As King Daśaratha returned to his palace, his heart weighed down with sorrow, he gazed upon the city of Ayodhyā, his thoughts consumed only by Rāma. Entering his home, he lamented deeply, like the sun entering a thick cloud, shrouded and diminished. The palace itself, now bereft of Rāma, Sītā (Vaidehī), and Lakṣmaṇa, felt empty—like a vast, tranquil lake whose serpent has been snatched away by Garuḍa, leaving it lifeless. Overwhelmed by emotion, the lord of the earth struggled to speak, his voice faint and gentle, sorrowful beyond measure. He pleaded, "Quickly, take me to Kausalyā's house, Rāma's mother; for nowhere else will my heart find comfort." Hearing this, the doorkeepers respectfully led the king to Kausalyā’s chambers and settled him there. Yet, even after lying down in her dwelling, Daśaratha’s mind remained restless and agitated. He looked around and saw the house deprived of his beloved sons and daughter-in-law, feeling as if the sky itself were without its moon. Unable to contain his anguish, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out loudly, "O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?" He lamented that fortunate indeed were those noble souls who would live to see Rāma return and embrace him again. As night descended, bringing with it a darkness that felt like the very destruction of his soul, Daśaratha, at midnight, spoke to Kausalyā, "I do not see you, Kausalyā; please touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rāma and does not return." Seeing him lying there, lost in thoughts of Rāma, Kausalyā sat beside him, overcome with grief, sighing deeply and lamenting bitterly. Now begins the forty-third chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Kausalyā, tormented by sorrow for her son, spoke to the king as he lay weakened by grief: "O tiger among men, now that Kaikeyī has expelled her poison against Rāghava, she 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 will terrify me again, like a venomous snake in the house. "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 position 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. What fate awaits those who, abandoned to the forest by your consent at Kaikeyī’s urging, have never known such sorrow? 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 time for 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 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, 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. "For how can I, who have but one son endowed with all virtues and learned in every scripture, endure life without my child? Indeed, 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 this earth with its rays in the heat of summer." Now begins the forty-fourth chapter. To Kausalyā, who lamented thus, Sumitra, steadfast in righteousness, spoke gentle and righteous words: "O noble lady, your son is adorned with all good qualities and is the foremost among men; what use is there in such lamentation and pitiful weeping? "Your son, O noble one, has departed, giving up the kingdom, mighty as he is, performing a noble deed for his great-souled father who is true to his word. Rāma, established in righteousness and supreme among men, follows the path practiced by the virtuous, which always yields fruit after death; he is never to be grieved for. "Lakṣmaṇa, ever sinless, conducts himself with the highest virtue; compassionate to all beings, such a great soul will surely attain success." Thus, in the palace of Ayodhyā, grief and hope mingled, as the noble queens sought solace and strength in the virtues of their sons, even in the midst of overwhelming sorrow.