King Daśaratha, tormented by regret and confusion, confessed his anguish to his charioteer. He admitted that he had not consulted his friends, ministers, or citizens before making his fateful decision; it had been a sudden act, driven by bewilderment and the influence of a woman. He lamented that, whether by destiny or some great calamity, disaster had struck his family, leading it toward ruin. Desperate, Daśaratha implored the charioteer, “If ever I have done you any kindness, quickly take me to Rāma; my life urges me onward.” He pleaded that whatever command he could give should be used to bring Rāghava back, for he could not bear even a moment without Rāma. If Rāma, mighty-armed and noble, had already gone far, Daśaratha begged to be placed upon the chariot and shown the way to him with all haste. He yearned for the sight of Rāma, the elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, famed for his curved tusks and great bow. If he survived, he wished to see Rāma together with Sītā. But if he could not see Rāma—whose blood-red eyes, powerful arms, and gem-studded earrings haunted his memory—Daśaratha declared he would go to the abode of Yama. He found nothing more painful than the fact that, descended from the illustrious Ikṣvāku line, he had come to such a state and could not see Rāghava. He cried out, “Alas, Rāma! Rāma’s younger brother! Alas, ascetic Vaidehī! You do not know that I am dying, abandoned by sorrow.” Overwhelmed by intense grief, the king’s mind was utterly afflicted; he felt himself plunged into an ocean of sorrow, impossible to cross, and he spoke of it. He described this ocean: its great depth was Rāma’s exile; its far shore was Sītā’s separation; its mighty waves were his sighs; its foaming, turbid waters were his tears. The flailing of his arms were its fish; its loud lamentation was its roar; his disheveled hair were its floating weeds; and Kaikeyī, the cause of his suffering, was its submarine fire. It was fed by the flood of his tears, the hunchback’s words were its great crocodile, the cruel boon its shore, and Rāma’s exile its vast expanse. “In this, O Kausalyā, I am truly submerged, without Rāghava; for me, living, this ocean of sorrow is impossible to cross.” He found it unseemly that, wishing to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, he could not find them there that day. Lamenting thus, the great king suddenly fell unconscious upon his couch. As Daśaratha grieved for Rāma, his words reached Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, and she was seized anew by deep fear. Thus ended the sixtieth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Then Kausalyā, trembling repeatedly as if possessed, as though 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 endure to live here even for a moment. Turn the chariot back quickly; take me to the Daṇḍaka forest as well. If I do not follow them, I will go to the abode of Yama.” The charioteer, his voice choked by tears, joined his hands and comforted the queen with gentle words: “Abandon grief and delusion, and the distress born of sorrow. Set aside your anguish, for Rāghava will dwell in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa, too, serves at Rāma’s feet in the forest, devoted to righteousness and self-control, worshipping him as one would a higher world. Even in the lonely forest, Sītā, having found her dwelling, feels as secure as if in her own home, fearless, her mind entrusted completely to Rāma.” He assured Kausalyā, “I do not perceive 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 Sītā finds joy in the solitary forests. Sītā, whose face resembles the young moon, delights like a child; steadfast in spirit, she dwells with Rāma even in the lonely forest. Her heart is truly gone to him, and her life depends on him; for her, Ayodhyā without Rāma is just the same as the forest.” Vaidehī inquired about villages and towns, observed the courses of rivers and the various kinds of trees. By asking Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa, she learned whatever she wished, and, as if within earshot of Ayodhyā, she found comfort in their company. The charioteer recalled only her suddenly uttered words about Kaikeyī, but now, those words no longer came to his mind. Having dispelled those words that had arisen from carelessness, the charioteer spoke sweet, pleasing words to the queen. “Neither the wind’s force along the road, nor confusion, nor 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, unadorned with red dye, shine like lotus buds, though lacking the color of lac. Vaidehī, though now without her ornaments, still walks gracefully, her anklets sounding as she moves, like a playful woman. Whether she sees an elephant, a lion, or a tiger in the forest, she feels no fear, relying on Rāma’s arms.” He continued, “Neither you, nor your own self, nor the king are to be pitied; for this conduct will be established in the world as eternal fame. Having cast off sorrow and with minds gladdened, after the great sage had departed on his way, they, devoted to the forest and subsisting on forest fruits, faithfully uphold their father’s noble promise.” Yet, despite the charioteer’s well-chosen words, the queen, emaciated by grief for her son, did not cease her lament, calling out, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!