Having realized his earlier words had been spoken carelessly, the charioteer gathered himself and addressed the queen, Kaikeyī, with sweet and gentle speech, seeking to offer her comfort. He assured her that neither the forceful winds along the road, nor confusion, nor the oppressive heat of the day could diminish the radiant, moon-like beauty of Vaidehī, Sītā. He spoke of Sītā’s face—so generous and lovely—comparing it to a full-blown lotus, shining as brightly as the full moon, its luster undimmed even by adversity. He described how, even now, Sītā’s feet, though unadorned by red dye, gleam like tender lotus buds, their natural beauty apparent even without the color of lac. Though she is without her ornaments, she moves with grace, her anklets ringing as she walks, like a playful young woman. The charioteer marveled at her courage: whether Sītā comes upon an elephant, a lion, or a tiger in the depths of the forest, she feels no fear, for she trusts in the shelter of Rāma’s strong arms. He then told the queen that there was no need to pity herself, the king, or anyone else, for this conduct—upholding the promise given—would be celebrated as eternal fame throughout the world. With sorrow cast off and minds gladdened, after the great sage had departed on his way, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa, devoted to the forest and living on its fruits, faithfully upheld their father’s noble word. Yet, despite the charioteer’s wise and comforting words, the queen, Kausalyā, wasted by grief for her son, could not restrain her lamentation. She called out again and again, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” her sorrow unrelenting. Now begins the sixty-first chapter in the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Rāma, ever devoted to righteousness, had departed for the forest, Kausalyā, weeping and overwhelmed by distress, addressed her husband, King Daśaratha. She reminded him that his fame—earned through her—was celebrated in all the three worlds, and she spoke of Rāma’s compassion, generosity, and gentle speech. With anguish, she wondered aloud how her two sons, the best among men, raised in comfort, would now endure the hardships of forest life, accompanied by Sītā. She grieved especially for that young, dark-complexioned, delicate maiden, Maithilī, who had always known comfort—how would Sītā bear the extremes of heat and cold? Accustomed to fine foods with soups and relishes, how would wide-eyed Sītā partake of the coarse fare of the forest? Having been surrounded by the sweet sounds of song and music, how would the blameless one endure the dreadful cries of flesh-eating lions? Kausalyā’s thoughts turned to Rāma himself—where did that mighty-armed one, whose strength was like iron, now sleep? He who was like Indra’s banner, of great power? When, she wondered, would she again behold Rāma’s lotus-hued face, framed by lovely hair, his breath as fragrant as a lotus, and his eyes like blue lotuses? She marveled at her own endurance, saying her heart must be made of adamant, for though she did not see her son, it did not shatter into a thousand pieces. She accused Daśaratha of pitilessness, for by his act, her kinsmen—deserving of happiness—had been cast away and now wandered, wretched, in the wilderness. Kausalyā prayed that if Rāghava should return in the fifteenth year, Bharata would not desire the kingdom or its treasures, but renounce them both. She compared the situation to a śrāddha, where some feed their own relatives first and only afterwards call the worthy brāhmaṇas. Among the wise and virtuous twice-born, there is no resentment, even if the nectar offered is like that of the gods. Yet, when the brāhmaṇas are satisfied, the wise 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, Kausalyā said, if the younger brother has enjoyed the kingdom, why should the elder, though superior, not feel slighted? A tiger does not wish to eat food brought by another, nor does a man of tiger-like strength value what is taken by another. She explained that oblations, clarified butter, sacrificial cakes, sacred grass, and khadira posts, once used, cannot serve again in a sacrifice. Likewise, a kingdom whose essence has been seized is like wine whose spirit is gone; Rāma cannot accept it, just as a sacrifice cannot proceed without soma. She declared that Rāghava would not endure such dishonor, just as a powerful tiger would not tolerate being struck by a child. Not even the united worlds would cause him fear in battle, but he would guide the people by righteousness, not by wrongdoing. 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 and bull-eyed, is destroyed by his own father, just as a lotus-born son might be. Kausalyā reflected on the conduct of twice-born men and the eternal righteousness described in the scriptures. If Daśaratha, devoted to righteousness, had exiled his son, then what recourse remained for her? A woman’s only refuge is her husband; her second is her son; her third is her relatives; a fourth does not exist in this world. Now, neither Daśaratha nor Rāma remained for her, as Rāma was gone to the forest. She had no wish to go to the forest herself and felt utterly destroyed by Daśaratha’s actions. She lamented that by Daśaratha’s deeds, the kingdom with its provinces was ruined, as were she herself and her ministers. She, with her son, was lost, and so were the citizens, while only his son and wife—Kaikeyī and Bharata—rejoiced. Hearing these harsh words, the king, though already stricken by grief, fell into a swoon. Overcome by sorrow, Daśaratha again remembered his own misdeeds. Now begins the sixty-second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Thus, distressed, the king heard the harsh words from Rāma’s mother, angry and sorrowful, and he was plunged into deep reflection, full of grief. As he pondered her words, his senses disturbed, the king fainted away. Only after a long time did the tormentor of foes, Daśaratha, regain consciousness.