Grief overwhelmed King Daśaratha as he lamented to Kausalyā, painting his sorrow as a vast, unfathomable ocean. He described how the flood of his tears fed this sea of despair, how the hunchback’s words were like a monstrous crocodile lurking within it, the cruel boon granted to Kaikeyī forming its relentless shore, and Rāma’s exile stretching out as its boundless expanse. “In this ocean, O Kausalyā, I am truly submerged, for without Rāghava, I cannot cross it while living. The pain is too great,” he cried. His heart ached to see Rāghava with Lakṣmaṇa once more, and it seemed unbearable that he could not find them in the palace that day. Overcome by these thoughts, the great king suddenly collapsed, unconscious upon his couch. As Daśaratha mourned in this way, his grief for Rāma weighing heavily upon him, Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, heard his anguished words. Fear gripped her heart anew, deep and paralyzing. Trembling as if possessed and feeling as though her very life had left her, Kausalyā turned to the charioteer, her voice quivering. “Take me to where Kakutstha is, where Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa are. Without them, I cannot live here even for a moment.” Her desperation mounting, she pleaded, “Turn the chariot back quickly. Take me to the Daṇḍaka forest as well. If I do not follow them, I will surely 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, noble lady, and set aside the distress born of sorrow. Know that Rāghava is dwelling in the forest, upholding righteousness. Lakṣmaṇa, too, serves Rāma’s feet with devotion, self-controlled and steadfast, honoring him as one would a higher world. Even in the lonely forest, Sītā, having found her dwelling, feels as secure as if she were in her own home. She is fearless, her mind entrusted entirely to Rāma.” He continued, “I see not even the slightest trace of dejection in her; Vaidehī is well suited to exile, O Queen. Just as she once delighted in the city’s gardens, so now Sītā finds joy in the solitude of the forest. Her face, radiant as the young moon, shines with happiness, for her steadfast spirit dwells always with Rāma. Her heart is truly his, her very life dependent on him; for her, Ayodhyā without Rāma is no different from the forest.” The charioteer described how Sītā, curious and composed, inquired about the villages and towns they passed, observed the courses of rivers, and marveled at the variety of trees. “By asking Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa, she learns whatever she wishes, and finds comfort in their company, as if Ayodhyā itself were within earshot.” He recalled, with some regret, only a few words Sītā had spoken suddenly about Kaikeyī, but those words had faded from his mind. Having dispelled any careless words, he spoke again, his voice gentle and reassuring. “Neither the wind’s force along the road, nor confusion, nor heat can diminish the moon-like radiance of Vaidehī. Her face, like a full-blown lotus and shining as the full moon, does not lose its luster. Even now, her feet, though unadorned with red dye, glow like lotus buds. Though without her ornaments, she walks gracefully, her anklets sounding as she moves.” The charioteer assured Kausalyā that Sītā, even when confronted with elephants, lions, or tigers, felt no fear, so long as she had Rāma’s protecting arms. “Neither you, nor your own self, nor the king are to be pitied; for this conduct will shine as eternal fame in the world. With sorrow cast aside, and their minds gladdened, after the great sage departed, they devoted themselves to the forest, living on its fruits and faithfully upholding their father’s noble promise.” Yet, despite the charioteer’s well-chosen words, Kausalyā, emaciated by grief for her son, could not be consoled. She continued to lament, calling out, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” her sorrow undiminished. When Rāma, devoted to righteousness, had gone to the forest, Kausalyā, weeping and distressed, spoke to her husband Daśaratha. “Though your fame, earned through me, is renowned in the three worlds, Rāghava is compassionate, generous, and always speaks kindly. How will those two sons, best among men, raised in comfort, now endure hardship in the forest together with Sītā?” Her heart ached for Sītā as well. “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 the sweet sounds of song and music, how will the blameless one endure the dreadful cries of flesh-eating lions?” She wondered, “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.” Kausalyā’s grief turned to Daśaratha’s actions. “Because of your pitiless act, my kinsmen, though worthy of happiness, have been cast away and now wander, wretched, in the forest. If Rāghava returns in the fifteenth year, let Bharata not covet the kingdom or the treasury—let him renounce them both.” Thus, in the palace of Ayodhyā, sorrow and longing filled the hearts of Rāma’s parents, as they mourned the absence of their beloved son, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, holding on to hope and the promise of righteousness fulfilled.