Kaikeyī, filled with determination for her own ends, stood before the king. But Daśaratha, his heart shattered by her actions, recoiled and spoke with pain and anger, “Kaikeyī, do not touch me—you who are resolved on evil. I do not wish to see you, neither as wife nor as kinswoman. Those who depend on you are nothing to me, nor am I anything to them. You have abandoned righteousness for your own gain, and I renounce you. The vows I made with you, the sacred fire I circled with you—I release you from all of it, in this world and the next. If Bharata, having gained this imperishable kingdom, were to offer me anything for the sake of his father, let that gift never come to me.” As the king grieved, Queen Kausalyā, overwhelmed by sorrow, helped him to his feet, brushing the dust from his body, and then withdrew in anguish. Daśaratha, tormented as though he had committed a terrible sin or touched fire with his own hand, was haunted by thoughts of his beloved son Rāma. Again and again he turned back, lingering along the path where Rāma’s chariot had gone, his regal bearing faded, like the moon when its light is swallowed by darkness. His heart aching, Daśaratha lamented as he learned that Rāma had reached the city’s outskirts. “I see the tracks of the finest chariots that carried my son, but the great-souled one himself is gone. He who once slept on beds perfumed with sandalwood, fanned by women of noble birth—my most excellent son—today must surely be resting at the foot of a tree, lying on wood or perhaps on stone. He will rise from the earth, pitiable and covered in dust, sighing deeply—like a lordly elephant emerging from a lotus pond. The forest-dwellers will see that long-armed man, Rāma, the lord of the people, walking forth as if he were without protection. “And Sītā, the beloved daughter of Janaka, so accustomed to comfort, will now, weary from treading on thorns, go to the forest. Unfamiliar with the wild, she will surely be frightened by the deep, terrifying 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, Daśaratha, surrounded by a multitude of people, returned to his splendid house, his spirit as broken as a man who has bathed after a disaster. He saw the city—its courtyards and houses empty, its markets and squares closed, its people weary and distressed, the great roads deserted. Thinking only of Rāma, Daśaratha entered his house, his sorrow as heavy as the sun veiled by a cloud. But the palace, deprived of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, seemed like a great, still lake from which the serpent has been snatched away by Garuḍa. The lord of the earth, his voice choked with emotion, spoke in gentle, sorrowful tones, “Quickly take me to Kausalyā’s house, Rāma’s mother; nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” As he spoke, the doorkeepers led him respectfully to Kausalyā’s dwelling and settled him there. Yet even after entering her house and lying on the bed, his mind was restless and agitated. He saw the house, now empty of his sons and daughter-in-law, as empty as the sky without the moon. Overcome, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us? Happy indeed are those who will live to see Rāma return and embrace him once more.” Night fell, dark as the night of destruction for his soul. In the silence of midnight, Daśaratha spoke to Kausalyā, “I do not see you, Kausalyā; kindly touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rāma and does not return.” Seeing the king lying there, lost in thoughts of Rāma, the queen sat beside him, overwhelmed with grief, sighing deeply and lamenting bitterly. Now begins the forty-third sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Seeing her husband lying weakened by grief, Kausalyā, 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, just 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 terrify me again, like a venomous snake in the house. “Now, in this city, Rāma will go from house to house begging for alms; you, at her whim, would even grant my own son as a servant. Having cast Rāma down from his place 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 on fruits and roots? If only now might be the end of my grief, if I could see Rāghava here, together with his wife and his brother.