As Daśaratha gazed upon the road, his heart heavy with longing, he saw the tracks left by the finest vehicles that had carried his beloved son away. Though the marks were clear upon the earth, the great-souled Rāma himself was nowhere to be seen. The king remembered how Rāma, his most excellent son, once slept in comfort upon beds scented with sandalwood, gently fanned by women of noble worth. Now, he was certain, that very son must be resting somewhere at the foot of a tree, lying upon hard wood or cold stone instead of his accustomed luxury. Daśaratha pictured Rāma rising from the ground, pitiable and covered in dust, sighing deeply—like a mighty elephant emerging from a lotus pond. He thought of how the forest-dwellers would now behold that long-armed lord of men, Rāma, walking among them, appearing as if he were unprotected. And Sītā, the cherished daughter of Janaka, who had always known comfort, would now, weary from walking on thorny paths, follow her husband into the forest. Unfamiliar with the wilds, she would surely tremble in fear at the deep, hair-raising roars of wild beasts. Turning his grief toward Kaikeyī, Daśaratha cried, “Be satisfied, Kaikeyī! Live as a widow and rule the kingdom, for without that tiger among men, I cannot endure life.” Lamenting thus, the king, surrounded by his people, entered his splendid house, moving like one who has bathed after suffering a great misfortune. As he passed through the city, Daśaratha saw empty courtyards and houses, markets and squares closed, people weary, weak, and distressed. The great roads were uncrowded, and the city seemed to think only of Rāma. Entering his house, his heart aching for his son, Daśaratha seemed like the sun disappearing into a cloud. The royal residence, bereft of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, was like a vast, tranquil lake from which Garuḍa had snatched away the serpent. Overcome with emotion, the king’s voice faltered as he spoke gentle, sorrowful words: “Quickly, take me to Kausalyā’s house, Rāma’s mother; nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” At his command, the doorkeepers led him respectfully to Kausalyā’s dwelling. Yet, even after lying down on her bed, Daśaratha’s mind remained agitated. He looked around the house, now empty of his sons and daughter-in-law, and it seemed to him like the sky without the moon. Unable to contain his grief, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” He thought sorrowfully of those fortunate ones who would live to see Rāma’s return, to embrace him once more. As night fell—a night as dark and ruinous as the night of destruction for his soul—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 will not return.” Seeing her husband lying there, his thoughts consumed by Rāma, Kausalyā sat beside him, overwhelmed with grief. She sighed deeply and lamented bitterly, her heart wrung with sorrow. Thus begins the forty-third sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Seeing the king lying weakened and broken by grief, Kausalyā, tormented by her own sorrow for her son, spoke to Daśaratha, the ruler of the earth: “O tiger among men, now that Kaikeyī has expelled her poison against Rāghava, she will wander about, twisted in her ways, like a serpent freed from its slough. Having banished Rāma and achieved her desire, that wicked woman, so 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. At Kaikeyī’s whim, you would even grant my own son as a servant. Having cast Rāma down from his rightful place, just as she pleased, he has been discarded like an offering thrown to demons at a sacrifice by the fire-priest. “That heroic, broad-armed, bow-bearing lord, whose stride is like the king of serpents, must now be entering the forest with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa. What fate awaits those poor souls—who have never known such sorrow—now abandoned to the forest by your consent at Kaikeyī’s urging? Deprived of wealth, still youthful, exiled at the time of their ripest years, how will those wretched ones survive, living only on fruits and roots? “If only now might be the end of my grief, if only I could see Rāghava here again, together with his wife and his brother. When will Ayodhyā, hearing the news of the two heroes’ return, become glorious once more, its people rejoicing, its banners raised high? When will the city be filled with joy, like the ocean swelling at the full moon, when those tiger-like men return from the forest? “When will my mighty-armed son enter Ayodhyā, with Sītā before him in the chariot, like a bull with his heifers? When will the thousands of people on the royal road shower parched grain upon my two sons, the subduers of enemies, as they enter? When will I see my two sons, adorned with splendid earrings, entering Ayodhyā, their swords raised high, like twin-peaked mountains? “When will the joyful maidens with flowers, and the twice-born with fruits, circle the city and perform auspicious rites as they enter? When will the righteous one, mature in wisdom and age, shining like a rain cloud, return, bringing delight like a good season? “Without doubt, O hero, I believe that in the past, because of some miserly woman, the mothers’ breasts were cut off when they wished to suckle their children.” Thus, in sorrow and longing, Kausalyā poured out her heart, her soul yearning for her son’s return, while Daśaratha lay beside her, both parents consumed by grief for Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa.