Kausalya, stricken with grief, poured out her sorrow in Ayodhyā’s royal chambers. She thought of her beloved son, Rāma, deprived of his kingdom and exiled while still in the prime of his youth. How, she wondered, would her wretched children—Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa—survive in the wilderness, subsisting only on fruits and roots, far from the comforts of home and the wealth of their inheritance? Her heart ached with longing. “If only this might be the end of my suffering,” she lamented, “if only I could see Rāghava here again, together with his devoted wife and loyal brother.” She dreamed of the day when news would spread throughout Ayodhyā that the two heroic princes had returned, and the city would once more be adorned with banners and filled with jubilant people. She imagined Ayodhyā’s joy at seeing those tiger-like men return from the forest, the city swelling with happiness like the ocean at the full moon. Kausalya’s mind conjured the sight of her mighty-armed son entering Ayodhyā, Sītā seated before him in the chariot, like a proud bull among the heifers. She pictured the crowds lining the royal road, showering parched grain upon Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, the subduers of their enemies, as they made their triumphant entry. She yearned to see her sons, adorned with splendid earrings and swords raised high, entering the city like twin-peaked mountains. She imagined the maidens, joyful and adorned with flowers, and the twice-born with fruits, circling the city and performing auspicious rites to welcome them home. She longed for the return of the righteous Rāma, mature in wisdom and age, shining like a rain cloud, bringing delight to all as a good season brings joy to the earth. But her heart was heavy with despair. “Surely,” she cried, “in some past age, because of a miserly woman, mothers’ breasts were cut off when they wished to suckle their children. I am like a cow deprived of her calf by a lion, rendered helpless by Kaikeyī—she has taken my son from me by force. How can I, who have but one son, endowed with all virtues and learned in every scripture, endure life without him? I find no strength left in me, for I do not see my beloved son or the mighty Lakṣmaṇa. Today, a great and terrible fire, born of grief for my son, consumes me, just as the sun scorches the earth with its rays in the heat of summer.” As Kausalya lamented thus, Sumitrā, steadfast in righteousness and noble in heart, approached her and spoke gentle, righteous words. “O noble lady,” she said, “your son is adorned with every virtue 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, follows the path of the virtuous, which always bears 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. And though accustomed to comfort, Vaidehī, noble Sītā, follows your righteous son, fully aware of 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 fruits of his virtue? “Clearly, recognizing Rāma’s purity and supreme greatness, even the sun’s rays will not scorch his body. At all times, gentle and pleasant winds from the forests will serve Rāghava, being moderate in heat and cold. At night, the cool and soothing moon will embrace the sinless Rāma like a father, dispelling the heat as he rests. Remember, to him the mighty Brahmā gave divine weapons after he slew the lord of the Dānavas, son of Timidhvaja, in battle. That hero, tiger among men, relying on his own strength, will dwell in the forest without fear, just as he would in his own house. “Any enemy who comes within range of his arrows meets destruction—how then can the earth not remain under his rule? With the fortune, valor, and noble nature belonging to Rāma, once his forest exile ends, he will swiftly regain his kingdom. As the sun is to the sun, fire to fire, and lord to lord, so is he supreme in splendor, glory, and forbearance. He is the foremost among gods and beings; what faults could there be in him, whether in the forest or in the city? “Rāma, the best of men, together with the earth, with Sītā, and with prosperity, will soon be anointed with these three. As he departed, the people of Ayodhyā, struck by grief, shed tears of sorrow. But what could be unattainable for him, the unconquered hero clad in bark and grass, as fortune follows Sītā who accompanies him? What could be unattainable for him, whose foremost skill is with the bow, who bears arrows and sword himself, and for whom Lakṣmaṇa goes ahead? “You will see him again, returned from the forest, O lady; abandon grief and delusion—I speak the truth to you. O blameless one, you will again see your son, bowing at your feet with his head, like the risen moon. Seeing him re-enter, anointed and resplendent, you will quickly shed tears of joy from your eyes. Let there be no sorrow or pain, O lady; nothing inauspicious is seen for Rāma. Soon you will see your son with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. O sinless one, you must comfort all these people; why do you now harbor this distress in your heart, O lady?” Thus did Sumitrā, wise and steadfast, seek to soothe Kausalya’s aching heart, offering hope and reassurance as the royal household endured the pain of separation from their beloved Rāma.