Endowed with wisdom, righteousness, and humility, King Daśaratha, his senses overwhelmed by anguish, gazed sorrowfully at Kaikeyī and addressed her with a trembling voice. “Kaikeyī,” he said, “do not touch me—you who are set on evil. I no longer wish to see you, neither as wife nor as kin. Those who depend on you are not mine, nor am I theirs; you have abandoned righteousness for your own gain, and so I renounce you. All the vows I took with you, all the sacred fires I circled, I release you from them—both in this world and the next. If Bharata, after gaining this imperishable kingdom, were to offer me anything for the sake of his father, may that gift never reach me.” At this, Queen Kausalyā, her heart consumed by grief, gently raised the king who had collapsed to the ground, his body covered in dust, and then withdrew. Daśaratha, tormented by thoughts of his beloved son Rāma, felt as though he had committed a terrible sin—like one who has slain a Brahmin out of desire, or touched fire with his bare hand. Again and again he turned back, his gaze lingering along the path where Rāma’s chariot had departed. The king’s radiance seemed to fade, like the moon when its light is swallowed by darkness. Afflicted with sorrow, Daśaratha lamented, his mind filled with memories of Rāma. Learning that his son had reached the outskirts of Ayodhyā, he spoke mournfully, “I see the tracks of the finest chariots that carried my son, but I do not see that great-souled one himself. He who once slept comfortably on beds fragrant with sandalwood, attended by noble women—my most excellent son—today must surely be resting at the foot of a tree, lying on wood or perhaps even stone. He will rise from the earth, pitiable and covered in dust, sighing deeply like a lordly elephant emerging from a lotus pond. “Surely, the forest-dwellers will see that long-armed man, Rāma, the lord of the people, walking forth as if he were unprotected. And Sītā, the beloved daughter of Janaka, accustomed to comfort, will now, weary from treading on thorns, follow him into the forest. Unfamiliar with the wilds, she will surely know fear, hearing the deep, hair-raising roars of wild beasts. Be satisfied, Kaikeyī—live as a widow and rule the kingdom, for without that tiger among men, I cannot endure life.” Thus lamenting, the king, surrounded by a multitude of people, entered his splendid house as one who has bathed after a misfortune. But the city he saw was changed: its courtyards and houses were empty, its markets and squares closed, its people weary, weak, and distressed, and its great roads deserted. Beholding the city, his thoughts fixed only on Rāma, Daśaratha entered his home, mourning, like the sun disappearing into a cloud. The royal house, now deprived of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, seemed like a vast, tranquil lake whose serpent has been seized by Garuḍa. Overcome, the lord of the earth spoke in a voice choked with emotion, his words gentle, faint, and sorrowful: “Quickly take me to Kausalyā’s house, Rāma’s mother, for nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” As he said this, the doorkeepers led him to Kausalyā’s residence and respectfully settled him there. Yet even after entering her dwelling and lying on the bed, his mind remained agitated and restless. He gazed around the house, now empty of his two sons and his daughter-in-law, and it felt to him like the sky bereft of the moon. Seeing this, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out in anguish, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” He sighed, “Happy indeed are those noble souls who will live to see Rāma return and embrace him once more.” As night fell—a night that felt like the end of all hope—Daśaratha, at midnight, spoke to Kausalyā, “I cannot see you, Kausalyā; please touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rāma and will not return.” Seeing the king lying there, his heart consumed by thoughts of Rāma, Kausalyā sat by his side, overwhelmed with grief, sighing deeply and lamenting bitterly. Thus begins the forty-third sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Kausalyā, seeing the king weakened by grief on his bed, her own heart 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 Rāghava, Kaikeyī will roam about, twisted in her ways, like a serpent freed from its old skin. Having exiled Rāma, the fortunate one, and achieved her desire, that wicked woman, intent on her purpose, will torment me again, like a venomous snake within the house. “Now, in this city, Rāma 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 Rāma down from his position at Kaikeyī’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 Lakṣmaṇa. For those who have never known such sorrow, abandoned to the forest by your consent at Kaikeyī’s urging, what fate awaits them there? Deprived of wealth, still in their youth, exiled at the time of fruit, how will those wretched ones live, subsisting only on fruits and roots?