As the night deepened in Ayodhyā’s palace, Kausalyā’s heart was heavy with sorrow, her mind restless with thoughts of her beloved son and his gentle wife. She wondered, with anguish, how Sītā—accustomed to the finest foods, always served with delicate soups and savory relishes—would now manage to eat the coarse fare of the forest. How would the wide-eyed, blameless Sītā, who had always delighted in the sweet sounds of song and music, bear the dreadful cries of flesh-eating lions echoing through the wilderness? Kausalyā’s thoughts turned to Rāma himself. Where, she wondered, did that mighty-armed one now rest—he whose arms were as strong as iron bars, whose very presence reminded one of Indra’s banner, radiant and powerful? She yearned for the day she might once more behold Rāma’s lotus-hued face, framed by lovely hair, his breath fragrant as a lotus, his eyes deep and blue as lotus petals. Yet, despite this longing, her heart did not break; it seemed made of adamant, for though she could not see her son, it did not shatter into a thousand pieces. The pain was sharpened by the knowledge that, through an act devoid of pity, her noble kinsmen—worthy of happiness—had been cast away and now wandered, wretched, in the forest. Kausalyā’s mind turned anxiously to the future. If Rāghava were to return in the fifteenth year, she prayed that Bharata would not covet the kingdom or the treasury, but renounce them both. She recalled the stories told about those who, at a śrāddha, feed their own relatives first, inviting the foremost of the twice-born only after the rite is done. Among those twice-born who are virtuous and learned, there is no resentment, even if the nectar offered is as divine as ambrosia. Wise brāhmaṇas, even when satisfied, do not consent to eat what is left, just as a bull does not return to a field whose grass has already been cut. In the same way, she mused, if the younger brother has enjoyed the kingdom, why should the elder—though superior—not feel slighted? A tiger does not wish to eat food brought by another; so too, a man of tiger-like strength does not value what is taken by another. Items used in a sacrifice—oblations, clarified butter, sacrificial cakes, sacred grass, khadira posts—once spent, serve no further purpose. Likewise, a kingdom whose essence has been seized is like wine whose spirit has departed; Rāma could not accept it, just as a sacrifice cannot proceed when the soma is lost. Rāghava would never endure such dishonor, just as a mighty 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, the righteous one would guide the people by righteousness, never by wrongdoing. That mighty-armed hero, with his golden arrows, could, if he wished, burn up all beings and even the oceans, like the fires at the end of an age. Yet, such a one—lion-strong, bull-eyed, foremost among men—has been brought low by his own father, just as a lotus-born son might be destroyed. Kausalyā pondered the conduct of the twice-born and the eternal righteousness taught in the scriptures. If the king, devoted to righteousness, had exiled his own son, what now remained for her? For a woman, her husband is her only refuge; her son is her second; her relatives, her third; but a fourth does not exist. Now, with Rāma gone to the forest, neither husband nor son remained for her. She did not wish to follow Rāma into the wilderness; truly, she felt destroyed by the king’s actions. By him, the kingdom and its provinces were ruined; her own self and her ministers were lost; she and her son were undone, and so too the citizens of Ayodhyā. Yet, the king’s other son and wife rejoiced. Hearing these harsh words, the king, though deeply grieved, fell into a swoon, overcome by sorrow and haunted by memories of his own misdeeds. Thus begins the sixty-second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. The king, distressed and shaken by Kausalyā’s angry and sorrowful words, was filled with grief. Reflecting on her reproaches, his senses disturbed, he fainted. After a long time, the tormentor of foes regained consciousness, sighing deeply and warmly. Seeing Kausalyā at his side, he again fell into troubled thought, memories of a long-ago misdeed returning to haunt him—the act he had committed unknowingly as a shooter at sound. Now, his mind was overwhelmed by the double affliction of that old sorrow and his present grief for Rāma. Burning with anguish, the lord of the earth spoke to Kausalyā, trembling, his hands joined in supplication, his face lowered, seeking her favor. “I entreat you, Kausalyā,” he said, “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 and well-versed in the ways of the world, should not speak harshly to one already so deeply afflicted, even though you yourself are in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and compassionate words, Kausalyā shed tears, which flowed like fresh water from a reed. With hands joined in reverence upon her head, weeping and agitated, she spoke trembling words to the king, her voice hurried and fearful. “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. I know righteousness, and I know you as a knower of righteousness and a speaker of truth; but, afflicted by grief for my son, I have spoken something improper. Grief destroys courage, grief destroys learning; grief destroys everything—there is no enemy equal to grief. One can endure a blow from an enemy’s hand, but even the slightest grief that has arisen is hard to bear.” Thus, in the palace darkened by sorrow, the king and queen, each consumed by grief and regret, spoke to one another with trembling hearts and tearful eyes, the weight of their loss heavy upon them.