After Rāma’s departure, King Daśaratha entered Kausalyā’s dwelling and lay upon the bed, but his mind remained restless and agitated. The palace, once vibrant with the presence of his two sons and his daughter-in-law, now seemed empty, like the sky bereft of the moon’s soothing glow. Overcome by sorrow, the mighty king raised his arm and cried out in anguish, “O Rāma, why have you abandoned us?” He lamented that blessed indeed were those who would live to see Rāma return, to embrace him once more. As night descended, a night that felt like the destruction of his soul, Daśaratha spoke to Kausalyā at midnight. “I cannot see you, Kausalyā. Please touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rāma and does not return.” Kausalyā, seeing the king lying there, his thoughts consumed only by Rāma, sat beside him, overwhelmed with grief. She sighed deeply and lamented bitterly, her heart heavy with sorrow. Thus begins the forty-third sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Seeing Daśaratha weakened by grief on his bed, Kausalyā, herself tormented by sorrow for her son, addressed the ruler of the earth. “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 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 wander 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 like an offering to demons at a sacrifice by the fire-priest. That heroic, broad-armed, bow-bearing lord, whose gait is like the king of serpents, surely now enters the forest with his wife and 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 time of fruit, how will those wretched ones live, subsisting only on fruits and roots? If only now might be the time when my grief ends, when I could see Rāghava here, together with his wife and 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. 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.” Now begins the forty-fourth sarga. To Kausalyā, who was lamenting in this way, Sumitra, noble and 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. Though accustomed to comfort, Vaidehi 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? Clearly, recognizing Rāma's purity and supreme greatness, even the sun’s rays should not scorch his body. At all times, the gentle and pleasant wind, emerging from the forests, will serve Rāghava, being moderate in heat and cold. At night, the cool moon, soothing and gentle, will embrace the sinless Rāma like a father, dispelling the heat as he touches him.” Thus, in the darkness of sorrow, Sumitra’s words brought a measure of comfort, reminding Kausalyā that her son, though exiled, remained protected by virtue and the forces of nature, and that his righteousness would surely bear fruit.