Kausalyā, overwhelmed by sorrow and unable to bear the endless grief and mistreatment from her co-wives despite her age, turned to Rāma, her beloved son. “Rāghava,” she lamented, “how can I, so wretched and pitiable, go on living, deprived of seeing your face, radiant as the full moon? Through fasts, disciplines, and many hardships, I raised you in sorrow. Yet now, all my efforts seem in vain, for I am left destitute. Surely my heart is steadfast, for it does not break or shatter under this pain, just as a great river’s bank withstands the fresh floods 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. My heart must be made of iron, for though it is given over to such sorrow, it does not break or shatter on earth; surely, untimely death does not exist. “But this is my deepest sorrow: that all my vows, gifts, self-restraint, and austerities performed for the sake of a child have 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. What is the use of my life now, in vain, without you, whose face shines like the moon? Weak as I am, longing for my calf, I will follow you to the forest.” Overcome by unbearable grief, Kausalyā wept bitterly as she gazed at Rāghava, much like 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 thus, Lakṣmaṇa, distressed by her anguish, spoke 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 to the forest. I do not know anyone in the world, even secretly, 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 disposition 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. 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 empty this 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 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. “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? 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.” Hearing these fierce words from the great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, Kausalyā, weeping and overcome with grief, turned to Rāma and spoke: “You should not, having heard the unrighteous words spoken by my co-wife, abandon me, tormented by grief, and depart from here. You are known as one who knows righteousness, and you wish to practice it faithfully; therefore, while you remain here, serve me and perform the highest duty. A son who, dwelling obediently in his own house, served his mother—such as Kāśyapa, endowed with great austerity—attained heaven. Just as the king is to be honored by you with respect, so too am I; therefore, I do not permit you—do not go to the forest from here. For me, separated from you, there is no value in life or happiness; it would be better for me to eat even grass, so long as it is with you. If you go to the forest, abandoning me who am consumed by sorrow, I will remain here fasting unto death, for I will not be able to live. Then, my son, you will incur the infamous hell, as one guilty of unrighteousness, just as the lord of rivers, the ocean, did for the sin of brahminicide.” Thus lamented Kausalyā, distressed and overwhelmed. Rāma, whose soul was ever devoted to righteousness, gently replied with words in accordance with dharma: “Mother, I do not have the power to transgress my father’s command; I beg you with bowed head—permit me to go to the forest.