Though your fame, earned through my presence, resounds throughout the three worlds, O King, Rāghava—our Rāma—is compassionate, generous, and ever speaks kindly. Yet now, how will those two sons of yours, the very best among men, who have always been raised in comfort, endure the hardships of forest life together with Sītā? That young, dark-complexioned maiden, delicate and accustomed to ease—how will Maithilī bear the heat and the cold of the wild? She, whose days were filled with fine foods, soups, and relishes—how will wide-eyed Sītā bring herself to eat the coarse fare of the forest? Accustomed as she was to the sweet sounds of song and music, how will the blameless one endure the dreadful cries of flesh-eating lions at night? And where is that mighty-armed son of yours sleeping now—he whose arms are like iron bars, who resembles Indra’s own banner, and whose strength is renowned? When, O King, will I again see Rāma’s lotus-hued face, framed by his lovely hair, his breath fragrant as a lotus, and his eyes deep and blue as lotuses themselves? 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—who deserved 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. There are those, it is said, who feed their own relatives at a śrāddha first, and only after the rite is done do they invite the foremost of the twice-born. Among such people, the twice-born who are virtuous and learned do not resent this, 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 afterwards, 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 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—once used in a sacrifice, they are not used again. 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 themselves would not cause him fear in great battle; yet 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, as if 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 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 your doing, this kingdom with its provinces is ruined; 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 already grieved, fell into a swoon; overcome by sorrow, he remembered again his own misdeeds. Now, listen to the sixty-second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Thus, the king, distressed, heard the harsh words from Rāma’s mother, Kausalyā, who was angry and sorrowful, and he began to reflect, his heart full of grief. As he pondered, his senses disturbed, he fainted away; only after a long time did the tormentor of foes regain consciousness. When he awoke, he sighed deeply and warmly; seeing Kausalyā at his side, he again fell into troubled thought. As he pondered, the memory of his past misdeed came to mind—the act he had done long ago, unknowingly, as a shooter at sound. His mind, overwhelmed by that sorrow and by grief for Rāma, was tormented by both afflictions. Burning with pain and sorrow, the lord of the earth spoke to Kausalyā, trembling, with hands joined in supplication, his face turned downward, seeking her favor. “I entreat you, Kausalyā, with these hands joined in reverence; for you are ever compassionate and kind, even to others. Indeed, O lady, 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 have seen the ways of the world, should not speak harshly to one who is already deeply afflicted, even though you are yourself in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and compassionate words, Kausalyā wept, her tears flowing like fresh water from a reed. With hands joined like a lotus in reverence upon her head, she, weeping and agitated, spoke trembling words to the king in haste and fear: “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. She is not a woman to be praised, O wise one, in either world, who, having such a husband, must plead for his favor.