The great house, now empty of Rāma, Vaidehī, and Lakṣmaṇa, stood silent and forlorn, as if a vast, tranquil lake had lost its serpent to the mighty Garuḍa. Within its walls, King Daśaratha, lord of the earth, was overcome by sorrow. His voice, choked with emotion, emerged faint and gentle, heavy with grief. “Take me swiftly to Kausalyā’s house, the mother of Rāma,” he pleaded, “for nowhere else can my heart find solace.” At his command, the doorkeepers led him with reverence to Kausalyā’s dwelling and settled him there. Yet, even after lying down upon her bed, the king’s mind found no rest. His thoughts were agitated, his heart tormented, for the house itself seemed bereft—like the night sky robbed of its radiant moon—without his two sons and his beloved daughter-in-law. Gazing into the emptiness, the mighty king lifted his arm and cried aloud, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” Then, sighing deeply, he lamented, “Fortunate indeed are those noble souls who will live to see Rāma return, to embrace him once more.” As night descended, dark and oppressive like the night of destruction for his soul, Daśaratha spoke to Kausalyā in the midnight hour. “I cannot see you, Kausalyā; please touch me with your hand. My eyes still follow Rāma and refuse to return.” Kausalyā, seeing the king so consumed by thoughts of Rāma, sat beside him, her own heart heavy with grief. She sighed deeply, her lamentations bitter, overwhelmed by sorrow. Thus begins the forty-third chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Seeing Daśaratha lying there, weakened by grief, Kausalyā, herself tormented by longing for her son, spoke to the king: “O tiger among men, now that Kaikeyī has poured out her poison upon Rāghava, she will roam freely, twisted in her ways, like a serpent freed from its old skin. Having exiled Rāma and achieved her heart’s desire, that wicked woman, intent on her aims, will torment me again, like a venomous snake lurking in the house. Now Rāma, deprived of his birthright, will wander from house to house in this city, begging for alms. At her whim, you would even grant that my own son become a servant. By Kaikeyī’s will, Rāma has been hurled down from his rightful place, discarded as a sacrificial offering to demons by the fire-priest. That heroic, broad-armed, bow-bearing lord, whose stride is like a king of serpents, surely now enters the forest with his wife and Lakṣmaṇa. For those who have never known such sorrow—abandoned to the wilderness by your consent at Kaikeyī’s urging—what fate awaits them there? Deprived of wealth, still in their youth, exiled at the very moment of their prime, how will those wretched ones survive, living only on roots and fruits? If only my suffering might end, if I could see Rāghava here again, together with his wife and brother. When will Ayodhyā, hearing of the return of its two heroes, become glorious once more, its people rejoicing, banners flying high? When, seeing those tiger-like men return from exile, will the city overflow with joy, like the ocean swelling beneath the full moon? When will my mighty-armed son enter Ayodhyā, with Sītā before him in the chariot, like a proud bull leading his heifers? When will thousands of people on the royal road shower parched grain upon my two sons, the conquerors of their foes, as they enter the city? When will I see my sons, adorned with splendid earrings, entering Ayodhyā, swords raised high, like twin-peaked mountains? When will the joyful maidens, their hair decked with flowers, and the twice-born, bearing fruits, circle the city and perform auspicious rites as they arrive? When will the righteous one, mature in wisdom and age, shining like a rain cloud, return to bring delight as a good season does? Surely, O hero, in times past, because of some miserly woman, mothers’ breasts were cut off when they wished to suckle their children. I have been made helpless, like a loving cow deprived of her calf by a lion; by Kaikeyī, O tiger among men, I am left desolate, like a cow whose calf has been torn from her. How can I, who have but one son—endowed with every virtue and learned in every scripture—endure life without him? Truly, I find no strength left in me, for I do not see my beloved son, nor 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 summer rays.” At this, the forty-fourth chapter begins. To Kausalyā, lamenting thus, the noble Sumitrā—steadfast in righteousness—spoke soothing and righteous words: “O noble lady, your son is adorned with every good quality and stands foremost among men. What use is there in such lamentation and pitiful weeping? Your son, mighty and steadfast, has renounced the kingdom and performed a noble act for his great-souled father who is true to his word. Rāma, established in righteousness and supreme among men, follows the path of virtue, which always yields its 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. And though accustomed to comfort, Vaidehī follows your righteous son, fully aware of the hardships of forest life.” Thus, in the stillness of the night, sorrow and hope mingled in the hearts of Ayodhyā’s queens, as they remembered Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā—noble souls enduring exile, upholding dharma, and inspiring the love and longing of all who knew them.