With deep anguish, Queen Kausalya confronted King Dasharatha, her voice trembling with sorrow and reproach. She lamented that, because of his pitiless actions, those dearest to her—her kinsmen, so deserving of happiness—had been cast away and now wandered, wretched, in the forest. She implored that, should Rāghava return in the fifteenth year, Bharata must not covet the kingdom or its treasury, but renounce them both. Kausalya drew upon ancient customs to illustrate her pain: she spoke of those who, during a śrāddha ritual, first feed their own relatives and only afterwards invite the foremost of the twice-born. Among them, the virtuous and learned brāhmaṇas do not resent this, even if the nectar offered is as delightful as that of the gods. Yet, even when satisfied, the wise among them refuse to eat after others, just as a bull does not return to a field whose grass has already been cut. She continued, saying that when 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; in the same way, a man of tiger-like strength does not value what is taken by another. Ritual items—oblations, clarified butter, sacrificial cakes, sacred grass, khadira posts—once used, cannot serve again in a sacrifice. Likewise, 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. Kausalya declared that Rāghava would 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 battle, yet the righteous one would guide the people by righteousness, never by wrongdoing. That mighty-armed hero, with golden arrows, could burn up beings and even the oceans, as at the end of an age. Such a lion-strong, bull-eyed, foremost among men is destroyed by his own father, just as a lotus-born son might be. She invoked the conduct of the twice-born, the eternal righteousness seen in the scriptures, questioning how the king, devoted to righteousness, could exile his own son. For a woman, her husband is her only refuge; her second is her son, her third is her relatives—there is no fourth. Now, with Rāma gone to the forest, neither the king nor Rāma remain for her. She did not wish to go to the forest herself; truly, she felt destroyed by the king. Kausalya mourned that the kingdom and its provinces had been ruined by Dasharatha, as had her own self and her ministers. She, along with her son and the citizens, was lost, while the king’s son and wife rejoiced. Hearing these harsh words, Dasharatha, though grieved, fell into a swoon. Overcome by sorrow, he remembered his own past misdeeds. Thus begins the sixty-second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. 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, Dasharatha fainted. After a long time, the tormentor of foes regained consciousness. Upon awakening, he sighed deeply and warmly; seeing Kausalya at his side, he again fell into thought. As he pondered, his mind returned to a misdeed he had committed long ago, unknowingly, as a shooter at sound. Tormented by sorrow for Rāma and haunted by his past, the great king was overwhelmed by both afflictions. Burning with grief and sorrow, the lord of the earth spoke to Kausalya, trembling, his hands joined in supplication, his face turned downward, seeking her favor. He entreated her, saying, “Kausalya, I beg you with these hands joined in reverence; you are ever compassionate and kind, even to others. For women, the husband—virtuous or otherwise—is, for those who reflect on righteousness, the visible deity in this world. You, ever devoted to righteousness and experienced in 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, Kausalya shed tears like fresh water flowing from a reed. Binding her hands 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. 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. It is possible to endure a blow from an enemy’s hand, but even the slightest grief that has arisen is hard to bear. Even ascetics, O hero, who know righteousness and are learned, become confused in their understanding of duty and wealth when their minds are clouded by grief. Today is counted as the fifth night since Rama went to the forest; for me, whose joy is destroyed by grief, these five nights are like five years. As I keep thinking of him, this grief grows in my heart, like the great surge of water in the ocean for those without support.” As Kausalya spoke thus, her auspicious words resounded, and the sun’s rays grew faint as night approached. The king, cheered by her gentle words yet overcome by grief, fell under the power of sleep.