Rāma, resolute in his righteousness, declared that if Bharata, having gained the imperishable kingdom, were to offer him anything as a token from their father, he would not accept such a gift. Meanwhile, Queen Kausalyā, consumed by sorrow, gently raised the king, Daśaratha, who had fallen to the ground, his body covered in dust. Overwhelmed by grief, she withdrew, leaving the king tormented, like one who had committed a grave sin or touched fire with his bare hand—his mind burning with thoughts of his beloved son, Rāghava. Again and again, Daśaratha turned back along the chariot’s path, his form diminished, like the moon waning as its light is swallowed. Afflicted by deep sorrow, he lamented, recalling his cherished son. Upon learning that Rāma had already reached the outskirts of the city, the king spoke in anguish: "I see the tracks of the finest chariots that carried my son upon the road, but the great-souled one himself is nowhere to be seen. He, who once slept in comfort on beds scented with sandalwood, attended by noble women, must now, surely, be resting at the foot of a tree, lying upon hard wood or stone. "He will rise from the earth, pitiable and covered in dust, sighing deeply—like a mighty elephant emerging from a lotus pond. The forest-dwellers will witness that long-armed man, Rāma, lord of the people, walking forth as if unprotected. And Sītā, the beloved daughter of Janaka, accustomed to every comfort, must now tread the thorny forest path, weary and worn. Unfamiliar with the wild, she will surely be afraid, hearing the deep, fearsome roars of wild beasts." Then, in his anguish, Daśaratha cried out, "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 his people, entered his splendid house, like one who bathes after a misfortune. He gazed upon the city: its courtyards and houses were empty, its markets and squares closed, the people weary, weak, and distressed, and the great roads deserted. With his heart fixed only on Rāma, Daśaratha entered his house, lamenting like the sun vanishing into a cloud. The palace, bereft of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, felt like a great, undisturbed lake whose serpent had been taken by Garuḍa. The king, his voice choked with emotion, spoke gentle, sorrowful words: "Quickly, take me to Kausalyā’s house, Rāma’s mother, for nowhere else will my heart find comfort." The doorkeepers led him there and respectfully settled him within. Yet even after lying on Kausalyā’s bed, his mind remained restless. The house, empty of his sons and daughter-in-law, seemed to him like the sky without the moon. Overcome, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out, "O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?" He mourned, "Happy indeed are those who will live to see Rāma return and embrace him once more." As night fell—a night as dark for his soul as the night of destruction—Daśaratha spoke to Kausalyā at midnight: "I do not see you, Kausalyā; kindly touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rāma and does not return." Seeing her husband lying there, his mind fixed only on Rāma, the queen sat beside him, overwhelmed with grief, sighing deeply and lamenting bitterly. Thus begins the forty-third sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Seeing the king weakened by grief on his bed, Kausalyā, tormented by sorrow for her son, spoke to him: "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 slough. Having exiled Rāma and achieved her desire, that wicked woman, intent on her purpose, will terrify me again, like a venomous snake lurking 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. At Kaikeyī's will, Rāma has been cast down from his rightful place, thrown away as 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, now surely 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? "If only now might be the end of my grief, when I could see Rāghava here, together with his wife and his brother. When will Ayodhyā, hearing that the two heroes have returned, become glorious again, its people rejoicing, its banners raised high? When, seeing those tiger-like men returning from the forest, will the city be filled with joy, like the ocean at the full moon? When will the mighty-armed hero, my son, enter the city of Ayodhyā, with Sītā before him in the chariot, like a bull with the cow heifers?" Thus, grief and longing filled the hearts of Daśaratha and Kausalyā, as the night deepened over Ayodhyā.