As Sītā journeyed through the forests, she found herself embracing the solitude with a joy reminiscent of the delight she once felt in the lush gardens of Ayodhyā. Her face, radiant like the young moon, shone with innocent happiness; steadfast in spirit, she dwelled contentedly with Rāma even amidst the lonely wilderness. Her heart was wholly given to him, her very life bound to his presence. For Sītā, Ayodhyā without Rāma was no different from the forest itself. Ever curious, Vaidehī would inquire about the villages and towns they passed, observing the winding courses of rivers and the many kinds of trees. Whenever she wished to know something, she would ask Rāma or Lakṣmaṇa, and their answers, their company, comforted her as though she were still within earshot of her beloved Ayodhyā. I recall only those words she once uttered in connection with Kaikeyī—spoken suddenly and in distress—but now, even those words no longer come to my mind. Having dispelled the careless words that had arisen, the charioteer turned to the queen and spoke sweet, gentle words to soothe her. No hardship along the road—the force of the wind, confusion, nor the heat—could diminish the moon-like radiance of Vaidehī. Her face, generous and beautiful, glowed like a full-blown lotus, shining with the fullness of the moon, never losing its luster. Even her feet, though now unadorned with red dye, gleamed like lotus buds, lacking only the color of lac. Without her ornaments, Vaidehī still moved with graceful dignity, her anklets sounding softly as she walked, like a playful woman. In the depths of the forest, whether she encountered elephants, lions, or tigers, she felt no fear, trusting completely in the protection of Rāma’s strong arms. Truly, neither you, nor your own self, nor even the king, are to be pitied—this conduct, this steadfastness, will be remembered in the world as eternal fame. With sorrow cast aside and their hearts uplifted, after the great sage had departed, the exiled ones—devoted to the forest and living on its fruits—faithfully upheld their father’s noble promise. Yet, despite the charioteer’s gentle urging and well-chosen words, the queen, weakened by her grief for her son, could not cease her lament, crying out, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” Now, listen to 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 overwhelmed with distress, spoke to her husband. “Though your fame, earned through me, is renowned in all three worlds, Rāghava himself is compassionate, generous, and always speaks with kindness. Yet how will those two sons, the best among men, raised in such comfort, now endure the hardships of the forest together with Sītā? “That young, dark-complexioned, delicate maiden, so accustomed to comfort—how will Maithilī bear the extremes of heat and cold? She who has always eaten fine food, 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 now endure the dreadful cries of flesh-eating lions? “Where does that mighty-armed one, whose arms are like iron bars, sleep now—he who resembles Indra’s banner, a man of great strength? When shall 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 break 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. “It is said that some people feed their own relatives first 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. Yet, 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. “In the same way, 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; likewise, 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. “Thus, 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. Even if all the worlds united against him in battle, he would not fear; yet, he would guide the people only by righteousness, not by wrongdoing. “That mighty-armed hero, with golden arrows, could burn up all beings and even the oceans, like the fire at the end of an age. Such a one, lion-strong and bull-eyed, foremost among men, is destroyed by his own father, just as a lotus-born son might be. “The conduct of twice-born men, the eternal righteousness seen in the scriptures—if you, devoted to righteousness, have exiled your son—then what remains for me? A woman’s only refuge is her husband; her second is her son; her third is her relatives; and a fourth does not exist in this world.