The sorrow that engulfed Ayodhyā was vast and unfathomable, like an ocean whose deepest depth was Rāma’s exile, whose distant shore was Sītā’s separation. Its mighty waves were the sighs of grief, and its foaming, turbid waters were the tears shed by those who loved Rāma. Within this ocean, the flailing of arms became its fish, the loud lamentation its great roar, and the floating weeds were disheveled hair. At its heart burned the submarine fire of Kaikeyī’s actions. This ocean of sorrow was fed by the flood of tears, its boundaries marked by the cruel boon granted to Kaikeyī, its expanse defined by Rāma’s banishment. The words of the hunchback were like a great crocodile lurking in its depths. In this ocean, King Daśaratha confessed to Kausalyā, he was submerged, unable to cross, bereft of Rāghava. Living without his son, he found the sorrow impossible to bear. It seemed unseemly to him that, wishing to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, he could not find them there that day. Lamenting thus, the great king suddenly collapsed, unconscious upon his couch. As he grieved, overwhelmed by his love for Rāma, Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, heard his words and was seized again by deep fear. Thus ended the sixtieth chapter in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. In her agony, Kausalyā trembled again and again, as if possessed by spirits or as if life itself had left her. Turning to the charioteer, she pleaded, “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, comforted her with joined hands, saying, “Abandon grief and delusion, and also the distress born of sorrow. Setting aside your anguish, know that Rāghava will dwell in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa, serving Rāma’s feet, devoted to righteousness and self-control, 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. 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.” He recalled only her suddenly uttered words spoken in connection with Kaikeyī, but now those words no longer came to his mind. Dispelling any careless words, the charioteer spoke sweet, pleasing words to comfort the queen. Neither the force of the wind along the road, nor confusion, nor the heat could diminish the moon-like radiance of Vaidehī. Her face, generous and resembling a full-blown lotus, shining like the full moon, did not lose its luster. Even her unadorned feet 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, “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 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 these words to her husband: “Though your fame, earned through me, is renowned in the three worlds, Rāghava is compassionate, generous, and speaks kindly. How will those two sons, best among men, raised in comfort, now endure hardship in the forest together with Sītā? That young, dark-complexioned, delicate maiden, accustomed to comfort—how will Maithilī bear the heat and the cold? Having eaten fine food, accompanied by soup and relishes, how will wide-eyed Sītā partake of coarse forest fare? Accustomed to hearing the sweet sounds of song and music, how will the blameless one endure the dreadful cries of flesh-eating lions? Where now does that mighty-armed one, whose arms are like iron bars, sleep—he who resembles Indra’s banner, possessing great strength? When shall I see Rāma’s lotus-hued face, framed by lovely hair, his breath fragrant as a lotus, and his eyes like blue lotuses? Truly, my heart must be made of adamant, for though I do not see him, it does not shatter into a thousand pieces.” Thus, the hearts of Ayodhyā’s elders overflowed with grief, longing, and love for Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and Sītā, whose exile had transformed their world into an ocean of sorrow whose depths none could cross.