Having accepted the seat offered to him and being invited to dine, Rāghava—his hands joined in humility—spoke softly to his mother. Naturally gentle and ever respectful, he then began to take leave, preparing his heart for departure to the Daṇḍaka forest. He addressed her, “O Queen, surely you do not know the great danger that has come upon us. This is a sorrow not only for you, but for Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa as well. I must go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what use have I now for this royal seat? The time has come for me to accept the seat of the forest instead. “For fourteen years I shall dwell in the lonely wilderness, 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 remain there, sustaining myself on wild fruits and roots.” At this, Kausalyā, like a branch of a śāla tree felled by an axe, suddenly collapsed to the ground—like a goddess cast down from heaven. Seeing his mother, unaccustomed to sorrow, fallen like a plantain stalk, Rāma rushed to her side, gently raising her up though her senses had left her. With his hand he brushed the dust from her body as she, miserable and faint, rose like a mare swept away by a river’s current. She, who had always known happiness but was now stricken with grief, spoke to Rāghava—the tiger among men—as he sat close by, with Lakṣmaṇa listening: “O Rāghava, if you had not been born to me, I would not have suffered such misery. For a barren woman, there is only one sorrow—the pain of being childless; there is no other, my son. I have never before seen happiness or good fortune from my husband’s prowess; I had hoped to see it in you, my son, O Rāma. “Now, though I am superior, I will have to endure cruel, 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 is certain for me. “I have always been restrained, ever disfavored by my husband, and among Kaikeyī’s household, I am at best equal, perhaps even inferior. Anyone who serves or follows me, upon seeing Kaikeyī’s son, does not even speak to me. Because of her constant anger, how could I, so unfortunate, endure to see Kaikeyī’s harsh-speaking face, my son? “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, the mistreatment from my co-wives, even though I have grown old, Rāghava. How will I, wretched and pitiable, go 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 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. “My heart must truly 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 seeds 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.” Then, overwhelmed by unbearable grief, Kausalyā wept greatly, gazing at Rāghava as a celestial nymph might look upon her son bound in misfortune. Now begins the twenty-first chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As Kausalyā lamented in this way, Lakṣmaṇa, deeply distressed, spoke to her with words suited to the moment: “This does not please me either, noble lady, 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? I do not see any fault in him, nor any wrongdoing, for which Rāghava should be exiled from the kingdom to the forest. I do not see anyone in the world, even secretly—whether a friend or one cast aside—who could declare any fault of his. “Who, considering righteousness, would abandon a son who is like a god—upright, self-controlled, and affectionate even to his enemies—without cause? Which son, remembering the conduct of kings, would act with a royal disposition in his heart toward a father who has returned to childishness? As long as no one knows of this matter, keep the command within yourself together with me.