Overwhelmed by unbearable grief, Kausalyā gazed at her son Rāma with tear-filled eyes, her sorrow as deep as that of a celestial nymph beholding her beloved child bound in misfortune. As she wept in this way, Lakṣmaṇa, deeply distressed by the unfolding events, spoke to her with words that were both respectful and timely. “Noble lady,” Lakṣmaṇa began, “this matter displeases me as well. It pains me that Rāghava must abandon his royal fortune and go to the forest, compelled by the words of a woman. What would an old man, led astray and overpowered by his desires, not say when pressed and agitated? I see no fault in Rāghava, nor any wrongdoing for which he should be exiled from the kingdom. There is no one in the world, not even in secret—be they friend or cast aside—who could point to 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? And what son, mindful of royal conduct, would act with a kingly heart toward a father who has reverted to childishness?” Lakṣmaṇa continued, his voice strong with resolve, “As long as no one knows of this, keep the king’s command within yourself, together with me. With me by your side, armed with my bow, who could harm you or Rāghava? Just as none can act against Death standing by, so too will I protect you. If Ayodhyā itself turns hostile, I will empty the city 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, has turned against us and become our enemy, let him be slain without hesitation—let him be slain indeed. Even a teacher who is arrogant and has strayed from the path must be disciplined. On what strength or reason does the king 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?” He paused, then swore his devotion, “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 impassioned words from the great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, Kausalyā, still weeping and overwhelmed by grief, turned to Rāma and spoke, her voice trembling. “You should not, having heard the unrighteous words spoken by my co-wife, abandon me, who am tormented by grief, and depart from here. You are known as one who knows righteousness, and you wish to practice it most 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.” As Kausalyā lamented thus in her distress, Rāma, whose heart was steadfast in righteousness, addressed her 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. A sage, while living in the forest and obeying his father's command, knowingly committed the unrighteous act of killing a cow, as did the wise Kaṇḍu. In our lineage, by the command of their father Sagara, his sons dug the earth, and a great destruction occurred. By Rāma, son of Jamadagni, his own mother Reṇukā was slain with an axe in the forest, for the sake of obeying his father’s word. By these and many other godlike men, O noble lady, the father’s command was carried out without weakness; I too shall do what is pleasing to my father. Indeed, it is not by me alone that obedience to the father is practiced; it was done also by those whom I have just mentioned, O noble lady. I do not pursue a new or contrary path of righteousness; this is the course approved by the ancients, and I follow it. Therefore, this must be done by me on earth and in no other way; for by carrying out the father’s command, no one ever comes to harm.” Having thus spoken to his mother, Rāma then turned to Lakṣmaṇa, he who was the best among speakers and foremost among all bowmen. With gentle affection, he said, “Lakṣmaṇa, I know your unsurpassed affection for me, as well as your valor, steadfastness, and your power that is difficult to withstand.