Hear now the tale as told in the sixty-first and sixty-second chapters of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. When Rāma, ever devoted to righteousness, departed for the forest, his mother Kausalyā was overwhelmed by grief. She wept bitterly, and in her distress, she spoke sorrowful words to her husband, King Daśaratha. She lamented that although Daśaratha’s fame, won partly through her, was renowned throughout the three worlds, their son Rāghava—compassionate, generous, and gentle—had been sent away. With anguish, Kausalyā wondered how Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, raised amid comfort and luxury, would endure the hardships of forest life, especially with Sītā beside them. She worried for Sītā, the young and delicate maiden of dark complexion, accustomed to ease. How would Maithilī bear the extremes of heat and cold? How would she, whose wide eyes were used to fine foods and delicious relishes, accept the coarse fare of the wilderness? How could she, accustomed to the sweet sounds of music and song, tolerate the terrifying cries of flesh-eating lions? Kausalyā’s heart ached for Rāma. She wondered where the mighty-armed one, whose limbs were like iron bars and whose stature was as grand as Indra’s banner, now lay his head. When, she cried, would she see Rāma’s lotus-hued face again, framed by lovely hair, his breath fragrant as a lotus, his eyes like blue lotuses? Her heart, she thought, must be made of adamant, for though she did not see him, it did not shatter into a thousand pieces. She reproached Daśaratha for his pitiless act: those kin who deserved happiness now wandered, wretched, in the forest. If Rāghava returned after fourteen years, she urged, Bharata should renounce both the kingdom and the treasury, not coveting what belonged to his elder brother. Kausalyā recalled how some, during the śrāddha ceremony, feed their own relatives first, inviting the learned brāhmaṇas only afterward. The virtuous twice-born do not resent this, even if the offerings are as sweet as nectar. Yet, even when satisfied, the wise brāhmaṇas do not consent to eat after others, just as a bull does not return to a field where the grass has already been cut. She compared this to the kingdom: if the younger brother enjoys it first, why should the elder, though superior, not feel slighted? 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. Sacrificial items—oblations, clarified butter, cakes, sacred grass, and posts—once used, do not serve again. So too, 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 would not endure such dishonor, just as a powerful tiger would not tolerate being struck by a child. The united worlds would not frighten him in battle, but 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. Yet such a one, lion-strong, bull-eyed, and foremost among men, is destroyed by his own father, as a lotus-born son might be. Kausalyā reflected on the conduct of the twice-born and the eternal righteousness found in the scriptures. If Daśaratha, devoted to righteousness, had exiled his own son, then what refuge remained? For a woman, her husband is her only protector; her son is the second; relatives the third; there is no fourth. Now, with Rāma gone, neither husband nor son remained for her. She did not wish to go to the forest; she felt truly destroyed by Daśaratha. By his actions, the kingdom and its provinces were ruined, as were Kausalyā herself, her ministers, her son, and the citizens. Only Kaikeyī and her son rejoiced. Hearing these harsh words, Daśaratha, though deeply grieved, fell into a swoon, overcome by sorrow and reminded once more of his own misdeeds. Listen now to the sixty-second sarga of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. The king, distressed, heard Kausalyā’s harsh words, full of anger and sorrow, and began to reflect, burdened by grief. As he pondered, his senses disturbed, he fainted. After a long time, the tormentor of foes regained consciousness. Sighing deeply and warmly, Daśaratha saw Kausalyā at his side and again fell into thought. His mind was drawn to a past misdeed—the act he had committed long ago, unknowingly, as a hunter who shot at sound. Now, the sorrow from that deed and the grief for Rāma tormented the great king, burning him with affliction. Trembling, his hands joined in supplication, face lowered, Daśaratha spoke to Kausalyā, seeking her favor. He implored her: “I entreat you, Kausalyā, with these hands joined in reverence. You are ever compassionate and kind, even to others. For women, the husband—whether virtuous or not—is, for those who reflect on righteousness, the visible deity in this world. You, ever devoted to righteousness, who know the ways of the world, should not speak harshly to one who is already deeply afflicted, even though you yourself are in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and compassionate words, Kausalyā shed tears, flowing like fresh water from a reed. Binding her hands like a lotus in reverence upon her head, she, weeping and agitated, spoke trembling words to the king, hastily and in fear.