In the palace, grief hung heavy in the air as the king, his heart shattered by separation from his beloved son, called urgently to his charioteer. “If ever I have done you any kindness,” he pleaded, “take me swiftly to Rāma now—my very life is slipping away from me.” He continued, his voice trembling, “Whatever authority I have left, let it turn Rāghava back. I cannot bear even a moment’s existence without Rāma. But if the mighty-armed one has already gone far, then place me on the chariot and take me to him at once.” The king’s longing grew ever more desperate. “Where is that elder brother of Lakṣmaṇa, with his curved tusks and great bow? If I am to live, let me see him once more, together with Sītā. If I do not behold Rāma—he of blood-red eyes, strong arms, and gem-studded earrings—I will surely go to the abode of Yama. What greater pain can there be than this: that I, descended from the noble Ikṣvāku line, have fallen into such misery and do not see Rāghava here?” He cried aloud in anguish, “Alas, Rāma! O Rāma’s younger brother! Alas, ascetic Vaidehī! You do not know that I am dying, abandoned in my sorrow.” Overcome by the weight of his grief, the king’s mind was utterly afflicted, as if plunged into an ocean of sorrow that could not be crossed. He spoke of this sorrow as an endless sea: its deepest waters were Rāma’s exile; its farthest shore, the separation from Sītā; its mighty waves, his own sighs; and its foaming, turbid waters, his tears. He saw himself flailing in this ocean, his arms like helpless fish, his loud lamentation the roar of the sea, his disheveled hair the floating weeds, and Kaikeyī herself the submarine fire burning beneath the surface. The flood of his tears fed this sea, the hunchback’s words were like a lurking crocodile, the cruel boon its unyielding shore, and Rāma’s exile its vast expanse. “In this, O Kausalyā, I am truly submerged without Rāghava,” he lamented. “For me, still living, this ocean of sorrow is impossible to cross.” “It is unseemly,” the king continued, “that I, who long to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, do not find him here today.” With these words, the great king, overwhelmed by his sorrow for Rāma, suddenly collapsed unconscious upon his couch. As he lay stricken, his lament echoing through the palace, Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, heard his words. Fear gripped her deeply once more. Thus ended the sixtieth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. Kausalyā, trembling as if possessed and drained of all strength, turned to the charioteer. “Take me to where Kakutstha is, where Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa are,” she pleaded. “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 own voice thick with tears, joined his hands and gently tried to comfort the queen. “Abandon grief and delusion, O Queen, and set aside this anguish born of sorrow. Know that Rāghava will dwell in the forest, upholding righteousness. Lakṣmaṇa, too, serves Rāma’s feet in the forest, devoted to dharma and self-control, worshipping him as one would a higher world. Even in the lonely forest, Sītā has found her dwelling. She is as secure as if she were in her own home, fearless, her mind entrusted wholly to Rāma.” He continued, “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 Sītā finds joy in the solitary forests. Her face, like the young moon, shines with delight; she is steadfast in spirit, dwelling with Rāma even in the wilderness. Her heart truly belongs to him, her life depends on him; for her, Ayodhyā without Rāma is no different from the forest.” The charioteer described how Sītā would inquire about the villages and towns they passed, observing the courses of rivers and the many 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. I only recall her suddenly uttered words, once spoken about Kaikeyī, but now they no longer come to my mind. Having dispelled those careless words, I now speak only what is pleasing and sweet to you.” He went on, “Neither the wind’s force along the road, nor confusion, nor the heat, can diminish the moon-like radiance of Vaidehī. Her face, like 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. Neither you, nor your own self, nor even the king are to be pitied; for this conduct will be remembered in the world as eternal fame. With sorrow cast off and their minds gladdened, after the great sage had departed, they, devoted to the forest and subsisting on its fruits, faithfully uphold their father’s noble promise.” Yet, despite the charioteer’s gentle encouragement and well-chosen words, Kausalyā, worn thin by grief for her son, could not stop her lament. Again and again she called out, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” Now begins the sixty-first chapter in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki. When Rāma, ever devoted to righteousness, had gone to the forest, Kausalyā, weeping and overcome by distress, turned to her husband to speak.