With gentle wisdom, the charioteer addressed the grieving queen, urging her to abandon her sorrow and delusion, and to set aside the distress that weighed upon her heart. “Let go of your anguish,” he said, “and know that Rāghava now dwells in the forest. Lakṣmaṇa, too, attends him there, ever devoted to righteousness, self-controlled, and serving at Rāma’s feet as one would worship a higher world.” He spoke reassuringly of Sītā as well: “Even in the solitude of the forest, Sītā has found her dwelling and feels as secure as if she were in her own home. Fearless, she entrusts her mind wholly to Rāma. I see not 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 does Sītā find joy among the solitary groves of the wilderness. Her face, radiant as the young moon, shines with delight like that of a child, for her steadfast spirit dwells with Rāma, even in the lonely forest.” He continued, “Her heart belongs to him, her very life depends on him; for Sītā, Ayodhyā without Rāma is no different from the forest. Vaidehī inquires about the villages and towns they pass, observing the courses of rivers and the many kinds of trees. Whenever she wishes to know something, she turns to Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa, and in their company, as if still within earshot of Ayodhyā, she finds comfort.” The charioteer reflected, “I remember only once when she spoke words in connection with Kaikeyī, uttered suddenly and carelessly. But those words have faded from my mind. Having dispelled them, I now speak only sweet and pleasing words to you, O queen. Neither the force of the wind on the road, nor confusion, nor the heat can diminish the moon-like radiance of Vaidehī. Her face, generous and lotus-like, shines with the fullness of the moon and never loses its luster.” He described her further: “Even now, her feet, unadorned with red dye, glow like lotus buds, though they lack the color of lac. Vaidehī, though without her ornaments, still walks gracefully—her anklets sounding as she moves, light as a playful woman. Whether she sees an elephant, a lion, or a tiger in the forest, she feels no fear, relying on Rāma’s strong arms.” He consoled the queen, saying, “Neither you, nor your own self, nor the king are to be pitied, for this conduct will become eternal fame in the world. Having cast off sorrow and with their minds gladdened, after the great sage departed, they devoted themselves to the forest, subsisting on its fruits and faithfully upholding their father’s noble promise.” Yet, despite the charioteer’s well-chosen words, the queen, emaciated by grief for her son, could not cease her lament. Again and again, she called out, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” Now, listen to the next chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Rāma, devoted to righteousness, had departed for the forest, Kausalyā, weeping and distressed, 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 and 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?” Her heart ached for Sītā: “Having eaten fine food, accompanied by soups and relishes, how will wide-eyed Sītā now 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 grieved for Rāma as well: “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 will I see Rāma’s lotus-hued face again, 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 lamented the king’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.” She reflected on custom and honor: “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 them do not consent to eat afterwards, just as a bull does not return to a field whose grass has already been cut.” Drawing the comparison further, she said, “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—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.” She concluded, “Rāghava will not endure such dishonor, just as a powerful tiger would not tolerate being struck by a child. The worlds united would not cause him fear in great battle; but here, the righteous one would guide the people by righteousness, not by wrongdoing.