With deep humility and reverence, Rāma, bowing respectfully, prepared to take leave and depart for the Daṇḍaka forest. Turning to the Queen, he spoke gently, “O Queen, surely you do not realize the great danger that has arisen; this will bring sorrow not only to you, but also to Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa.” Resolute, Rāma declared, “I will go to the Daṇḍaka forest—what need have I for this royal seat? The time has come for me to take up the seat of the forest.” He explained, “For fourteen years I shall dwell in that lonely wilderness, living on roots, fruits, and bulbs, giving up meat as a sage does. The great king has granted the heirship to Bharata, but sends me, like an ascetic, into exile in the Daṇḍaka forest. For six and eight years I shall live there, sustaining myself on wild fruits and roots.” As the gravity of Rāma’s words sank in, Kausalyā, his mother, collapsed suddenly, like a branch of a śāla tree cut by an axe, or a goddess fallen from heaven. Rāma, seeing his mother—who was unaccustomed to sorrow—fallen like a plantain stalk, hurried to raise her up, though her senses had fled. With tender care, he touched her dust-covered body as she rose, miserable and faint, like a mare swept away by a strong current. Afflicted by grief, Kausalyā, who was used to happiness, spoke to Rāghava, the tiger among men, as he sat nearby with Lakṣmaṇa listening. Her voice trembling, she said, “If you had not been born to me, O Rāghava, for my sorrow, I would not, as a childless woman, have seen such misery. For a barren woman, there is only one 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, “Though I am superior, I will have to hear many unpleasant, heart-piercing words from my co-wives, who are 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. I have always been deeply restrained, ever disfavored by my husband, and among Kaikeyi’s household, I am 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?” Her sorrow deepened as she recalled, “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, 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? Through fasts, disciplines, and many hardships, I raised you in sorrow, yet all my efforts have been in vain, for I am now destitute.” She marveled at her own endurance, “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.” Her voice grew softer, “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, gazing at Rāghava as a celestial nymph might look upon her son bound in misfortune. Now begins the twenty-first chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As Kausalyā lamented in this way, Lakṣmaṇa, distressed by her sorrow, spoke with words suited to the moment. He said, “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?” Lakṣmaṇa continued, “I do not see any fault in him, nor any such 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?” He urged, “As long as no one knows of this matter, keep the command within yourself together with me. With me at your side, armed with my bow, who could do anything against you, Rāghava, while you are protected, just as none can act against Death standing by?” Thus, Rāma’s sorrowful departure, his mother’s lament, and Lakṣmaṇa’s loyal resolve unfolded, marking a moment of great grief and unwavering devotion within Ayodhyā’s royal halls.