When Rāma, ever devoted to righteousness, departed for the forest, Kausalyā was overcome with grief and wept bitterly. In her distress, she turned to her husband, King Daśaratha, and spoke words heavy with sorrow. “Your fame, earned through my presence, is celebrated throughout the three worlds,” she began, her voice trembling. “Rāghava, our son, is compassionate, generous, and gentle in speech. How will he and his brother Lakṣmaṇa, both reared in comfort and ease, now endure the hardship of forest life, especially with Sītā by their side? “That delicate maiden, Maithilī, so young and dark-complexioned, has always lived in luxury. How will she bear the scorching heat and biting cold of the wilderness? Accustomed as she is to fine meals, with soups and relishes, how will wide-eyed Sītā survive on the coarse fare of the forest? She has always been surrounded by the sweet sounds of song and music—how will she endure the terrifying cries of flesh-eating lions in the night? “Where does my mighty-armed son sleep now—he whose arms are like iron bars, who stands tall and strong like Indra’s banner? When will I again behold Rāma’s lotus-hued face, framed by lovely hair, his breath fragrant as a lotus, his eyes blue as lotuses themselves? Truly, my heart must be made of stone, for though I no longer see him, it does not shatter into a thousand pieces. “By your pitiless act, my beloved kinsmen, all worthy of happiness, have been cast away and now wander wretchedly 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 afterward invite the foremost of the twice-born to partake. Among them, those twice-born who are virtuous and learned do not resent it, even if the nectar offered is as sweet as that of the gods. “Yet, even when the brāhmaṇas are satisfied, the wise among them do not consent to eat afterward, just as a bull does not return to a field whose grass has been cut. So too, when the younger brother has enjoyed the kingdom, why should the elder, though superior, not feel slighted, O lord of men? 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. “Oblations, clarified butter, sacrificial cakes, sacred grass, and khadira posts—once used, they do not serve again in 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 all the worlds united against him in battle, he would not be afraid; yet he would guide his people by righteousness, never by wrongdoing. That mighty-armed hero, with golden arrows, could burn up all beings and even the oceans, like the fire at 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 taught by the scriptures—if you, devoted to righteousness, have exiled your son—what remains for me? For a woman, her 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—he has gone to the forest, and I do not wish to go there. Truly, I am destroyed by you. “By your act, this kingdom and its provinces are ruined; my own self and my ministers are lost; I, with my son, am destroyed, and so are the citizens; yet your son and wife rejoice.” Hearing these harsh and sorrowful words, the king, though already stricken with grief, fell into a swoon. Overwhelmed by sorrow, he again remembered his own misdeeds. Now listen to the sixty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Thus, the king, distressed and troubled by Kausalyā’s words, reflected deeply, his heart heavy with grief. After a time, his senses disturbed, he fainted once more. When he finally regained consciousness, he sighed deeply and, seeing Kausalyā at his side, again fell into anxious thought. As he pondered, his mind was drawn to a past misdeed—the act he had committed long ago, unknowingly, as a shooter at sound. Tormented by the sorrow of that old sin and his present grief for Rāma, the great king suffered twofold anguish. Burning with pain, trembling, and seeking Kausalyā’s favor, the lord of the earth joined his hands in supplication, his face cast downward. He pleaded, “I entreat you, Kausalyā, with these hands joined in reverence. For you are ever compassionate and kind, not only to your own but to others as well. Indeed, O lady, for a woman, her husband—whether virtuous or not—is, for those who reflect on righteousness, the visible deity in this world. You, ever devoted to righteousness and wise in the ways of the world, should not speak harshly to one who is already deeply afflicted, even though you yourself suffer.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and humble words, Kausalyā wept, her tears flowing like fresh water from a reed. Placing her hands, joined like a lotus in reverence, upon her head, she spoke, trembling with grief and fear, her voice hurried. “Be gracious, I beg you, with my head bowed to the ground. I am already destroyed, O lord, by your command—do not slay me further.