Queen Kausalyā sat in her chamber, unaware of the storm that had broken over her family. Rāma, her beloved son, approached her with a grave face and spoke gently, “Mother, you do not yet know the peril that has come upon us. This sorrow will not only be yours, but will weigh upon Vaidehī and Lakṣmaṇa as well.” He paused, his voice steady with resolve. “I will go to the Daṇḍaka forest. What need have I for this royal seat? Now is the time for me to take up the seat of the forest. For fourteen years I shall dwell in that lonely wilderness, living only on roots, fruits, and bulbs, giving up meat as a sage would. 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—fourteen in all—I shall live in solitude, sustained by wild fruits and roots.” As these words struck Kausalyā, she collapsed suddenly, like a branch of a śāla tree felled by an axe, or a goddess cast down from heaven. Seeing his mother, who had never known such sorrow, fallen like a delicate plantain stalk, Rāma hurried to her side. Tenderly, he touched her dust-covered body, trying to comfort her as she rose, weak and dazed, like a mare swept away by a swift current. Kausalyā, accustomed to happiness but now overwhelmed by grief, looked at her son—the tiger among men—as he sat nearby, with Lakṣmaṇa listening attentively. With trembling voice she spoke, “O Rāghava, if you had not been born to me to bring such sorrow, I would have avoided this greater misery by being childless. For a barren woman, there is but one grief—the pain of having no child. But now, my son, I suffer even more.” “I have never seen happiness or good fortune from my husband’s strength; I had hoped to find it in you, Rāma. Yet now, though I am superior, I must hear harsh and wounding 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 here with me, I was disregarded; what will become of me when you are gone, my dear one? Surely, only death awaits me. I have always been restrained, yet ever disfavored by my husband. In Kaikeyi’s household, I am at best an equal, perhaps even less.” “Anyone who serves or follows me avoids even speaking to me when Kaikeyi’s son is present. How can I, so unfortunate, bear to see Kaikeyi’s angry and harsh face, my son? Seventeen years have passed since you were born, Rāghava, and all this time I have longed for an end to my suffering. Now, I can no longer bear this endless sorrow and the mistreatment from my co-wives, even in my old age.” “How will I, wretched and pitiable, live on, deprived of seeing your face, so radiant like the full moon? Through fasts, disciplines, and many hardships, I raised you in sorrow, but now all my efforts are in vain, for I am left destitute. Surely, my heart is steadfast, for it does not break or shatter, just as a riverbank withstands the 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 now, as a lion seizes a weeping doe.” “My heart must be made of iron, for it does not break, though I am given over to such sorrow. Untimely death does not exist for me. But this is my deepest sorrow: that my vows, gifts, self-restraint, and all the austerities I performed for the sake of a child—all have become fruitless, like seed sown on barren ground.” “If, by chance, one tormented by such sorrow could obtain death before its time, I would leave this life today and join the departed, without you, like a cow bereft of her calf. But what is the use of my life now, 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 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, deeply distressed, addressed 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 desire, what would a king not say when pressed and agitated?” “I see no fault in Rāma, nor any wrongdoing for which he should be exiled from the kingdom to the forest. I do not know anyone in the world, even secretly, whether friend or foe, 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 royal disposition 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. With me at your side, armed with my bow, who could do anything against you, Rāghava? Just as none can act against Death when he stands by, so none can harm you while I am here. O best of men, if Ayodhyā stands against you, I will empty this entire city of people with my sharp arrows.” Thus, in the midst of sorrow and turmoil, the love and loyalty of Rāma’s family shone forth, even as fate drove them toward the forest and the unknown.