As the sorrowful days in Ayodhyā unfolded, Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, spoke to King Daśaratha with a heart heavy with anguish and a voice sharpened by pain. “If Rāghava returns in the fifteenth year,” she declared, “let Bharata not covet the kingdom or the treasury—let him renounce them both.” Her words carried the weight of tradition and the sting of injustice. She continued, drawing upon the customs of the world: “Some, it is said, feed their own kin first at a śrāddha, and only afterwards, when the rite is done, invite the foremost of the twice-born. Among them, those brāhmaṇas who are virtuous and learned do not resent it, even if the food offered is as sweet as nectar. Yet, when the brāhmaṇas are satisfied, the wise among them do not consent to eat what is left, just as a bull does not return to a field whose grass has been cut.” Her voice trembled with emotion as she compared the kingdom to such offerings: “In the same way, 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; so too, 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, these do not 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.” Kausalyā’s pain was evident as she spoke of Rāma’s honor: “Rāghava will not endure such dishonor, just as a powerful tiger would not tolerate being struck by a child. The worlds united would not cause him fear in battle; yet Rāma, righteous as he is, would guide the people by righteousness, not by wrongdoing. That mighty-armed hero, with golden arrows, could burn up beings and even the oceans, like 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.” Her lament continued, drawing on dharma and the plight of women: “The conduct of twice-born men, the eternal righteousness seen in the scriptures—if you, devoted to righteousness, have exiled your son—know that 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.” She accused Daśaratha, her voice breaking, “By you, this kingdom with its provinces is destroyed; 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 and piercing words, the king, already burdened with grief, fell into a swoon. When he awoke, sorrow overwhelmed him anew, and he was forced to remember his own misdeeds. Thus begins the sixty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Daśaratha, deeply distressed, heard the angry and sorrowful words of Kausalyā and began to reflect, his mind seized by grief. As he pondered, his senses became disturbed, and he fainted. After a long time, the tormentor of foes regained consciousness. Sighing deeply, he saw Kausalyā beside him and again fell into deep thought. In his mind, the memory of a past misdeed arose—the act he had committed long ago, unwittingly, as a hunter who shot at sound. Now, tormented by both the sorrow of that ancient mistake and his grief for Rāma, the great king felt crushed by a double burden. Burning with sorrow, Daśaratha, trembling and with hands joined in supplication, his face bowed low, sought Kausalyā’s favor. “I entreat you, Kausalyā, with these hands joined in reverence,” he pleaded. “You are ever compassionate and kind, even to others. Truly, for women, the husband—virtuous or not—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 already so afflicted, even though you yourself are in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and gentle words, Kausalyā shed tears, fresh and flowing like water from a reed. With hands joined and raised to her head in reverence, she spoke, her voice trembling with 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.” Her sorrow poured forth: “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 Rāma 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 Kausalyā spoke her auspicious words, the sun’s rays grew faint and night approached. Thus, the king, cheered by her words yet still overwhelmed by grief, fell under the power of sleep. Thus concludes this portion of the sacred narrative.