The lord of the earth, King Daśaratha, overwhelmed by grief and his voice choked with emotion, spoke in gentle, faint, and sorrowful tones. “Quickly, take me to Kausalyā’s house, the mother of Rāma,” he pleaded, “for nowhere else will my heart find comfort.” At his command, the doorkeepers promptly led the king to Kausalyā’s residence and, with all due respect, settled him there. Yet even after entering Kausalyā’s dwelling and lying down upon the bed, the king’s mind remained restless and agitated. He gazed around and saw the house bereft of his two beloved sons and his daughter-in-law, Sītā, and it seemed to him as empty as the sky without the moon. Overcome by sorrow, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out in a loud voice, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” He lamented, “Happy indeed are those noble souls who will live to see Rāma return, who will once more embrace him.” As night fell—a night as dark and ominous as the night of destruction for his soul—Daśaratha, tormented by longing, spoke to Kausalyā at midnight. “I do not see you, Kausalyā,” he said weakly. “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, Kausalyā sat beside him. Overwhelmed with grief, she sighed deeply and lamented bitterly. As the new chapter of their sorrow unfolded, Kausalyā, tormented by longing for her son, addressed the king, who lay weakened by grief. “O tiger among men,” she began, “now that she has expelled her venom against Rāghava, Kaikeyī will roam about, twisted in her ways, just 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 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. Having cast Rāma down from his position at Kaikeyī’s will, just as she pleased, he has been thrown away as if he were 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. “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 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 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, 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. For 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.” Hearing Kausalyā’s lament, the noble lady Sumitrā, steadfast in righteousness, spoke words of comfort. “O noble lady,” she said, “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. Though accustomed to comfort, Vaidehī follows your righteous son, knowing well the hardships of forest life. He who upholds the banner of fame in the world, devoted to righteousness and truth, why should your son not attain it?” Thus, in the house of sorrow, the anguished hearts of Kausalyā and Daśaratha found solace in Sumitrā’s words, as the night of grief pressed on.