When Rāma returned to his mother Kausalyā, his face calm and resolute, he revealed the king’s decree: “The great king, my father, has granted the heirship to Bharata, but has sent me, like an ascetic, into exile in the Daṇḍaka forest. For fourteen years—six and eight—I shall dwell in that lonely wilderness, sustaining myself only on wild fruits and roots.” At these words, Kausalyā was struck as if by a blow. Like a branch of a mighty śāla tree suddenly felled by an axe in the forest, she collapsed, helpless, as if a goddess had fallen from heaven. Seeing his mother, so unaccustomed to sorrow, lying on the ground like a plantain stalk, Rāma, his heart filled with concern, moved to raise her up. Her senses lost, she was covered in dust; gently, Rāma touched her body, helping her rise, while she looked as dazed and frail as a mare swept away by a rushing current. Once she had regained some strength, Kausalyā, who had always known happiness but was now wracked by grief, addressed Rāma as he sat near her, with Lakṣmaṇa listening intently. Her voice trembled as she spoke: “O Rāghava, if you had not been born to me, this sorrow would not have come. If I had been childless, I would not have known such misery. For a barren woman, there is but one sorrow—the pain of being childless; there is no other, my son. “Never have I seen happiness or good fortune come to me through my husband’s strength; I had placed my hopes in you, O Rāma. Now, though I am superior, I must hear many cruel and heart-piercing words from my co-wives, who are inferior to me. What pain could be greater for a woman than this endless grief and lamentation that has befallen me? “Even while you were present, I was disregarded in this way—what, then, will become of me when you are gone? Surely, only death awaits me now. I have always been restrained and patient, but my husband has never favored me; among Kaikeyī’s household, I am at best equal, perhaps even less. Anyone who serves me, upon seeing Kaikeyī’s son, avoids even speaking to me. “How can I, so unfortunate, endure the sight of Kaikeyī’s harsh-speaking face, always clouded by anger? Seventeen years have passed since your birth, Rāghava, and I have longed for the end of my suffering. Now, I can bear this sorrow no longer—the endless grief and mistreatment from my co-wives, even as I have grown old. “How will I, wretched and pitiable, live on, deprived of the sight of your face, radiant as the full moon? Through fasts, disciplines, and many hardships, I raised you in sorrow, yet all my efforts have come to nothing, for now I am destitute. Surely my heart must be steadfast, for it does not break or shatter on this earth, just as a riverbank withstands the fresh flood of rain. “Death does not exist for me, nor is there a place for me in Yama’s realm, since Death does not seize me today, as a lion seizes a weeping doe. Truly, my heart must be made of iron, for it does not break, though given over to such sorrow; surely, untimely death does not exist. But this is my greatest 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 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. 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, her gaze fixed on Rāghava, as a celestial nymph might look upon her beloved son bound in misfortune. At this point, the next chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, begins. As Kausalyā lamented thus, 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? “I see no fault in Rāghava, nor any wrongdoing for which he should be exiled from the kingdom to the forest. I do not know of anyone in the world, even in secret, 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 a royal heart toward a father who has returned to childishness? As long as no one else 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? O best of men, if Ayodhyā remains hostile, I will make this entire city devoid of people with sharp arrows. Whoever sides with Bharata or wishes for his welfare, I will slay them all, for the gentle are always scorned. “If our father, encouraged by Kaikeyī, is not pleased with us and has become an enemy, let him be slain without hesitation, let him be slain indeed. Even for a teacher who is arrogant, ignorant of right and wrong, and has strayed from the path, discipline becomes necessary.” Thus did Lakṣmaṇa, burning with righteous indignation, speak his mind as the sorrow of exile and injustice weighed heavily upon Rāma, Kausalyā, and all who loved them.