When Bharata, the younger brother, had enjoyed the kingdom, it was only natural that the elder, Rāma—superior in every way—would feel slighted, O lord of the people. Just as a tiger will not eat food brought by another, so too does a man of tiger-like strength find no value in what is taken by someone else. In the sacred rituals, oblations, clarified butter, sacrificial cakes, sacred grass, and khadira posts, once used, cannot be employed again; so too, a kingdom whose essence has been seized is like wine drained of its spirit. Rāma cannot accept such a kingdom, just as a sacrifice cannot proceed when the soma is lost. Rāghava would never endure such dishonor, just as a powerful 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, he would guide the people by righteousness, not by wrongdoing. 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, foremost among men—is destroyed by his own father, just as a lotus-born son might be. The conduct of the twice-born, the eternal righteousness taught 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; there is no fourth. Now, with Rāma gone to the forest, neither you nor Rāma remain for me. I do not wish to go to the forest; truly, I am destroyed by you. By your actions, this kingdom and its provinces are ruined; my own self and my ministers are lost; I and my son are destroyed, as are the citizens. Yet, your son and wife rejoice. Hearing these harsh words, King Daśaratha, though grieved, fell into a swoon. Overcome by sorrow, he remembered his own misdeeds. Listen now to the sixty-second sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. The king, distressed, heard the harsh words from Rāma’s mother, Kausalyā, who was angry and sorrowful, and he began to reflect, full of grief. His senses disturbed, he fainted; after a long time, the tormentor of foes regained consciousness. When he awoke, he sighed deeply and warmly. Seeing Kausalyā 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. Tormented by the sorrow of that memory and by grief for Rāma, the great king was afflicted by both. Burning with grief 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—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 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 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 thus, her auspicious words, the sun’s rays grew faint and night approached. Thus, the king, cheered by the words of Queen Kausalyā but overcome by grief, fell under the power of sleep. Hear now the sixty-third sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Awakening repeatedly, his mind overcome by grief, King Daśaratha then fell into deep thought. With the exile of both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, a calamity, like that of Indra himself, entered—a darkness like that of the Asuras enveloping the sun. When Rāma had departed with his wife, the lord of Kosala, wishing to speak to Kausalyā of dark eyes, remembered his own misdeed. That king, after Rāma had gone to the forest, spent the sixth night recalling the wrong he had done, in the middle of the night.