As Rāma entered the inner chambers, his eyes fell upon his mother, Kausalyā. Clad in pure white silk, she shone with a gentle radiance, yet her body was thin from the rigors of her vows and fasts. She was offering libations to the gods, her devotion making her beauty even more luminous. Moved by love and reverence, Rāghava approached his mother, embraced her tenderly, and kissed her upon the head. Kausalyā, steadfast and composed even in this moment, addressed her beloved son with words full of affection and motherly kindness. “May you, my child, attain a long life, undying fame, and righteousness worthy of your noble lineage, just as the great royal sages of old, virtuous and wise, have done before you. Behold your father, the king—firm in his word and steadfast in dharma. Today itself, that righteous one will anoint you as heir-apparent.” She invited Rāma to be seated and offered him food. Rāma, ever humble, joined his hands in respect and spoke gently to his mother, saying little. Then, bowing low, he began to take his leave, preparing himself for the journey to the Daṇḍaka forest. He spoke in a voice both gentle and grave: “O Queen, you do not yet know the great danger that has come upon us. This sorrow is not only yours, but will descend as well upon Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa. I must go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what need have I for this seat of royalty? The time destined for me to dwell in the forest has now arrived. For fourteen years I shall live in the lonely wilderness, sustaining myself on roots, fruits, and bulbs, renouncing meat as a sage does. The great king, my father, has granted the heirship to Bharata, while sending me, like an ascetic, into exile in the Daṇḍaka forest. For six and eight years—fourteen in all—I will remain there, living on wild fruits and roots.” At these words, Kausalyā, like a branch of a mighty śāla tree felled by an axe, collapsed suddenly to the ground, as if a goddess had fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother, unaccustomed to sorrow and now lying like a plantain stalk, Rāma rushed to her side and began to raise her up, for her senses had fled. With gentle hands, he brushed the dust from her body as she, miserable and faint, struggled to rise—like a mare swept away by the current. Though once accustomed to happiness, Kausalyā now spoke in grief to Rāghava, the tiger among men, as he sat close by, with Lakṣmaṇa listening. “If you had not been born to me, Rāghava, I would not have known such misery. For a barren woman, there is but one sorrow—the pain of being childless. But now I know a greater grief. I have never found happiness or good fortune through my husband’s power; I had hoped to see it in you, O Rāma. Now, though I am superior, I must endure the harsh and heart-piercing words of 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 with you 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, ever disfavored by my husband, and within Kaikeyi’s household, I am at best equal, perhaps even less. Anyone who serves or follows me, when they see Kaikeyi’s son, will not even speak to me. How can I, so unfortunate, endure to see Kaikeyi’s harsh face, ever angry? “Seventeen years have passed since you were born, Rāghava, and all this time 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 as I grow 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 are now in vain, for I am left destitute. Surely my heart is steadfast, for it does not break or shatter, just as a great riverbank withstands the force of a fresh flood. Surely, death does not exist for me, nor is there any place for me in Yama’s realm, since Death does not seize me now, as a lion seizes a weeping doe. Truly, my heart must be made of iron, for it does not break despite such sorrow; surely, untimely death does not exist. “My sorrow is this: 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 bitterly, gazing at Rāghava as a celestial nymph might gaze upon her son bound in misfortune. Now begins the twenty-first sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As Kausalyā lamented in this way, Lakṣmaṇa, deeply distressed, spoke to her with words suited to the moment. “Noble lady, this does not please me either—that Rāghava should go to the forest, abandoning royal fortune, compelled by a woman’s words. An old man, led astray and overpowered by desires—what would a king not say when pressed and agitated?