Stricken by grief and despair, King Daśaratha spoke to his charioteer, his heart heavy with sorrow. “Surely,” he lamented, “by fate or by some great calamity, this disaster has come upon our family, O charioteer, leading to its ruin.” His anguish was so profound that he pleaded, “If I have ever done any good for you, quickly take me to Rāma; my life is hurrying me on.” The king’s longing for his son was so intense that he declared, “Whatever command I have, let it turn Rāghava back; I cannot live even for a moment without Rāma. Or, if the mighty-armed one has already gone far, then place me on the chariot and swiftly show me to Rāma.” He yearned for the sight of Rāma, his elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, renowned for his curved tusks and great bow. “If I live,” Daśaratha whispered, “may I see him together with Sītā. If I do not see Rāma, with blood-red eyes, mighty arms, and gem-studded earrings, I will go to the abode of Yama.” The pain of separation was unbearable. “What could be more painful than this: that I, descended from Ikṣvāku, have come to this state and do not see Rāghava here?” In his lament, Daśaratha called 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 as if he were plunged into an ocean of sorrow, impossible to cross, and he spoke of its depths. He described this ocean: its great depth was Rāma’s exile; its far shore was Sītā’s separation; its mighty waves were his sighs; and its foaming, turbid waters were his tears. Its fish were the flailing of his arms, its great roar was loud lamentation, its floating weeds were disheveled hair, and its submarine fire was Kaikeyī herself. The flood of his tears fed this ocean, with the words of the hunchback as a great crocodile, the cruel boon as its shore, and Rāma’s exile as its expanse. “In this, O Kausalyā, I am truly submerged, without Rāghava; for me, living, this ocean of sorrow is impossible to cross.” The king lamented that it was unseemly for him, wishing to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, not to find him there that day. So, crying out in anguish, the great king suddenly fell unconscious on his couch. As the king cried out, overwhelmed by grief for Rāma, Queen Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, heard his words and was seized again by deep fear. Thus ended the sixtieth sarga in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Then Kausalyā, trembling again and again as if possessed by spirits, and as if her 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 Daṇḍaka forest as well. If I do not follow them, I will go to the abode of Yama.” The charioteer, his voice choked by the force of tears, comforted the queen with joined hands. “Abandon grief and delusion, and also the distress born of sorrow; setting aside your anguish, know that Rāghava will dwell in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa too, serving Rāma’s feet in the forest, devoted to righteousness and self-controlled, worships 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 to Rāma. 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.” He continued, “Sītā, whose face resembles the young moon, delights like a child; for she, steadfast in spirit, 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 inquires about villages and towns, observing the courses of rivers and the various kinds of trees. By asking Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa, she learns whatever she wishes; and, as if within earshot of Ayodhyā, she finds comfort in their company.” The charioteer recalled only her suddenly uttered words, spoken in connection with Kaikeyī, but now those words no longer came to his mind. Having dispelled those words that had arisen from carelessness, he then spoke sweet, pleasing words to the queen. He assured her, “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, 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 spoke with conviction: “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, though urged by the charioteer with well-chosen words, the queen, emaciated by grief for her son, did not cease her lament, calling out, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” Hear now the sixty-first chapter in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa.