth, just as a great river’s bank withstands the fresh flood of rain. Surely, death does not exist for me, nor is there any place for me in Yama’s realm, since Death does not seize me today by force, as a lion seizes a weeping doe. Truly, my heart must be made of iron, for it does not break or shatter on earth, though it is given over to such sorrow; surely, untimely death does not exist. “But this is my sorrow: that my vows, gifts, self-restraint, and the austerities I performed for the sake of a child have all become fruitless, like seed sown on barren ground. If, by chance, one tormented by great sorrow could obtain death before its 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, like a cow.” Overwhelmed by unbearable grief, Kausalyā wept greatly, her gaze fixed upon Rāghava, as a celestial mother might look upon her beloved child bound in misfortune.