The charioteer found himself recalling, almost involuntarily, the words Sītā had once spoken—words that had arisen suddenly in connection with Kaikeyī. Yet now, as he tried to summon them, they seemed to slip from his memory, lost beyond recall. Setting aside those careless words, he gathered himself and addressed the queen with gentle, comforting speech, striving to soothe her sorrow. He spoke of Vaidehī, Sītā, whose beauty and composure remained undiminished despite the hardships of the journey. Neither the wind’s force along the road, nor the confusion of travel, nor the oppressive heat could lessen the moon-like radiance that shone from her. Her face, generous and serene, glowed like a full-blown lotus, as lustrous as the full moon itself. Even her feet, though unadorned with red dye, gleamed like tender lotus buds, their natural beauty undiminished by the absence of lac. Sītā, now stripped of her ornaments, still moved with effortless grace, her anklets chiming lightly as she walked, embodying the playfulness of a joyful woman. No fear touched her heart, whether she glimpsed elephants, lions, or tigers in the depths of the forest, for she placed her complete trust in Rāma’s strong arms. The charioteer gently assured the queen that neither she, nor her own self, nor even the king, were to be pitied, for the conduct of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa would be remembered throughout the world as an eternal example of noble fame. Once they had cast off their sorrow and, their minds calmed, watched the great sage depart on his way, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa devoted themselves to the forest. Sustaining themselves on forest fruits, they faithfully upheld their father’s noble promise. Yet, despite the charioteer’s well-chosen words, the queen, wasted by grief for her son, could not cease her lament. Again and again, she cried out, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” Now, listen to the sixty-first chapter in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Rāma, steadfast in righteousness, had departed for the forest, Kausalyā, weeping and distraught, turned to her husband, King Daśaratha, and spoke from the depths of her anguish. “Though your fame, earned through me, is renowned in all the three worlds, Rāghava is compassionate, generous, and always speaks with kindness. How will those two sons of yours, the very best among men, who have been raised in comfort, now endure the hardships of the forest, together with Sītā? “That young, delicate maiden, Maithilī, unaccustomed to hardship—how will she bear the heat and the cold of the wilderness? She who has eaten only the finest foods, accompanied by soups and relishes—how will wide-eyed Sītā now partake of the coarse fare of the forest? Accustomed as she is 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 sleep—he whose arms are strong as iron, who resembles Indra’s banner in his strength and grace? When shall I again behold Rāma’s lotus-hued face, framed by lovely hair, his breath fragrant as a lotus, his eyes deep as blue lotuses? Truly, my heart must be made of adamant, for though I am parted from 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 first at a śrāddha, and only afterwards, having completed the rite, invite the foremost of the twice-born. Among them, those brāhmaṇas who are virtuous and learned do not resent it, even if the nectar offered is as sweet as 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. “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; similarly, 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 in a sacrifice—cannot serve again. 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. All the worlds united would not cause him fear in battle; yet he 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. Such a one—lion-strong, 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—what remains for me? A woman’s only refuge is her husband; her second is her son; her third is her relatives; a fourth does not exist. Now, neither you nor Rāma remain for me, for he has gone to the forest. I do not wish to go there myself—truly, I am destroyed by you. “By your actions, this kingdom with its provinces is ruined; my own self and my ministers are ruined; I, with my son, am lost, and so are the citizens. Only your son and wife rejoice.” Hearing these harsh words, the king, though already stricken by grief, fell into a swoon. Overcome by sorrow, he again remembered his own misdeeds. Now, listen to the sixty-second chapter in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Thus, the king, tormented by grief, heard the bitter words of Rāma’s mother—words born of anger and sorrow—and he began to reflect, his heart weighed down by suffering.