Lakṣmaṇa, ever devoted to righteousness and self-control, served Rāma with unwavering dedication in the forest, honoring him as one would revere a higher world itself. Sītā, too, having found her dwelling in that lonely wilderness, felt as secure as if she were in her own home. Fearless, she entrusted her mind entirely to Rāma, and not even the slightest trace of sorrow could be seen in her. Indeed, Vaidehī seemed perfectly suited to the life of exile, O Queen. Just as she had once delighted in the gardens of the city, Sītā now found joy amidst the solitude of the forests. Her face, radiant like the young moon, shone with childlike delight; steadfast in spirit, she dwelled with Rāma, undisturbed even in the heart of the wilderness. Her heart was truly given to him, her very life bound up with his; for her, Ayodhyā without Rāma was no different than the forest itself. Vaidehī would inquire about the villages and towns they passed, observing the courses of rivers and the many kinds of trees. Whatever she wished to know, she would ask Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa, and, comforted by their company, she felt as if she were still within earshot of Ayodhyā. Only once do I recall her uttering words in connection with Kaikeyī, spoken suddenly and without thought—but those words have since faded from my mind. Having dispelled those careless words, the charioteer then spoke sweet and pleasing words to the queen. Neither the force of the wind along the road, nor confusion, nor the heat could diminish the moon-like radiance of Vaidehī. Her face, generous and beautiful, resembled a full-blown lotus, shining like the full moon, never losing its luster. Even her feet, now unadorned with red dye, shone like lotus buds, though they lacked the color of lac. Though she no longer wore her ornaments, Vaidehī still moved with grace, her anklets sounding as she walked, like a playful woman. When she saw elephants, lions, or tigers in the forest, she felt no fear, relying on the protection of Rāma’s strong arms. O Queen, neither you, nor your own self, nor the king are to be pitied—for this conduct will be established as eternal fame in the world. Thus, having cast off their sorrow and with their minds gladdened, after the great sage had departed on his way, they—devoted to the forest and subsisting on its fruits—faithfully upheld 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, hear the sixty-first chapter in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Rāma, ever devoted to righteousness, had gone to the forest, Kausalyā, weeping and distressed, spoke these words 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 foods, accompanied by soups and relishes, how will wide-eyed Sītā partake of the coarse fare of the forest? 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 such 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 them 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. 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. Indeed, that mighty-armed hero, with golden arrows, could burn up beings and even the oceans, like the end of an age.