In his deep anguish, the king could no longer distinguish between enemies, friends, or those who were indifferent; sorrow had leveled all differences in his heart. The city of Ayodhyā, once vibrant, now lay shrouded in gloom. Its people moved about joyless, and even the mighty elephants and noble horses seemed dispirited—their voices faint, their breaths heavy with sighs. The city, O great king, stricken by Rāma’s exile, looked to me as Kausalyā must appear without her son: utterly bereft of happiness. Hearing the charioteer’s words, the king’s voice, thick with tears and heavy with sorrow, broke forth. “This was never my will, nor was it approved by the wise and experienced elders. This calamity was forced upon us by Kaikeyī, whose mind was set on mischief. I did not consult with friends, ministers, or citizens; confounded and swayed by a woman, I made this decision in haste. “Surely, charioteer, some dreadful fate or disaster has befallen our house, driving us to ruin. If ever I have done you any kindness, take me swiftly to Rāma—my life is slipping away. Use whatever authority I have to bring Rāghava back; I cannot live even a moment without him. Or, if the mighty-armed one has already gone far, then place me in the chariot and speed me to his side. “Where is that elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with his curved tusks and great bow? If I live, may I see him again with Sītā. If I do not behold Rāma—his blood-red eyes, his powerful arms, his gem-studded earrings—I will surely leave this world for the abode of Yama. “What could be more painful than this: I, a descendant of Ikṣvāku, am reduced to such a state, unable even to see Rāghava here? Alas, Rāma! O younger brother of Rāma! Alas, ascetic Vaidehī! You do not know that I am dying, abandoned and consumed by sorrow.” Overwhelmed by intense grief, the king, his mind utterly tormented, felt himself plunged into an ocean of sorrow, impossible to cross. He spoke of this ocean: its great depth was Rāma’s exile, its distant shore was Sītā’s separation, its mighty waves were the sighs of the bereaved, and its foaming, turbid waters were his own tears. In this sea, the flailing of arms became the fish, loud lamentation its great roar, disheveled hair the floating weeds, and Kaikeyī the submarine fire. Fed by the flood of his tears, with the hunchback’s words as a lurking crocodile, the cruel boon as its shore, and Rāma’s exile as its vast expanse—here, O Kausalyā, I am truly submerged, for without Rāghava, this ocean of sorrow is impossible for me to cross. “It is unseemly,” he lamented, “that I, longing to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, do not find them here today.” Thus grieving, the great king suddenly collapsed unconscious upon his couch. As he lamented, overwhelmed by his grief for Rāma, the queen—Rāma’s mother—heard his words and was seized again by deep fear. Thus ends the sixtieth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Kausalyā, trembling again and again as if possessed or as if her very life had left her, spoke to the charioteer: “Take me to where Kakutstha is, where Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa are; without them, I cannot bear to live here even for a moment. Turn the chariot back quickly; bring me also to the Daṇḍaka forest. If I cannot follow them, I will go to the abode of Yama.” The charioteer, his voice choked by tears, joined his hands and gently comforted the queen: “Abandon this grief and delusion, and the distress born of sorrow. Set aside your anguish, for Rāghava will dwell in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa too, devoted to righteousness and self-control, serves Rāma’s feet there as reverently as one would serve a higher world. “Even in the lonely forest, Sītā, having found her dwelling, is as secure as if she were in her own home—fearless, her mind entrusted to Rāma. I do not see even the slightest trace of dejection in her; Vaidehī seems well suited to exile, O Queen. Just as she once delighted in the city’s gardens, so now does Sītā find joy in the solitude of the forests. “Sītā, whose face is like the young moon, delights as a child would; steadfast in spirit, she dwells with Rāma even in the wilderness. Her heart is truly joined to his, her very life dependent on him. For her, Ayodhyā without Rāma is no different from the forest. Vaidehī inquires about the villages and towns, observes the courses of rivers and the various kinds of trees. By asking Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa, she learns whatever she wishes, and in their company, she finds comfort as if she were still within earshot of Ayodhyā. “I recall only one thing she said, spoken suddenly in connection with Kaikeyī, but now even those words do not come to mind. Dispelling those careless words, I now speak sweet and pleasing words to you, O Queen. Neither the wind’s force along the road, nor confusion, nor the heat, can diminish the moon-like radiance of Vaidehī. The face of generous Vaidehī, resembling a full-blown lotus and shining like the full moon, does not lose its luster. Even now, her feet, though unadorned with red dye, shine like lotus buds, though lacking the color of lac.” Thus, the charioteer sought to comfort the grieving mother, painting for her a picture of Sītā’s steadfastness and the enduring spirit of those who had gone into exile.