With his voice choked by the force of tears, the charioteer, hands joined in humility, sought to comfort Queen Kausalyā. He spoke gently, “Set aside your grief and delusion, O Queen, and let go of the distress born from sorrow. Cast away your anguish, for Rāghava has resolved to dwell in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa, too, serves him there—devoted to righteousness and self-control, he attends to Rāma’s feet as one would worship a higher world. Even in the solitude of the forest, Sītā has found her dwelling and feels as secure as if she were in her own home, her heart fearless and wholly entrusted to Rāma. I do not see 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. Her face, radiant like the young moon, shines with childlike delight; steadfast in spirit, she dwells happily with Rāma, even in the lonely wilderness. Her heart is truly bound to him, and her very life depends on him; for her, Ayodhyā without Rāma is no different from the forest. Vaidehī, ever curious, asks about the villages and towns they pass, observing the courses of rivers and the many kinds of trees. Whatever she wishes to know, she learns by asking Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa, and, as if she were still within earshot of Ayodhyā, she finds comfort in their company. I recall only one moment when she uttered sudden words concerning Kaikeyī, but those words no longer come to my mind. Having dispelled those careless words, I then spoke sweet and pleasing words to her. 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 resembling a full-blown lotus, shines like the full moon and does not lose its luster. Even now, though her feet are unadorned with red dye, they shine like lotus buds, lacking only the color of lac. Vaidehī, though now without her ornaments, still moves gracefully, her anklets sounding as she walks, like a playful woman. When she sees elephants, lions, or tigers in the forest, she feels no fear, relying on Rāma’s strong 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 minds gladdened, after the great sage had departed on his way, they, devoted to the forest and subsisting on its fruits, faithfully uphold their father’s noble promise. Yet, though I spoke these well-chosen words to console you, O Queen, your heart, emaciated by grief for your son, did not cease its lament. Again and again you called out, ‘Beloved! Son! Rāghava!’ Now, hear the next chapter in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Rāma, steadfast in righteousness, had departed for the forest, Kausalyā, weeping and overwhelmed with distress, spoke to her husband. “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? 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 sweet songs 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 afterwards, even if the nectar offered is like that of the gods. Even when the brāhmaṇas are satisfied, the wise among the twice-born do not consent to eat afterwards, just as a bull does not return to a field whose grass has been cut. Thus, when the younger brother has enjoyed the kingdom, why should the elder, though superior, not feel slighted, O lord of the people? A tiger does not wish to eat food brought by another; in the same way, a man of tiger-like strength does not value what is taken by another. Oblations, clarified butter, sacrificial cakes, sacred grass, and khadira posts—these, once used, do not serve again in a sacrifice. In the same way, this kingdom, whose essence has been seized, is like wine whose spirit is gone; Rāma cannot accept it, just as a sacrifice cannot proceed when the soma is lost. Rāghava will not endure such dishonor, just as a powerful tiger would not tolerate being struck by a child.