Kausalya, adorned with jeweled arms, walked gracefully at the right side of King Dasaratha, while at his other side, slender-waisted Kaikeyi accompanied him. The king, wise, righteous, and humble, though deeply troubled in his heart, turned his gaze upon Kaikeyi and addressed her with anguish. “Kaikeyi,” he said, “do not touch me. You, whose mind is set on wrongdoing, I do not wish to see you—neither as my wife nor as a kinswoman. Those who depend on you are no longer mine, nor am I theirs. You have abandoned righteousness for your own gain, and so I renounce you. Whatever vows I took with you, whatever sacred fire I circled, I release you from all of it, in this world and the next. And if Bharata, having gained the imperishable kingdom, should offer me anything as a son to his father, let no such gift come to me.” Overwhelmed by grief, Queen Kausalya gently raised the king, who had fallen to the ground and was covered in dust, and then withdrew, her heart heavy with sorrow. The righteous Dasaratha, tormented as though he had committed a grievous sin or touched fire, was consumed by thoughts of his beloved son, Rama. Again and again, he turned back, seated along the path of the departing chariot, his countenance diminished like the moon when its light is swallowed. Filled with sorrow, he lamented, remembering Rama. Learning that his son had already reached the outskirts of the city, he spoke in despair. “I see the marks of the finest chariots that carried my son along this road, but the great-souled Rama himself is nowhere in sight. He who once slept comfortably on beds scented with sandalwood, gently fanned by noble women—my most excellent son—today must surely be resting at the foot of a tree, lying on wood or perhaps on cold stone. He will rise from the earth, pitiable, covered in dust, sighing deeply, like a lordly elephant emerging from a lotus pond. “Surely, the forest-dwellers will see Rama, long-armed and lord of the people, walking forth as if without protection. And that beloved daughter of Janaka, Sita, accustomed to comfort, will now, weary from treading on thorns, make her way into the forest. Unfamiliar with such wild places, she will surely be afraid when she hears the deep, hair-raising roars of wild beasts. Be satisfied, Kaikeyi—live as a widow and rule the kingdom, for without that tiger among men, Rama, I cannot endure life.” Thus lamenting, the king, surrounded by a multitude of people, entered his splendid house, his spirit as if washed by misfortune. He saw the city—its courtyards and houses empty, its markets and squares closed, its people weary and distressed, its great roads no longer crowded. Beholding the city, his thoughts fixed only on Rama, Dasaratha entered his house, lamenting, like the sun slipping behind a cloud. The royal house, now deprived of Rama, Vaidehi (Sita), and Lakshmana, seemed like a vast, undisturbed lake whose great serpent has been seized by Garuda. The lord of the earth, his voice choked with emotion, spoke soft, sorrowful words: “Take me quickly to Kausalya’s house, Rama’s mother, for nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” As he said this, the doorkeepers led him to Kausalya’s house and respectfully settled him there. But even after entering her dwelling and lying on the bed, his mind remained agitated and restless. The king gazed upon the house, now bereft of his two sons and his daughter-in-law, and it seemed to him like the sky without the moon. Seeing this, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out in a loud voice, “O Rama, why have you abandoned us?” He lamented, “Happy indeed are those noble men who will live to see Rama return and embrace him once more.” As night fell—a night as dark and ruinous as the destruction of his soul—at midnight Dasaratha spoke these words to Kausalya: “I do not see you, Kausalya; kindly touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rama and does not return to you.” Seeing the king lying there, his mind fixed only on Rama, Kausalya sat beside him, overwhelmed with grief, sighing deeply and lamenting bitterly. At this point, the forty-third sarga of the Ayodhya Kanda of the glorious Valmiki Ramayana begins. Seeing the king lying weakened by grief on his bed, Kausalya, tormented by sorrow for her son, spoke to the ruler of the earth: “O tiger among men, now that she has expelled her poison against Raghava, Kaikeyi will roam about, twisted in her ways, just like a serpent freed from its slough. Having exiled Rama, the fortunate one, and achieved her desire, that wicked woman, intent on her purpose, will terrify me again, like a venomous snake in the house. “Now, in this city, Rama will go from house to house begging for alms; and you, at her whim, would even grant my own son as a servant. Having cast Rama down from his position at Kaikeyi’s will, just as she pleased, he has been thrown away like an offering to demons at a sacrifice by the fire-priest. That heroic, broad-armed, bow-bearing lord, whose gait is like a king of serpents, surely now enters the forest with his wife and with Lakshmana. For those who have never known such sorrow, abandoned to the forest by your consent at Kaikeyi’s urging, what fate awaits them there?” Thus, grief and lamentation filled the royal house, as the king and queen mourned the exile of their beloved son, Rama.