As Vaidehī walked through the forest, her ornaments now gone, she still moved with the same graceful poise, her anklets ringing softly with each step, as if she were a playful maiden delighting in her surroundings. Whenever she encountered the mighty elephants, lions, or tigers that roamed the wild woods, she felt no fear at all, for she trusted completely in the strength and protection of Rāma’s arms. It was not you, nor even your own self, nor the king who deserved pity; for the conduct being displayed here would become renowned throughout the world as eternal fame. With sorrow cast aside and hearts uplifted, after the great sage had departed on his way, those devoted ones, living on fruits from the forest, faithfully upheld their father’s noble promise. Yet, despite the charioteer’s gentle and well-chosen words, the queen, weakened by grief for her son, could not stop her lamentation. She cried out repeatedly, “Beloved! Son! Rāghava!” longing for Rāma. 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 distressed, spoke these words to her husband, King Daśaratha. She said, “Though your fame, earned through me, is celebrated in all the three worlds, Rāghava himself is compassionate, generous, and always speaks kindly. How will those two sons, the best among men, raised in comfort, now endure the hardships of the forest together with Sītā? That young, dark-complexioned, delicate maiden, accustomed to luxury—how will Maithilī bear the extremes of heat and cold? Having eaten fine food accompanied by soups and relishes, how will wide-eyed Sītā now eat the coarse fare of the forest? Accustomed to hearing the sweet sounds of songs and music, how will the blameless Sītā 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 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 united worlds 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. 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 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 deeply grieved, fell into a swoon. Overcome by sorrow, he once more remembered his own misdeeds. Now, listen to the sixty-second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Thus, the king, distressed, heard these harsh words from Rāma’s mother, who was angry and sorrowful, and he began to reflect, full of grief. After reflecting, his senses disturbed, the king fainted; then, after a long time, the tormentor of foes regained consciousness. Upon awakening, he sighed deeply and warmly; seeing Kausalyā at his side, he again fell into thought. As he pondered, the memory of his past misdeed surfaced—the act he had done long ago, unknowingly, as a shooter at sound. His mind was overwhelmed by that sorrow and by grief for Rāma; the great king was tormented by both afflictions. Burning with grief and sorrow, the lord of the earth spoke to Kausalyā, trembling, with hands joined in supplication, his face turned downward, seeking her favor.