Queen Kausalyā, her heart crushed with sorrow, sat beside the ailing King Daśaratha. Blind with tears, she said softly, “I cannot see you, Kausalyā; touch me with your hand, for my gaze still follows Rāma and will not turn away.” The king lay lost in grief, his mind circling only around his beloved son. Kausalyā, overwhelmed by pain, sighed deeply and lamented bitterly at his side. As the night wore on, Kausalyā, tormented by the exile of her son, looked upon the weakened king stretched out on his bed. Her voice trembled with anguish as she addressed him, “O tiger among men, now that Kaikeyī has expelled her venom against Rāghava, she will wander about the palace, twisted in her ways, like a serpent freed from its slough. Having sent Rāma, the most fortunate of men, into exile and achieved her desire, that wicked woman will surely terrify me again, like a venomous snake lurking in our home. “Now, in this city, my Rāma will go from house to house, begging for alms, and you, swayed by her will, might even grant my own son as a servant. At Kaikeyī’s whim, Rāma has been cast down from his rightful place, discarded as an offering to demons by the fire-priest. That heroic, broad-shouldered, bow-bearing lord, whose gait is as majestic as the king of serpents, now enters the forest with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. “What fate awaits them there—those who have never known such sorrow, abandoned to the wilds by your consent at Kaikeyī’s urging? 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, if only I could see Rāghava here once more, together with his wife and his brother. “When will Ayodhyā, hearing of the return of those two heroes, shine again in glory, its people rejoicing, its banners raised high? When, seeing those tiger-like men returning from the forest, will the city be filled with joy, swelling like the ocean at the full moon? When will my mighty-armed son enter Ayodhyā, Sītā before him in the chariot, like a great bull among heifers? When will the thousands along the royal road shower parched grain upon my two sons, the subduers of enemies, as they return? “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 as a good season brings joy? “Without doubt, O hero, I believe that 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, for 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 summer rays.” Hearing Kausalyā’s heartbroken lament, the noble Sumitrā, steadfast in righteousness, gently spoke words of comfort. “O noble lady, your son is adorned with all good qualities and is foremost among men; what use is there in such lamentation and pitiful weeping? Your son, mighty as he is, has departed, giving up the kingdom, performing a noble deed for his great-souled father who is true to his word. “Rāma, established in righteousness and supreme among men, walks the path of the virtuous—a path that always yields fruit after death. He is not one 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. Vaidehī, though accustomed to comfort, 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 the highest good? 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, soothing moon will embrace the sinless Rāma like a father, dispelling the heat as he touches him. “To whom the mighty Brahmā gave divine weapons, after seeing the lord of the Dānavas, son of Timidhvaja, slain in battle—such a hero, tiger among men, relying on his own strength, will dwell in the forest without fear, just as he would in his own house. Enemies who come within the range of his arrows meet their destruction; how then can the earth not remain under his rule? “With the fortune, valor, and noble nature that belong to Rāma, once his forest exile ends, he will swiftly regain his own kingdom. As the sun is to the sun, fire to fire, lord to lord, so is he supreme in splendor, glory, and forbearance.” Thus did Sumitrā offer solace to Kausalyā, her words carrying the strength of faith and the warmth of hope, even as grief shadowed the royal house of Ayodhyā.