Rāma, the noble prince, entered his mother Kausalyā’s auspicious inner chamber. There, he found her engaged in sacred rituals, offering oblations to the fire. The room was prepared for divine rites, with curds, rice grains, clarified butter, sweet cakes, and other offerings set out. Fried grains, white garlands, milk-rice, gruel, firewood, and full water pots were also arranged, all ready for the ceremony. Kausalyā herself was clad in pure white silk, her body emaciated from the practice of vows. Yet, she shone with radiant beauty as she offered libations to the gods. Rāma approached her, embraced her warmly, and kissed her head with loving reverence. Steadfast and unshaken, Kausalyā addressed her son with words of affection, her heart overflowing with motherly love. She blessed him, wishing for his long life, fame, and righteousness befitting his noble lineage, just as the aged, virtuous royal sages of great soul had attained. She told him to behold his father, the king, who was steadfast in his word. “Today itself,” she said, “that righteous one will anoint you as heir-apparent.” Rāma accepted the seat she offered and, when invited to dine, spoke a few words to his mother with joined hands. Naturally humble and respectful, he then began to take leave, preparing to depart for the Daṇḍaka forest. He gently revealed a sorrowful truth: “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 need have I for this seat? The time suited for the seat of the forest has now come upon me.” He explained that for fourteen years, he would 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.” At these words, Kausalyā collapsed suddenly, like a branch of a felled śāla tree cut by an axe, or a goddess fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother, unaccustomed to sorrow, fallen like a plantain stalk, Rāma rushed to raise her up, her senses lost in grief. He gently touched her dust-covered body as she, miserable and faint, rose up like a mare swept away by a river’s current. Afflicted by grief, she 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.” She lamented that, though superior, she would now have to hear many unpleasant, heart-piercing words from her co-wives, who were 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.” Kausalyā spoke of her restraint and her disfavor in her husband’s eyes, and how, among Kaikeyi’s household, she was 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?” She recalled the seventeen years since Rāma’s birth, during which she had longed for the end of her suffering. “I can no longer bear this great and unending sorrow, the mistreatment from my co-wives, even though I have grown old, Rāghava. How will I, wretched and pitiable, live on, deprived of seeing your face, radiant as the full moon?” She recounted her fasts, disciplines, and many hardships, all endured to raise Rāma, but now felt her efforts were in vain, for she was 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.” She declared, “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.” She continued, “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, gazing at Rāghava, as a celestial nymph might look upon her son bound in misfortune. Thus begins the twenty-first sarga, the next chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa.