Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, sat overwhelmed by sorrow, pouring out her grief to her beloved son, Rāghava. She lamented, “If you had not been born to me, O Rāghava, for my sorrow, I, being childless, would not have seen such greater misery. For a barren woman, there is only one mental 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.” Her pain deepened as she spoke of her co-wives: “I, though superior, 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 Kaikeyī’s household, I am at best equal, or perhaps even inferior. For anyone who serves me or follows me, upon seeing Kaikeyī’s son, that person 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?” Kausalyā recalled the years that had passed: “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 sorrow was deep and bitter: “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.” Overcome by unbearable grief, Kausalyā wept greatly, gazing at Rāghava, as a celestial nymph might look upon her son bound in misfortune. At this moment, the twenty-first chapter of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa, unfolds. As Kausalyā lamented, Lakṣmaṇa, deeply distressed, spoke to her 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? 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.” Lakṣmaṇa continued, “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.” Assuring his loyalty, Lakṣmaṇa said, “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.” He questioned, “Ruler of foes, relying on what strength or reason does he wish 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 subduer of enemies?” Lakṣmaṇa then solemnly pledged, “O queen, I am truly devoted in 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, like the sun dispelling darkness at dawn; let the queen see my valor, and let Rāghava see it as well. I will slay my aged father, whose mind is attached to Kaikeyī, who is pitiable, childish, and condemned for his old age.” Thus, Lakṣmaṇa spoke fiercely, his heart burning with loyalty and indignation, as Kausalyā’s grief and Rāma’s fate weighed heavily upon them all.