Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, was overwhelmed by grief and lamentation. She cried out, “What could be more painful for women than this endless sorrow that has come upon me? Even while you were still here, my son, I was disregarded; what hope is there for me when you are gone? Surely, only death awaits me now. Throughout my life I have been self-restrained, yet always disfavored by my husband. In Kaikeyī’s household, I am at best an equal—perhaps even less than that. “Those who serve or follow me no longer even speak to me when they see Kaikeyī’s son. How can I, so unfortunate, endure the sight of Kaikeyī’s harsh, angry face, my dear child? 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 endless sorrow and the mistreatment from my co-wives, especially now that I am old. “How will I, so wretched and pitiable, go on living, deprived of your radiant face, shining like the full moon? Through fasts, disciplines, and many hardships, I raised you in sorrow, but now all my efforts are in vain—I am left destitute. Surely, my heart must be steadfast, for it does not break or shatter, just as a great riverbank withstands the force of fresh floods. There must be no death for me, nor any place 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, even in the midst of such sorrow. Surely, untimely death does not exist. My greatest sorrow is that all my vows, gifts, self-restraint, and austerities performed for the sake of a child have been fruitless, like seeds sown on barren ground. If one tormented by such great grief could die before their 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 this life now, without you, whose face shines like the moon? Weak as I am, I will follow you to the forest, 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, spoke to her with words fitting the moment: “Noble lady, I too find no joy in Rāghava’s exile 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 him, no wrongdoing for which Rāghava should be banished. “In all the world, I know of no one, not even in secret—friend or outcast—who could name a fault in him. Who, considering righteousness, would abandon a son so godlike, upright, self-controlled, and affectionate even to his enemies, without cause? What son, recalling the conduct of kings, would act with royal pride toward a father who has become childish? “As long as no one else knows of this, keep the command within yourself, together with me. With me at your side, armed with my bow, who could threaten you, Rāghava? None can act against you, just as none can act against Death itself. O best of men, if Ayodhyā turns hostile, I will empty this city with my sharp arrows. Whoever sides with Bharata, or wishes him well, I will slay them all, for the gentle are always scorned. “If our father, encouraged by Kaikeyī, is displeased with us and has become our enemy, let him be slain without hesitation. Even a teacher, if arrogant and ignorant of right and wrong, must be disciplined. Ruler of foes, by what strength or reason does he wish to give this ready-made fortune to Kaikeyī? Having made enmity with you and me, what power does he have to bestow the kingdom’s wealth upon Bharata? “O queen, I am truly devoted in heart to my brother; by my truth, my bow, and the sacrifices I have given, I swear this to you. If Rāma enters blazing fire or the forest, know that I will enter 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, so attached to Kaikeyī, pitiable and childish, condemned for his old age.” Hearing these words from the great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, Kausalyā, weeping and overwhelmed by grief, turned to Rāma and spoke: “You should not, my son, after hearing the unrighteous words of my co-wife, abandon me, who am tormented by grief, and depart. You are known as one who knows righteousness and wish to practice it most faithfully. Therefore, while you remain here, serve me and perform the highest duty. Remember, a son who, dwelling obediently in his own house, served his mother—such as Kāśyapa, endowed with great austerity—attained heaven.