As Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa journeyed into the forest, Sītā—Vaidehī—shone with a radiant beauty that nothing could diminish. Neither the forceful winds along the path, nor confusion, nor the oppressive heat could lessen her moon-like glow. Her face, generous and lovely, bloomed like a lotus and gleamed with the fullness of the moon, its luster undimmed by hardship. Even her feet, though now unadorned with the red dye of lac, retained their delicate charm, resembling lotus buds in their natural grace. Bereft of her ornaments, Vaidehī still walked with elegance; her anklets chimed softly as she moved, like those of a playful woman. Within the wild forest, whenever Sītā encountered elephants, lions, or tigers, she felt no fear, for she trusted in Rāma’s strong arms to protect her. In truth, neither you, nor your own self, nor the king are to be pitied, for this conduct—this steadfastness and virtue—will become immortalized as eternal fame in the world. Having cast aside their sorrow, and with minds uplifted, the trio—after the great sage had departed—devoted themselves to the forest, subsisting on its fruits, faithfully upholding their father’s noble promise. Yet, back in Ayodhyā, the queen—emaciated by grief for her son—could not be comforted, despite the charioteer’s gentle words. She continued her lament, crying out for her beloved son, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” Now, hear the sixty-first chapter of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Rāma, devoted to righteousness, had gone to the forest, Kausalyā, weeping and distressed, spoke to her husband, King Daśaratha. She said, “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 the hardships of 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 food accompanied by soups and relishes, how will wide-eyed Sītā partake of coarse forest fare? Accustomed to hearing 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 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, 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. Even if the worlds united against him, he would not be afraid in 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. 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— A woman's only refuge is her husband; her second is her son; her third is her relatives; a fourth does not exist here. Now, neither you nor Rāma remain for me, as he has gone to the forest; I do not wish to go to the forest—truly, I am destroyed by you. By you, this kingdom with its provinces is destroyed; likewise, my own self and my ministers are ruined; I, with my son, am lost, and so are the citizens; yet your son and wife rejoice. Hearing these harsh words, the king, though grieved, fell into a swoon; then that ruler was overcome by sorrow and again remembered his own misdeeds. Now, listen to the sixty-second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Thus, the king, distressed, heard harsh words from Rāma's mother, who was angry and sorrowful, and he began to reflect, full of grief. After reflecting, the king, his senses disturbed, fainted; then, after a long time, the tormentor of foes regained consciousness. Regaining consciousness, he sighed deeply and warmly; seeing Kausalyā at his side, he again fell into thought.