As King Daśaratha sat overwhelmed by grief for Rāma, lamenting his absence with a heart heavy and broken, Queen Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, heard his sorrowful words. Instantly, a fresh wave of deep fear swept over her, shaking her very soul. Trembling repeatedly, as if possessed by spirits and as though her very life was slipping away, Kausalyā turned to the charioteer, her voice fraught with desperation. “Take me to where Kakutstha is, where Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa are,” she pleaded. “Without them, I cannot bear to remain here even for a moment. Turn the chariot back at once; take me also to the Daṇḍaka forest. If I do not follow them, I will surely go to the abode of Yama.” The charioteer, his own voice choked by tears, joined his hands in reverence and tried to comfort the grieving queen. “Abandon your grief and delusion, O Queen, and set aside the distress that sorrow brings. Know that Rāghava will dwell in the forest, fulfilling his father’s promise. Lakṣmaṇa, too, serves at Rāma’s feet in the wilds, devoted to righteousness and self-control, worshipping him as one would a higher world. “Even in the lonely forest, Sītā, having found her new dwelling, is as fearless and secure as if she were in her own home, her mind entrusted utterly to Rāma. I see not the slightest trace of dejection in her; Vaidehī seems well suited to exile. Just as she once delighted in the city’s gardens, so now Sītā finds joy in the solitary forests. Her face, radiant like the young moon, is bright with delight—childlike and steadfast in spirit, she dwells with Rāma, even in the wilderness. “Her heart belongs wholly to him, her very life depends on him; for her, Ayodhyā without Rāma is no different from the forest. Vaidehī inquires about villages and towns, observing the courses of rivers and the many kinds of trees. By asking Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa, she learns whatever she wishes, and, as if still within earshot of Ayodhyā, finds comfort in their company. “I recall only one thing she said suddenly, in connection with Kaikeyī, but those words now slip from my mind. Having dispelled that moment of carelessness, I speak now only sweet and pleasing words to you. Neither the wind’s force along the road, nor confusion, nor the heat, can diminish the moon-like radiance of Vaidehī. Her face, generous and luminous like a full-blown lotus and the full moon, does not lose its luster. “Even now, her feet—though unadorned with red dye—shine like lotus buds. Though she wears no ornaments, she moves gracefully, her anklets sounding softly, like a playful woman in joy. Whether she sees an elephant, a lion, or a tiger in the forest, she feels no fear, trusting in Rāma’s protecting arms. “Neither you, nor your own self, nor the king are to be pitied, for this conduct will be remembered in the world as eternal fame. Having cast off sorrow, and with hearts gladdened, after the great sage departed, they—devoted to the forest and subsisting on its fruits—faithfully uphold their father’s noble promise.” Yet, though the charioteer spoke these well-chosen words, Kausalyā, emaciated by grief for her son, could not cease her lament. Again and again she called out, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” When Rāma, steadfast in righteousness, had left for the forest, Kausalyā, weeping and distressed, turned to her husband and spoke: “Though your fame, earned through me, is renowned in the three worlds, Rāghava is compassionate, generous, and ever 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 only the finest foods, accompanied by soups 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? “Where now does that mighty-armed one, whose arms are like iron bars, sleep—he who resembles Indra’s banner and possesses 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. 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. Some, it is said, feed their own relatives at a śrāddha, and only afterwards, having completed the rite, invite the foremost of the twice-born. Among them, those twice-born who are virtuous and learned do not resent it, even if the nectar offered is like that of the gods. Even when the brāhmaṇas are satisfied, the wise among them do not consent to eat afterwards, just as a bull does not return to a field whose grass has been cut.” Thus, the queen poured out her heart, her words woven with love, anguish, and the unending hope for her son’s return.