In the palace at Ayodhyā, a deep sorrow had fallen upon King Daśaratha. Though the worlds united in battle would not have caused him fear, now, in his own house, he was shaken. The king had always believed in guiding his people by righteousness alone, never by wrongdoing. Yet, that mighty-armed hero, Rāma, his son, whose golden arrows could burn up all beings and even the oceans like the fires at the end of an age, had been exiled. Rāma, lion-strong and bull-eyed, foremost among men, was now lost—not by the hand of an enemy, but by the will of his own father, much as a lotus-born son might be cast away. Kausalyā, Rāma’s mother, spoke with sorrow and anger. She questioned the king’s actions, reminding him of the conduct of the twice-born and the eternal righteousness taught in the scriptures. If, devoted to dharma, he had truly sent his son away, what was left for her? She lamented that a woman’s only refuge is her husband, then her son, then her relatives—beyond these, there is no fourth support. Now, with Rāma gone to the forest, she felt bereft of both husband and son, for she did not wish to follow Rāma into exile, and thus saw herself as utterly destroyed by the king’s actions. She accused Daśaratha of bringing ruin not only upon herself and Rāma, but upon his kingdom, his ministers, and his people, even as Kaikeyī and her son rejoiced. Hearing these harsh words, Daśaratha, though already grieving, fainted away. Overcome by sorrow, he remembered his own past misdeeds. Thus began the sixty-second sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. The king, distressed by Kausalyā’s angry and sorrowful words, reflected deeply, his heart heavy with grief. His senses disturbed, he fainted; after a long time, the tormentor of foes regained consciousness. As he awoke, he sighed deeply, and seeing Kausalyā by his side, he again fell into troubled thought. The memory of a long-ago misdeed, committed unknowingly as a shooter at sound, came back to him. Now, overwhelmed by both that old sorrow and the present grief for Rāma, the great king was tormented by both afflictions. Burning with anguish, Daśaratha spoke to Kausalyā, trembling, his hands joined in supplication, his face downcast as he sought her favor. “I entreat you, Kausalyā, with these hands joined in reverence. You are ever compassionate and kind, even to others. For women, O lady, the husband—virtuous or not—is, for those who reflect on righteousness, the visible deity in this world. You, ever devoted to dharma 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, Kausalyā’s tears flowed like fresh water from a reed. With hands joined upon her head in reverence, she wept, her voice trembling with haste and fear as she pleaded, “Be gracious, I beg you with my head bowed to the ground. I am already destroyed 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 might endure a blow from an enemy’s hand, but even the slightest grief 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 the fifth night since Rāma went to the forest; for me, whose joy is destroyed by sorrow, these five nights are like five years. As I keep thinking of him, this grief grows in my heart like the surging ocean for those without support.” As Kausalyā spoke thus, her auspicious words faded with the sun’s rays, and night approached. The king, cheered by her words but still overcome by grief, finally fell into the power of sleep. Now begins the sixty-third sarga in the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. Through the night, King Daśaratha awoke again and again, his mind overwhelmed by grief. He fell into deep thought, tormented by the exile of both Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa—a calamity as if darkness, like that of the Asuras, had enveloped the sun. As Rāma had departed with his wife, the lord of Kosala, wishing to speak to dark-eyed Kausalyā, remembered his own misdeed. That night, the sixth since Rāma’s departure, Daśaratha spent in sorrow, recalling the wrong he had done. Tormented by grief for his son and the memory of his own actions, he spoke to Kausalyā, herself afflicted by grief for Rāma. He said, “Whatever a person does, O noble lady—be it good or bad—that alone does the doer obtain as the fruit of his own actions. He who does not know the weight or lightness of wealth, or the result of actions at their beginning, or their faults, is called a child. Someone, having cut down a mango grove, waters the palāśa trees; seeing the flowers, he longs for fruit, but grieves when the fruiting season comes. He who, without knowing the result, pursues an action, grieves at the time of its fruit, like the one who waters the kimśuka tree.” Thus, in the palace shadowed by loss, King Daśaratha and Kausalyā mourned, their hearts heavy with the pain of separation and the weight of actions past and present.