It is said that, during the sacred rite of śrāddha, some people feed their own relatives first, and only after completing the ritual do they invite the foremost of the twice-born, the brāhmaṇas. Among these, those brāhmaṇas who are virtuous and learned bear no resentment, even if the offerings are as delightful as nectar meant for the gods. Yet, even when the brāhmaṇas are satisfied, the wise among them will not consent to eat afterwards, just as a bull will not return to graze in a field whose grass has already been cut. In the same way, when the younger brother has enjoyed the kingdom, why should the elder, though superior, not feel slighted, O lord of the people? A tiger will not eat food brought by another, and likewise, a man of tiger-like strength does not value what is taken by someone else. In a sacrifice, oblations, clarified butter, sacrificial cakes, sacred grass, and khadira posts, once used, cannot be used again. Similarly, this kingdom, whose essence has already been seized, is like wine whose spirit has departed; Rāma cannot accept it, just as a sacrifice cannot proceed without the soma. Rāghava will not endure such dishonor, just as a powerful tiger would never tolerate being struck by a child. Even if the worlds were united against him in battle, he would not be afraid; yet this righteous one would guide the people by righteousness, not by wrongdoing. Indeed, that mighty-armed hero, with golden arrows, could burn up all beings and even the oceans, like the destruction at the end of an age. Such a one—lion-strong, bull-eyed, the foremost among men—is now destroyed by his own father, just as a lotus-born son might be. If you, devoted to righteousness, have exiled your son, what becomes of the conduct of twice-born men and the eternal righteousness taught in the scriptures? 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, as he has gone to the forest. I do not wish to go to the forest—truly, I am destroyed by you. You have ruined this kingdom and its provinces, and likewise my own self and my ministers. I, with my son, am lost, and so are the citizens; yet your son and wife rejoice. Hearing these harsh words, the king, though deeply grieved, fell into a swoon, overcome by sorrow and again remembering his own misdeeds. Now, listen to the sixty-second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Thus, the king, distressed, heard these harsh words from Rāma’s mother, Kausalya, who was angry and sorrowful, and he began to reflect, full of grief. After pondering, his senses disturbed, he fainted; and after a long time, the tormentor of foes regained consciousness. Once awake, he sighed deeply and warmly; seeing Kausalya at his side, he again fell into thought. As he pondered, 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, the great king was tormented by both afflictions. Burning with grief and sorrow, the lord of the earth spoke to Kausalya, trembling, with hands joined in supplication, his face turned downward, seeking her favor. He pleaded, “I entreat you, Kausalya, 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 yourself are in sorrow.” Hearing the king’s sorrowful and compassionate words, Kausalya shed tears like fresh water flowing from a reed. She bound her hands like a lotus in reverence upon her head, and, 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, the sun’s rays grew faint and night approached. Thus, the king, cheered by the words of Queen Kausalya but overcome by grief, fell under the power of sleep. Now, hear the sixty-third sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Awakening repeatedly, his mind overcome by grief, King Dasaratha then fell into deep thought.