In the quiet chambers of Ayodhyā, Kausalyā’s heart overflowed with longing and sorrow. She gazed out, her mind painting hopeful visions of the city’s future. “When,” she wondered, “will Ayodhyā once again shine with glory, its people rejoicing and its banners flying high, upon hearing that the two heroic brothers have returned? When will the city, like the ocean swelling under the full moon, be filled with joy at the sight of those tiger-like men returning from the forest?” Her thoughts turned to her beloved son. “When will my mighty-armed child enter Ayodhyā, Sītā seated before him in the chariot, just as a strong bull leads the herd of cows? When will the royal road be crowded with thousands of citizens, showering parched grain upon my two sons—the subduers of enemies—as they enter the city? When will I see them, adorned with splendid earrings, entering Ayodhyā with their swords raised, shining like twin-peaked mountains?” She imagined the celebrations: “When will the joyous maidens, bearing flowers, and the twice-born, carrying fruits, circle the city and perform auspicious rites as they arrive? When will the righteous one, matured in wisdom and age, radiant as a rain cloud, return to us, bringing the delight of a blessed season?” But her thoughts turned bitter as she reflected on her suffering. “Surely, O hero, in some past age, because of a miserly woman, mothers were cruelly deprived of their children. I am like a loving cow robbed of her calf by a lion; Kaikeyī has left me helpless, my child torn from me by force. How can I, with only one son—endowed with every virtue and learned in all the scriptures—endure life without him? I find no strength left in my days, for I do not see my beloved son nor mighty Lakṣmaṇa. Today, a great and terrible fire, kindled by grief for my son, consumes me, just as the summer sun scorches the earth with its fierce rays.” At that moment, the noble Sumitrā, steadfast in righteousness, approached Kausalyā, who was thus lamenting. With gentle reverence, she spoke words of comfort: “O noble lady, your son is adorned with every good quality and stands foremost among men. What purpose does such lamentation and weeping serve? Your son has departed, giving up the kingdom, performing a noble deed out of love and duty for his great-souled father, who is true to his word. Rāma, established in righteousness and supreme among men, follows the path of virtue, a path that yields its fruit beyond this world; he is not one to be grieved for. “Lakṣmaṇa, ever sinless and compassionate to all beings, conducts himself with the highest virtue. Such a great soul will surely attain success. And Sītā, though accustomed to comfort, follows your righteous son into the hardships of the forest, knowing well what awaits her. “Why should your son, who upholds the banner of fame in the world and is devoted to righteousness and truth, not attain the highest good? 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 both heat and cold. At night, the cool and soothing moon will embrace the sinless Rāma like a loving father, dispelling the heat as he touches him. “Remember, it was to Rāma that mighty Brahmā gave divine weapons, after seeing the lord of the Dānavas, son of Timidhvaja, slain in battle. That hero, a 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 his fortune, valor, and noble nature, once his exile ends, Rāma 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 foremost among gods and beings—what fault could there possibly 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 all three. “Seeing him depart, the people of Ayodhyā, struck by sorrow, shed tears born of grief. Yet, what could be unattainable for him—the unconquered hero clad in bark and grass—when fortune follows Sītā, who accompanies him? What could be beyond the reach of one whose foremost skill is with the bow, who bears sword and arrows, with Lakṣmaṇa going before him? “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, his head lowered in reverence, like the risen moon. When you see him re-enter, anointed and resplendent, you will quickly shed tears of joy. Let there be no sorrow or pain, O lady; nothing inauspicious is foreseen for Rāma. Soon, you will behold your son with Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa by his side. “O sinless one, it is you who must comfort all these people; why do you now harbor this distress in your heart? You are not worthy of sorrow, O lady, for your son is Rāghava, and there is no one greater than Rāma, steadfast in the path of righteousness. Soon you will see your son, accompanied by friends, bowing in respect before you, and you will shed tears of joy like a rain cloud releasing its waters.” Thus, with warmth and wisdom, Sumitrā sought to soothe Kausalyā’s aching heart, reminding her of her son’s greatness and the hope that yet remained for Ayodhyā.