He who once slept in comfort upon beds fragrant with sandalwood, gently fanned by women of great virtue—my most excellent son—now, surely, must be resting somewhere at the foot of a tree, lying on bare wood or even upon hard stone. He will rise from the earth, pitiable and covered in dust, sighing deeply, just as a lordly elephant emerges from a lotus pond. The forest-dwellers will see that long-armed man, Rāma, the beloved lord of the people, walking forth as if he were alone and unprotected. And that cherished daughter of Janaka, Sītā, who knew only comfort, will now, weary from treading upon thorns, follow him into the wild forest. Unaccustomed to such places, she will surely be afraid, startled by the deep, terrifying roars of wild beasts that echo through the woods. Be satisfied, Kaikeyī! Rule the kingdom and live as a widow, for without that tiger among men, my Rāma, I cannot endure this life. Thus lamenting, King Daśaratha, surrounded by his people, entered his splendid house, as one who has bathed after a great misfortune. He saw the city: courtyards and houses stood empty, markets and squares were closed, the people were weary, weak, and distressed, and the great roads were no longer crowded. Beholding all of Ayodhyā, his mind filled with thoughts of Rāma, the king entered his house, lamenting, like the sun withdrawing into a cloud. The royal house, deprived of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, seemed like a great, tranquil lake whose serpent has been snatched away by Garuḍa. Then, his voice choked with emotion, the lord of the earth spoke gentle, faint, and sorrowful words: “Quickly, take me to Kausalyā’s house, Rāma’s mother, for nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” As the king spoke, the doorkeepers led him to Kausalyā’s house and respectfully settled him there. But even after lying down upon her bed, his mind remained restless and agitated. He gazed upon the house, now empty of his two sons and his daughter-in-law, and it seemed to him like the night sky bereft of the moon. Overwhelmed, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out in a loud voice, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” Happy indeed are those noble souls who will live to see Rāma return and embrace him once more. Then, as night fell—a night as dark and ruinous as the night of destruction for his soul—at midnight, Daśaratha spoke these words 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, his thoughts fixed only on Rāma, the queen sat beside him, overwhelmed by grief, sighing deeply and lamenting bitterly. Thus begins the forty-third sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Seeing the king weakened by grief, lying upon his bed, 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, like a serpent freed from its slough. 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 lurking in 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. At Kaikeyī’s will, Rāma has been cast down from his position, discarded as one might throw 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 very time of their ripening, 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? When will the thousands of living beings 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, circling the city, 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. I have been made, like a cow by a lion, a loving mother deprived of her calf; by Kaikeyī, O tiger among men, I have been rendered helpless, like a cow whose calf has been taken by force.