Kausalya, overwhelmed with grief, lamented the exile of her beloved son Rāma. She spoke of Kaikeyī, who, having fulfilled her desire by banishing Rāma, now seemed as terrifying to her as a venomous snake lurking within the household. Kausalya imagined Rāma, the fortunate one, wandering the streets of Ayodhyā, begging for alms from house to house. She feared that, at Kaikeyī’s cruel whim, even her own son might be reduced to servitude. She compared Rāma’s downfall to a sacrificial offering cast away to demons by the fire-priest, discarded at Kaikeyī’s command. The heroic Rāma, broad-armed and bearing his bow, whose stride was as majestic as a king of serpents, was now entering the forest, accompanied by his devoted wife Sītā and loyal brother Lakṣmaṇa. Kausalya wondered what fate awaited them—those who had never known such sorrow, now abandoned to the wilderness with her husband’s consent under Kaikeyī’s urging. Stripped of wealth and still in the prime of youth, exiled at a time when their lives should have borne fruit, how could these wretched souls survive, subsisting only on fruits and roots? Kausalya yearned for an end to her suffering, longing for the day she might see Rāghava—her son—returning, accompanied by his wife and brother. She envisioned Ayodhyā, glorious once more, its people rejoicing and banners raised high, upon hearing of the heroes’ return. She pictured the city swelling with joy, like the ocean under a full moon, at the sight of those tiger-like men returning from the forest. Kausalya dreamed of Rāma, her mighty-armed son, entering Ayodhyā with Sītā before him in the chariot, like a bull leading the cow heifers. She imagined the royal road alive with thousands showering parched grain upon her two sons, the subduers of enemies, as they entered the city. She longed to see them adorned with splendid earrings, swords raised high, like twin-peaked mountains. The joyful maidens, bearing flowers, and the twice-born, offering fruits, would circle the city, performing auspicious rites as they entered. Kausalya awaited the return of her righteous son, mature in wisdom and age, shining like a rain cloud, bringing delight like a good season. She reflected, recalling tales of mothers deprived of their children by the cruelty of miserly women, likening herself to a loving cow bereft of her calf, rendered helpless by Kaikeyī’s actions. With only one son, endowed with all virtues and learned in every scripture, Kausalya wondered how she could endure life without him. She confessed her strength was gone, unable to see her beloved son and mighty Lakṣmaṇa. Today, she said, a great and terrible fire born of grief consumed her, just as the sun scorches the earth in the heat of summer. As Kausalya poured out her sorrow in this way, Sumitra, noble and steadfast in righteousness, spoke gently to comfort her. “O noble lady,” Sumitra said, “your son is adorned with every virtue and stands foremost among men. What purpose does such lamentation serve?” Sumitra reminded her that Rāma, mighty as he was, had renounced the kingdom to fulfill a noble duty for his great-souled father, who was true to his word. Rāma, established in righteousness, supreme among men, followed the path practiced by the virtuous—a path that always yields fruit after death. He was not one to be grieved for. Lakṣmaṇa, ever sinless and compassionate to all beings, conducted himself with the highest virtue. Such a great soul would surely attain success. Vaidehi, though accustomed to comfort, followed Kausalya’s righteous son, understanding well the hardships of forest life. Sumitra assured Kausalya that Rāma, upholding the banner of fame and devoted to righteousness and truth, would surely attain glory. Even the sun’s rays, she said, would not scorch his pure and supremely great body. At all times, the gentle winds emerging from the forests would serve Rāghava, keeping him comfortable in heat and cold. At night, the cool moon would embrace the sinless Rāma like a father, soothing and gentle, dispelling the heat as it touched him. Rāma, to whom mighty Brahma had given divine weapons after seeing the lord of the Dānavas slain in battle, would dwell in the forest without fear, relying on his own strength, just as he would in his own house. Any enemy who came within range of his arrows would meet destruction; how could the earth not remain under his rule? With fortune, valor, and noble nature, once his exile ended, Rāma would swiftly regain his kingdom. As the sun is to the sun, fire to fire, lord to lord, so was Rāma supreme in splendor, glory, and forbearance. He was foremost among gods and beings; what faults could there be in him, whether in the forest or in the city? Soon, Rāma—the best of men—would be anointed with the earth, with Sītā, and with prosperity. Sumitra recalled how the people of Ayodhyā, struck by grief at his departure, had shed tears born of sorrow. What could be unattainable for Rāma, the unconquered hero clad in bark and grass, as fortune followed Sītā who accompanied him? What could be unattainable for him, whose foremost skill was with the bow, who bore arrows and sword, and for whom Lakṣmaṇa went ahead? With these words, Sumitra sought to soothe Kausalya’s anguish, reminding her of Rāma’s greatness and the certainty of his return, bearing glory and bringing joy to Ayodhyā once more.