Kausalyā, once accustomed to happiness but now overwhelmed by sorrow, sat near Rāma, the best among men, while Lakṣmaṇa listened quietly. Her voice, heavy with grief, broke the silence as she addressed her beloved son: “O Rāghava, had you not been born to me only to bring such anguish, I would have been spared this greater misery that has now befallen me. For a woman without children, there is but one sorrow—the pain of being childless; there is no other, my son. “I have never before seen any happiness or good fortune from my husband’s strength; all my hopes rested on you, Rāma. Now, though I am superior, I must endure harsh and wounding words from my co-wives, who are inferior to me. What could be more painful for a woman than this endless grief and lamentation that has seized me? “Even while you were present, I was disregarded in this way; what then will happen, dear one, when you are gone? Surely, death alone awaits me. I have always lived with restraint, yet I remain disfavored by my husband. In Kaikeyī’s household, I am considered at best equal, perhaps even less. “Anyone who serves or follows me, upon seeing Kaikeyī’s son, will not even speak to me. How could I, so unfortunate, endure to see Kaikeyī’s harsh, angry face, my son? Seventeen years have passed since your birth, Rāghava, and all this time I have longed for an end to my suffering. “I can no longer bear this great and unending sorrow, 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, enduring much sorrow, yet all my efforts have come to nothing, and now I am destitute. “Surely my heart is steadfast, for it does not break or shatter on this earth, just as a great riverbank withstands the fresh flood of rain. Truly, death does not exist for me, nor is there any place for me in Yama’s realm, for Death does not seize me today as a lion would a weeping doe. My heart must be made of iron, for it does not break, even though it is given over to such sorrow—surely, untimely death does not exist. “But this is my sorrow: that my vows, my gifts, my 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.” Overcome by unbearable grief, Kausalyā wept bitterly, gazing at Rāghava as a celestial mother might look upon her beloved 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 troubled, spoke to her with words appropriate to the moment: “Noble lady, I too am pained that Rāghava should go to the forest, abandoning royal fortune, compelled only by a woman’s words. Our father, old and led astray by his desires, what might he 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 cannot find anyone in the world, even in secret, whether friend or foe, who could speak of any fault in him. Who, considering righteousness, would abandon a son who is like a god—upright, self-controlled, and affectionate even to his enemies—without cause? “What son, remembering the conduct of kings, would act with royal pride 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 I protect you, just as none can act against Death standing by? O best of men, if Ayodhyā remains hostile, I will empty this entire city of people with my 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 our enemy, let him be slain without hesitation, let him be slain indeed. Even for a teacher who is arrogant and ignorant of right and wrong, discipline is necessary when he strays from the path. “O subduer of foes, with what strength or reason does he hope to give this ready-made fortune to Kaikeyī? Having made enmity with you and with me, what power does he have to bestow the kingdom’s wealth upon Bharata? “O queen, know that I am truly devoted in my heart to my brother; by truth, by my bow, and by the sacrifices I have given, I swear to you. If Rāma enters blazing fire or the forest, know, O queen, that I will have entered there before him. With my strength I will remove your sorrow, as the sun dispels darkness at dawn; let the queen see my valor, and let Rāghava see it as well.