As the beloved daughter of Janaka, Sītā—long accustomed to every comfort—prepared for exile, the king’s heart ached with sorrow. He pictured her, weary and tender-footed, forced now to tread the harsh forest paths strewn with thorns. The unfamiliar wilderness would surely fill her with dread, as the deep, hair-raising roars of wild beasts echoed through the trees, striking terror in her gentle heart. Overwhelmed by grief and anger, King Daśaratha turned to Kaikeyī, his voice heavy with despair. “Be content, Kaikeyī,” he said, “Live as a widow and rule this kingdom, for without Rāma, that tiger among men, I cannot bear to live.” Thus lamenting, surrounded by a multitude of people, the king entered his splendid palace, his spirit battered as though he had just emerged from a great calamity. As he moved through the city, Daśaratha saw Ayodhyā transformed. Its courtyards and houses stood empty, markets and squares were closed, and its people wandered about, weary, weakened, and distressed. The once-crowded roads were now desolate. The entire city, thinking only of Rāma, seemed to grieve with the king, who entered his home mourning, like the sun disappearing behind dark clouds. Within his palace, everything felt hollow. The absence of Rāma, Vaidehī (Sītā), and Lakṣmaṇa left the house like a vast, tranquil lake robbed of its mighty serpent by Garuḍa. Choked with emotion, Daśaratha spoke softly, his words sorrowful and faint. “Quickly, take me to Kausalyā’s house, Rāma’s mother,” he pleaded, “for nowhere else can my heart find solace.” Obeying his wish, the doorkeepers led the king respectfully to Kausalyā’s dwelling and settled him there. Yet, even as he lay on her bed, his mind remained restless and agitated. He gazed around Kausalyā’s home, now bereft of his two sons and daughter-in-law, and it seemed to him like the night sky without the moon. Unable to contain his anguish, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” He envied those fortunate souls who would live to see Rāma’s return, to embrace him once more. That night descended upon Daśaratha like the night of destruction, and at midnight, he spoke to Kausalyā, his voice trembling: “I cannot see you, Kausalyā; please touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rāma and cannot return.” Seeing her husband tormented by thoughts of Rāma, Kausalyā sat beside him, her own heart broken. She sighed deeply, overcome by grief, and lamented bitterly. As the new chapter of sorrow unfolded, Kausalyā, tormented by longing for her son, spoke to the king, who lay weakened by grief. “O tiger among men,” she said, “now that Kaikeyī has expelled her poison against Rāghava, she will roam the palace, 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 surely 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 her whim, you would even grant my own son as a servant. Rāma, cast down from his position at Kaikeyī’s will, has been discarded like an offering thrown to demons by a careless priest. That heroic, broad-armed, bow-bearing lord, whose gait is like a mighty serpent, 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 very time of their ripening, how will those wretched ones survive, living only on fruits and roots? “If only this might be the end of my grief,” she wept, “if only I could see Rāghava here again, together with his wife and brother. When will Ayodhyā, hearing of the two heroes’ return, become glorious once more, its people rejoicing and its banners flying high? When will the city, seeing those tiger-like men returning from the forest, be filled with joy, like the ocean swelling at the full moon? “When will my mighty-armed son enter Ayodhyā, Sītā before him in the chariot, like a bull leading his heifers? When will the people shower parched grain upon my two sons, the subduers of enemies, as they enter the city? When will I see them, adorned with splendid earrings, entering Ayodhyā with their swords raised high, like twin-peaked mountains? “When will joyful maidens with flowers and the twice-born with fruits circle the city, performing auspicious rites as they enter? When will the righteous Rāma, mature in wisdom and age, shining like a rain cloud, return to bring delight as the good season does? “Surely, O hero, in some past age, because of a miserly woman, 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. “How can I, who have but one son, endowed with all virtues and learned in every scripture, endure life without my child? I find no strength left in my life here, as I do not see my beloved son and the mighty Lakṣmaṇa. Today, a great and terrible fire, born of grief for my son, consumes me, just as the radiant sun scorches the earth with its rays in the heat of summer.” Thus, the night deepened, heavy with sorrow, as Daśaratha and Kausalyā mourned for Rāma, their hearts burning with longing and loss.