Ramayana

King Daśaratha, overcome by grief, vividly described his sorrow as an immense ocean. Its flailing fish were like desperate arms reaching out, its thunderous roar echoed the cries of lamentation, and its floating weeds resembled disheveled hair. The submarine fire burning beneath its waves was none other than Kaikeyī herself. This ocean was fed by the unending flood of his tears, with the words of the hunchback as a monstrous crocodile lurking within. The cruel boon granted to Kaikeyī formed its harsh shore, and Rāma’s exile stretched out as its vast expanse. In this ocean of sorrow, Daśaratha confessed to Kausalyā, he was truly submerged, unable to cross it without Rāghava. For him, living in such anguish was impossible. He lamented that it was unseemly for him, longing to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa, to find them absent today. Overwhelmed by sorrow, the great king suddenly collapsed unconscious upon his couch. As Daśaratha grieved for Rāma, Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, heard his words and was seized again by deep fear. Thus ended the sixtieth chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. Kausalyā, trembling as if possessed and as if her life had left her, spoke 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. If I do not follow them, I will go to the abode of Yama.” The charioteer, his voice choked by tears, comforted the queen with joined hands. He urged her to abandon grief and delusion, to set aside her anguish, and to remember that Rāghava would dwell in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa, too, serving Rāma’s feet, devoted to righteousness and self-control, worshipped him as one would a higher world. Even in the lonely forest, Sītā had found her dwelling and felt as secure as in her own home, her mind entrusted to Rāma, fearless. The charioteer assured the queen that he perceived no trace of dejection in Sītā; Vaidehī seemed well suited to exile. Just as she once delighted in the city’s gardens, Sītā now found joy in the solitary forests. Her face, resembling the young moon, was radiant; she dwelled with Rāma in the forest, steadfast in spirit. Sītā’s heart was truly given to Rāma, her life dependent on him. For her, Ayodhyā without Rāma was no different from the forest. She inquired about villages and towns, observed rivers and trees, and learned whatever she wished by asking Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa. In their company, she felt as if she were still within earshot of Ayodhyā. The charioteer recalled only her suddenly uttered words about Kaikeyī, but now they no longer came to mind. Dispelling those careless words, he spoke sweet, pleasing words to the queen. Neither the wind’s force, nor confusion, nor the heat could diminish the moon-like radiance of Vaidehī. Her face, like a full-blown lotus and shining like the full moon, did not lose its luster. Even her feet, though unadorned with red dye, shone like lotus buds. Vaidehī, now without her ornaments, still walked gracefully, her anklets sounding as she moved, like a playful woman. Whether she saw elephants, lions, or tigers in the forest, she felt no fear, relying on Rāma’s arms. The charioteer declared that neither the queen, nor herself, nor the king were to be pitied, for their conduct would be established in the world as eternal fame. With sorrow cast aside and their minds gladdened, after the great sage had departed, they devoted themselves to the forest, subsisting on its fruits, faithfully upholding 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, crying out, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” Thus begins the sixty-first chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in 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 his fame, earned through her, was renowned in the three worlds, and that Rāghava was compassionate, generous, and spoke kindly. She wondered how those two sons, best among men, raised in comfort, could now endure hardship in the forest together with Sītā. Kausalyā lamented for the young, dark-complexioned, delicate maiden, accustomed to comfort—how could Maithilī bear the heat and the cold? Having eaten fine food with soup and relishes, how would wide-eyed Sītā partake of coarse forest fare? Accustomed to sweet sounds of song and music, how would the blameless one endure the dreadful cries of flesh-eating lions? She wondered where the mighty-armed one, whose arms were like iron bars and who resembled Indra’s banner, possessing great strength, now slept. When would she see Rāma’s lotus-hued face, framed by lovely hair, his breath fragrant as a lotus, and his eyes like blue lotuses? Truly, her heart must be made of adamant, for though she did not see him, it did not shatter into a thousand pieces. Because of her husband’s pitiless act, her kinsmen, though worthy of happiness, had been cast away and now wandered, wretched, in the forest.