Grief weighed heavily upon King Daśaratha as he lamented the absence of his beloved elder son, Rāma—the mighty archer with curved tusks—hoping that if he survived, he might one day see Rāma together with Sītā. Yet, he despaired that if he did not behold Rāma, with his blood-red eyes, powerful arms, and gem-studded earrings, he would rather depart for Yama’s abode. Nothing, he thought, could be more painful than his present state: descended from the noble Ikṣvāku line, yet unable to see Rāghava before him. He cried out in anguish, calling for Rāma, for Lakṣmaṇa, for ascetic Vaidehī, lamenting that they did not know he was dying, abandoned and consumed by sorrow. The king, overwhelmed by intense grief and his mind utterly afflicted, plunged into an ocean of sorrow impossible to cross, and spoke of its depths. This ocean of sorrow, he said, had Rāma’s exile as its great depth, Sītā’s separation as its distant shore, his sighs as its mighty waves, and tears as its foaming, turbid waters. Its fish were the flailing of his arms, its roar was his loud lamentation, its floating weeds his disheveled hair, and its submarine fire was Kaikeyī. Fed by the flood of his tears, with the hunchback’s words as a great crocodile, the cruel boon as its shore, and Rāma’s exile as its expanse, he was truly submerged in it, unable to cross without Rāghava. He lamented that it was unseemly for him, wishing to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, to not find them there. So, lamenting thus, the great king suddenly fell unconscious upon his couch. As he grieved for Rāma, the queen, Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, hearing his words, was seized again by deep fear. Thus ended the sixtieth sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Then Kausalyā, trembling again and again as if possessed, and as if her life had left her, spoke to the charioteer, urging him to take her to where Kakutstha, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa were. She declared she could not endure to live even a moment without them. She pleaded for the chariot to be turned back quickly, that she be taken to the Daṇḍaka forest as well, for if she could not follow them, she would go to the abode of Yama. The charioteer, his voice choked with tears and his hands joined in respect, comforted the queen, urging her to abandon grief and delusion, to set aside her anguish, and to know that Rāghava would dwell in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa too, serving Rāma’s feet in the forest, devoted to righteousness and self-control, worshipped him as one would a higher world. Even in the lonely forest, Sītā, having found her dwelling, felt secure as in her own home, fearless and with her mind entrusted to Rāma. The charioteer assured Kausalyā that he perceived not even the slightest trace of dejection in Sītā; Vaidehī seemed well suited to exile. Just as Sītā once delighted in the city’s gardens, so now she found joy in the solitary forests. Her face, resembling the young moon, shone with delight, for she, steadfast in spirit, dwelt with Rāma even in the lonely forest. Her heart was truly given to him, and her life depended upon him; for her, Ayodhyā without Rāma was just the same as the forest. Vaidehī inquired about villages and towns, observed the courses of rivers and the various kinds of trees, asking Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa whatever she wished, and, as if within earshot of Ayodhyā, found comfort in their company. The charioteer recalled only her suddenly uttered words spoken in connection with Kaikeyī, but those words no longer came to mind. Having dispelled those careless words, he spoke sweet and pleasing words to the queen. Neither the wind’s force along the road, nor confusion, nor the heat could diminish the moon-like radiance of Vaidehī. Her face, resembling a full-blown lotus and shining like the full moon, did not lose its luster. Even her feet, unadorned with red dye, shone like lotus buds, though lacking the color of lac. Vaidehī, though now without her ornaments, still walked gracefully, her anklets sounding as she moved, like a playful woman. Whether she saw an elephant, a lion, or a tiger in the forest, she felt no fear, relying on Rāma’s arms. The charioteer assured Kausalyā that neither she, nor her own self, nor the king were to be pitied; for this conduct would 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 its fruits, faithfully upheld 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. When Rāma, devoted to righteousness, had gone to the forest, Kausalyā, weeping and distressed, spoke to her husband. She reminded him that though his fame, earned through her, was renowned in the three worlds, Rāghava was compassionate, generous, and spoke kindly. She wondered how those two sons, best among men, raised in comfort, would now endure hardship in the forest together with Sītā. She worried for the young, dark-complexioned, delicate maiden, accustomed to comfort, and questioned how Maithilī would bear the heat and the cold.