Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, was overcome with sorrow and spoke to her beloved son. She confessed that for a barren woman, there is only one grief—the pain of being childless; nothing else compares, she said. She lamented that she had never seen happiness or good fortune from her husband’s prowess; her hope had been to see it fulfilled in her son, Rāma. Now, she feared she would have to endure many unpleasant, heart-piercing words from her co-wives, who were inferior to her. What could be more painful for a woman, she wondered, than this endless grief and lamentation that had come upon her? Even when Rāma was present, Kausalyā felt disregarded; what would happen when he was gone, she asked, her voice trembling. Surely, death alone was certain for her. She confessed that she had always been deeply restrained, ever disfavored by her husband, and among Kaikeyī’s household, she was at best equal, perhaps even inferior. Anyone who served or followed her would not even speak to her upon seeing Kaikeyī’s son. Because of Kaikeyī’s constant anger, Kausalyā wondered how she, so unfortunate, could endure seeing her harsh-speaking face. Seventeen years had passed since Rāma was born, and Kausalyā had longed for the end of her suffering. She could no longer bear this great and unending sorrow, the mistreatment from her co-wives, even as she had grown old. How, she asked, would she live on, wretched and pitiable, deprived of seeing Rāma’s face, radiant as the full moon? Through fasts, disciplines, and many hardships, she had raised Rāma in sorrow, but now all her efforts seemed in vain, for she was destitute. Her heart, she marveled, must be steadfast, for it did not break or shatter, just as a great riverbank withstands the flood of rain. Surely, death did not exist for her, nor was there any place for her in Yama’s realm, since Death did not seize her today by force, as a lion seizes a weeping doe. Her heart must be made of iron, she thought, for it did not break despite such sorrow; surely, untimely death did not exist for her. But her greatest sorrow was that her vows, gifts, self-restraint, and austerities performed for the sake of a child had all become fruitless, like seeds sown on barren ground. If, by chance, one tormented by great sorrow could obtain death before its time, she would go to the assembly of the departed without Rāma, like a cow bereft of her calf. What was the use of her life now, she asked, without Rāma, whose face shone like the moon? She would follow him to the forest, weak as she was, longing for her 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, spoke to her with words suited to the moment. He told her that he too was displeased 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 wondered. He saw no fault in Rāghava, nor any wrongdoing for which he should be exiled from the kingdom to the forest. Lakṣmaṇa declared that he did not see anyone in the world, even secretly, whether a friend or one cast aside, who could declare any fault of Rāma. 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 toward a father who had returned to childishness? He urged Kausalyā, as long as no one knew of this matter, to keep the command within herself together with him. With Lakṣmaṇa at Rāma’s side, armed with his bow, who could do anything against Rāma while he was protected, just as none could act against Death standing by? If Ayodhyā remained hostile, Lakṣmaṇa vowed to make the entire city devoid of people with sharp arrows. Whoever sided with Bharata or wished for his welfare, Lakṣmaṇa would slay them all, for the gentle are always scorned. If their father, encouraged by Kaikeyī, was not pleased with them and had become an enemy, Lakṣmaṇa declared he should be slain without hesitation. Even for a teacher who is arrogant, ignorant of right and wrong, and has strayed from the path, discipline becomes necessary. Relying on what strength or reason, Lakṣmaṇa asked, did their father wish to give this ready-made fortune to Kaikeyī? Having made enmity with Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, what power did he have to bestow the kingdom’s wealth upon Bharata? Lakṣmaṇa assured Kausalyā that he was truly devoted in heart to his brother; by truth, by his bow, and by the sacrifices he had given, he swore to her. If Rāma entered blazing fire or the forest, Lakṣmaṇa would enter there before him. With his strength, he would remove Kausalyā’s sorrow, like the sun dispelling darkness at dawn; let the queen and Rāghava see his valor. He vowed to slay his aged father, whose mind was attached to Kaikeyī, who was pitiable, childish, and condemned for his old age. Hearing these words of the great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, Kausalyā, weeping and overwhelmed with grief, spoke to Rāma.